the spell of the yukon and other verses by robert w. service [british-born canadian poet -1874-1958.] [this text was also published (in britain) under the title, "songs of a sourdough".] [this etext pretty much matches the american editions of 1907 and 1916.] [note on text: italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces. italicized and indented stanzas will be indented 10 spaces. italicized words or phrases will be capitalized. lines longer than 77 characters have been broken according to metre, and the continuation is indented two spaces.] to c. m. the land god forgot the lonely sunsets flare forlorn down valleys dreadly desolate; the lordly mountains soar in scorn as still as death, as stern as fate. _the lonely sunsets flame and die; the giant valleys gulp the night; the monster mountains scrape the sky, where eager stars are diamond-bright._ so gaunt against the gibbous moon, piercing the silence velvet-piled, a lone wolf howls his ancient rune - the fell arch-spirit of the wild. _o outcast land! o leper land! let the lone wolf-cry all express the hate insensate of thy hand, thy heart's abysmal loneliness._ contents with first lines: the land god forgot the lonely sunsets flare forlorn, the spell of the yukon i wanted the gold, and i sought it, the heart of the sourdough there where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon, the three voices the waves have a story to tell me, the law of the yukon this is the law of the yukon, and ever she makes it plain, the parson's son this is the song of the parson's son, as he squats in his shack alone, the call of the wild have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on, the lone trail ye who know the lone trail fain would follow it, the pines we sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines, the lure of little voices there's a cry from out the loneliness -oh, listen, honey, listen! the song of the wage-slave when the long, long day is over, and the big boss gives me my pay, grin if you're up against a bruiser and you're getting knocked about, the shooting of dan mcgrew a bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the malamute saloon, the cremation of sam mcgee there are strange things done in the midnight sun, my madonna i haled me a woman from the street, unforgotten i know a garden where the lilies gleam, the reckoning it's fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant, quatrains one said: thy life is thine to make or mar, the men that don't fit in there's a race of men that don't fit in, music in the bush o'er the dark pines she sees the silver moon, the rhyme of the remittance man there's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin, the low-down white this is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down, the little old log cabin when a man gets on his uppers in a hard-pan sort of town, the younger son if you leave the gloom of london and you seek a glowing land, the march of the dead the cruel war was over -oh, the triumph was so sweet, "fighting mac" a pistol shot rings round and round the world, the woman and the angel an angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street, the rhyme of the restless ones we couldn't sit and study for the law, new year's eve it's cruel cold on the water-front, silent and dark and drear, comfort say! you've struck a heap of trouble, the harpy there was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she, premonition 'twas a year ago, and the moon was bright, the tramps can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped god's land together, l'envoi you who have lived in the land, the spell of the yukon i wanted the gold, and i sought it, i scrabbled and mucked like a slave. was it famine or scurvy -i fought it; i hurled my youth into a grave. i wanted the gold, and i got it - came out with a fortune last fall, - yet somehow life's not what i thought it, and somehow the gold isn't all. no! there's the land. (have you seen it?) it's the cussedest land that i know, from the big, dizzy mountains that screen it to the deep, deathlike valleys below. some say god was tired when he made it; some say it's a fine land to shun; maybe; but there's some as would trade it for no land on earth -and i'm one. you come to get rich (damned good reason); you feel like an exile at first; you hate it like hell for a season, and then you are worse than the worst. it grips you like some kinds of sinning; it twists you from foe to a friend; it seems it's been since the beginning; it seems it will be to the end. i've stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow that's plumb-full of hush to the brim; i've watched the big, husky sun wallow in crimson and gold, and grow dim, till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, and the stars tumbled out, neck and crop; and i've thought that i surely was dreaming, with the peace o' the world piled on top. the summer -no sweeter was ever; the sunshiny woods all athrill; the grayling aleap in the river, the bighorn asleep on the hill. the strong life that never knows harness; the wilds where the caribou call; the freshness, the freedom, the farness - o god! how i'm stuck on it all. the winter! the brightness that blinds you, the white land locked tight as a drum, the cold fear that follows and finds you, the silence that bludgeons you dumb. the snows that are older than history, the woods where the weird shadows slant; the stillness, the moonlight, the mystery, i've bade 'em good-by -but i can't. there's a land where the mountains are nameless, and the rivers all run god knows where; there are lives that are erring and aimless, and deaths that just hang by a hair; there are hardships that nobody reckons; there are valleys unpeopled and still; there's a land -oh, it beckons and beckons, and i want to go back -and i will. they're making my money diminish; i'm sick of the taste of champagne. thank god! when i'm skinned to a finish i'll pike to the yukon again. i'll fight -and you bet it's no sham-fight; it's hell! -but i've been there before; and it's better than this by a damsite - so me for the yukon once more. there's gold, and it's haunting and haunting; it's luring me on as of old; yet it isn't the gold that i'm wanting so much as just finding the gold. it's the great, big, broad land 'way up yonder, it's the forests where silence has lease; it's the beauty that thrills me with wonder, it's the stillness that fills me with peace. the heart of the sourdough there where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon, there where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon, and the glacier-glutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of june. there where the livid tundras keep their tryst with the tranquil snows; there where the silences are spawned, and the light of hell-fire flows into the bowl of the midnight sky, violet, amber and rose. there where the rapids churn and roar, and the ice-floes bellowing run; where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood rush to the setting sun - i've packed my kit and i'm going, boys, ere another day is done. * * * * * i knew it would call, or soon or late, as it calls the whirring wings; it's the olden lure, it's the golden lure, it's the lure of the timeless things, and to-night, oh, god of the trails untrod, how it whines in my heart-strings! i'm sick to death of your well-groomed gods, your make believe and your show; i long for a whiff of bacon and beans, a snug shakedown in the snow; a trail to break, and a life at stake, and another bout with the foe. with the raw-ribbed wild that abhors all life, the wild that would crush and rend, i have clinched and closed with the naked north, i have learned to defy and defend; shoulder to shoulder we have fought it out - yet the wild must win in the end. i have flouted the wild. i have followed its lure, fearless, familiar, alone; by all that the battle means and makes i claim that land for mine own; yet the wild must win, and a day will come when i shall be overthrown. then when as wolf-dogs fight we've fought, the lean wolf-land and i; fought and bled till the snows are red under the reeling sky; even as lean wolf-dog goes down will i go down and die. the three voices the waves have a story to tell me, as i lie on the lonely beach; chanting aloft in the pine-tops, the wind has a lesson to teach; but the stars sing an anthem of glory i cannot put into speech. the waves tell of ocean spaces, of hearts that are wild and brave, of populous city places, of desolate shores they lave, of men who sally in quest of gold to sink in an ocean grave. the wind is a mighty roamer; he bids me keep me free, clean from the taint of the gold-lust, hardy and pure as he; cling with my love to nature, as a child to the mother-knee. but the stars throng out in their glory, and they sing of the god in man; they sing of the mighty master, of the loom his fingers span, where a star or a soul is a part of the whole, and weft in the wondrous plan. here by the camp-fire's flicker, deep in my blanket curled, i long for the peace of the pine-gloom, when the scroll of the lord is unfurled, and the wind and the wave are silent, and world is singing to world. the law of the yukon this is the law of the yukon, and ever she makes it plain: "send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane - strong for the red rage of battle; sane for i harry them sore; send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core; swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in defeat, sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat. send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones; them will i take to my bosom, them will i call my sons; them will i gild with my treasure, them will i glut with my meat; but the others -the misfits, the failures -i trample under my feet. dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, ye would send me the spawn of your gutters -go! take back your spawn again. "wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway; from my ruthless throne i have ruled alone for a million years and a day; hugging my mighty treasure, waiting for man to come, till he swept like a turbid torrent, and after him swept -the scum. the pallid pimp of the dead-line, the enervate of the pen, one by one i weeded them out, for all that i sought was -men. one by one i dismayed them, frighting them sore with my glooms; one by one i betrayed them unto my manifold dooms. drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains, rotted the flesh that was left them, poisoned the blood in their veins; burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight, lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night; "staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the snow, frozen stiff in the ice-pack, brittle and bent like a bow; featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight, left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white; gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair, crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer; going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam, writing a cheque for a million, driveling feebly of home; lost like a louse in the burning... or else in the tented town seeking a drunkard's solace, sinking and sinking down; steeped in the slime at the bottom, dead to a decent world, lost 'mid the human flotsam, far on the frontier hurled; in the camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare, its gambling dens ariot, its gramophones all ablare; crimped with the crimes of a city, sin-ridden and bridled with lies, in the hush of my mountained vastness, in the flush of my midnight skies. plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless i suffer them thrive, crushing my weak in their clutches, that only my strong may survive. "but the others, the men of my mettle, the men who would 'stablish my fame unto its ultimate issue, winning me honor, not shame; searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they go, shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling my ramparts of snow; ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my creeks, them will i take to my bosom, and speak as a mother speaks. i am the land that listens, i am the land that broods; steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods. long have i waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst, monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the first; visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn, feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn. wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway, and i wait for the men who will win me -and i will not be won in a day; and i will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild, but by men with the hearts of vikings, and the simple faith of a child; desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by fear or defeat, them will i gild with my treasure, them will i glut with my meat. "lofty i stand from each sister land, patient and wearily wise, with the weight of a world of sadness in my quiet, passionless eyes; dreaming alone of a people, dreaming alone of a day, when men shall not rape my riches, and curse me and go away; making a bawd of my bounty, fouling the hand that gave - till i rise in my wrath and i sweep on their path and i stamp them into a grave. dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me good, of children born in my borders of radiant motherhood, of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled, as i pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the world." this is the law of the yukon, that only the strong shall thrive; that surely the weak shall perish, and only the fit survive. dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain, this is the will of the yukon, -lo, how she makes it plain! the parson's son _this is the song of the parson's son, as he squats in his shack alone, on the wild, weird nights, when the northern lights shoot up from the frozen zone, and it's sixty below, and couched in the snow the hungry huskies moan:_ "i'm one of the arctic brotherhood, i'm an old-time pioneer. i came with the first -o god! how i've cursed this yukon -but still i'm here. i've sweated athirst in its summer heat, i've frozen and starved in its cold; i've followed my dreams by its thousand streams, i've toiled and moiled for its gold. "look at my eyes -been snow-blind twice; look where my foot's half gone; and that gruesome scar on my left cheek, where the frost-fiend bit to the bone. each one a brand of this devil's land, where i've played and i've lost the game, a broken wreck with a craze for `hooch', and never a cent to my name. "this mining is only a gamble; the worst is as good as the best; i was in with the bunch and i might have come out right on top with the rest; with cormack, ladue and macdonald -o god! but it's hell to think of the thousands and thousands i've squandered on cards and women and drink. "in the early days we were just a few, and we hunted and fished around, nor dreamt by our lonely camp-fires of the wealth that lay under the ground. we traded in skins and whiskey, and i've often slept under the shade of that lone birch tree on bonanza, where the first big find was made. "we were just like a great big family, and every man had his squaw, and we lived such a wild, free, fearless life beyond the pale of the law; till sudden there came a whisper, and it maddened us every man, and i got in on bonanza before the big rush began. "oh, those dawson days, and the sin and the blaze, and the town all open wide! (if god made me in his likeness, sure he let the devil inside.) but we all were mad, both the good and the bad, and as for the women, well - no spot on the map in so short a space has hustled more souls to hell. "money was just like dirt there, easy to get and to spend. i was all caked in on a dance-hall jade, but she shook me in the end. it put me queer, and for near a year i never drew sober breath, till i found myself in the bughouse ward with a claim staked out on death. "twenty years in the yukon, struggling along its creeks; roaming its giant valleys, scaling its god-like peaks; bathed in its fiery sunsets, fighting its fiendish cold - twenty years in the yukon... twenty years -and i'm old. "old and weak, but no matter, there's `hooch' in the bottle still. i'll hitch up the dogs to-morrow, and mush down the trail to bill. it's so long dark, and i'm lonesome -i'll just lay down on the bed; to-morrow i'll go... to-morrow... i guess i'll play on the red. "... come, kit, your pony is saddled. i'm waiting, dear, in the court... ... minnie, you devil, i'll kill you if you skip with that flossy sport... ... how much does it go to the pan, bill?... play up, school, and play the game... ... our father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..." _this was the song of the parson's son, as he lay in his bunk alone, ere the fire went out and the cold crept in, and his blue lips ceased to moan, and the hunger-maddened malamutes had torn him flesh from bone._ the call of the wild have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on, set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it, searched the vastness for a something you have lost? have you strung your soul to silence? then for god's sake go and do it; hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost. have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation, the bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze? have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation, and learned to know the desert's little ways? have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges, have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through? have you chummed up with the mesa? do you know its moods and changes? then listen to the wild -it's calling you. have you known the great white silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver? (eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.) have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river, dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize? have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races, felt the savage strength of brute in every thew? and though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses? then hearken to the wild -it's wanting you. have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory, grown bigger in the bigness of the whole? "done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story, seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul? have you seen god in his splendors, heard the text that nature renders? (you'll never hear it in the family pew.) the simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things - then listen to the wild -it's calling you. they have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching, they have soaked you in convention through and through; they have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching - but can't you hear the wild? -it's calling you. let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us; let us journey to a lonely land i know. there's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us, and the wild is calling, calling... let us go. the lone trail _ye who know the lone trail fain would follow it, though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit. ye who take the lone trail, bid your love good-by; the lone trail, the lone trail follow till you die._ the trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried; you tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways divide; and one lies safe in the sunlight, and the other is dreary and wan, yet you look aslant at the lone trail, and the lone trail lures you on. and somehow you're sick of the highway, with its noise and its easy needs, and you seek the risk of the by-way, and you reck not where it leads. and sometimes it leads to the desert, and the tongue swells out of the mouth, and you stagger blind to the mirage, to die in the mocking drouth. and sometimes it leads to the mountain, to the light of the lone camp-fire, and you gnaw your belt in the anguish of hunger-goaded desire. and sometimes it leads to the southland, to the swamp where the orchid glows, and you rave to your grave with the fever, and they rob the corpse for its clothes. and sometimes it leads to the northland, and the scurvy softens your bones, and your flesh dints in like putty, and you spit out your teeth like stones. and sometimes it leads to a coral reef in the wash of a weedy sea, and you sit and stare at the empty glare where the gulls wait greedily. and sometimes it leads to an arctic trail, and the snows where your torn feet freeze, and you whittle away the useless clay, and crawl on your hands and knees. often it leads to the dead-pit; always it leads to pain; by the bones of your brothers ye know it, but oh, to follow you're fain. by your bones they will follow behind you, till the ways of the world are made plain. _bid good-by to sweetheart, bid good-by to friend; the lone trail, the lone trail follow to the end. tarry not, and fear not, chosen of the true; lover of the lone trail, the lone trail waits for you._ the pines we sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines; the gray moss drapes us like sages, and closer we lock our lines, and deeper we clutch through the gelid gloom where never a sunbeam shines. on the flanks of the storm-gored ridges are our black battalions massed; we surge in a host to the sullen coast, and we sing in the ocean blast; from empire of sea to empire of snow we grip our empire fast. to the niggard lands were we driven, 'twixt desert and floes are we penned; to us was the northland given, ours to stronghold and defend; ours till the world be riven in the crash of the utter end; ours from the bleak beginning, through the aeons of death-like sleep; ours from the shock when the naked rock was hurled from the hissing deep; ours through the twilight ages of weary glacier creep. wind of the east, wind of the west, wandering to and fro, chant your songs in our topmost boughs, that the sons of men may know the peerless pine was the first to come, and the pine will be last to go! we pillar the halls of perfumed gloom; we plume where the eagles soar; the north-wind swoops from the brooding pole, and our ancients crash and roar; but where one falls from the crumbling walls shoots up a hardy score. we spring from the gloom of the canyon's womb; in the valley's lap we lie; from the white foam-fringe, where the breakers cringe to the peaks that tusk the sky, we climb, and we peer in the crag-locked mere that gleams like a golden eye. gain to the verge of the hog-back ridge where the vision ranges free: pines and pines and the shadow of pines as far as the eye can see; a steadfast legion of stalwart knights in dominant empery. sun, moon and stars give answer; shall we not staunchly stand, even as now, forever, wards of the wilder strand, sentinels of the stillness, lords of the last, lone land? the lure of little voices there's a cry from out the loneliness -oh, listen, honey, listen! do you hear it, do you fear it, you're a-holding of me so? you're a-sobbing in your sleep, dear, and your lashes, how they glisten - do you hear the little voices all a-begging me to go? all a-begging me to leave you. day and night they're pleading, praying, on the north-wind, on the west-wind, from the peak and from the plain; night and day they never leave me -do you know what they are saying? "he was ours before you got him, and we want him once again." yes, they're wanting me, they're haunting me, the awful lonely places; they're whining and they're whimpering as if each had a soul; they're calling from the wilderness, the vast and god-like spaces, the stark and sullen solitudes that sentinel the pole. they miss my little camp-fires, ever brightly, bravely gleaming in the womb of desolation, where was never man before; as comradeless i sought them, lion-hearted, loving, dreaming, and they hailed me as a comrade, and they loved me evermore. and now they're all a-crying, and it's no use me denying; the spell of them is on me and i'm helpless as a child; my heart is aching, aching, but i hear them, sleeping, waking; it's the lure of little voices, it's the mandate of the wild. i'm afraid to tell you, honey, i can take no bitter leaving; but softly in the sleep-time from your love i'll steal away. oh, it's cruel, dearie, cruel, and it's god knows how i'm grieving; but his loneliness is calling, and he knows i must obey. the song of the wage-slave when the long, long day is over, and the big boss gives me my pay, i hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say. and i hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons i've met - all i want is just quiet, just to rest and forget. look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands; master, i've done thy bidding, wrought in thy many lands - wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich; i've done their desire for a daily hire, and i die like a dog in a ditch. i have used the strength thou hast given, thou knowest i did not shirk; threescore years of labor -thine be the long day's work. and now, big master, i'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred, but i've held my job, and thou knowest, and thou will not judge me hard. thou knowest my sins are many, and often i've played the fool - whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool. i was just like a child with money; i flung it away with a curse, feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse; then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine, i, the worker of workers, everything in my line. everything hard but headwork (i'd no more brains than a kid), a brute with brute strength to labor, doing as i was bid; living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life; never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife. a brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above - yet i'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of love. i, with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild - yet how i'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child! well, 'tis thy world, and thou knowest. i blaspheme and my ways be rude; but i've lived my life as i found it, and i've done my best to be good; i, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes, sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes; hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams; down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams; boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen, resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men. master, i've filled my contract, wrought in thy many lands; not by my sins wilt thou judge me, but by the work of my hands. master, i've done thy bidding, and the light is low in the west, and the long, long shift is over... master, i've earned it -rest. grin if you're up against a bruiser and you're getting knocked about - grin. if you're feeling pretty groggy, and you're licked beyond a doubt - grin. don't let him see you're funking, let him know with every clout, though your face is battered to a pulp, your blooming heart is stout; just stand upon your pins until the beggar knocks you out - and grin. this life's a bally battle, and the same advice holds true of grin. if you're up against it badly, then it's only one on you, so grin. if the future's black as thunder, don't let people see you're blue; just cultivate a cast-iron smile of joy the whole day through; if they call you "little sunshine", wish that _they'd_ no troubles, too - you may -grin. rise up in the morning with the will that, smooth or rough, you'll grin. sink to sleep at midnight, and although you're feeling tough, yet grin. there's nothing gained by whining, and you're not that kind of stuff; you're a fighter from away back, and you _won't_ take a rebuff; your trouble is that you don't know when you have had enough - don't give in. if fate should down you, just get up and take another cuff; you may bank on it that there is no philosophy like bluff, and grin. the shooting of dan mcgrew a bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the malamute saloon; the kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune; back of the bar, in a solo game, sat dangerous dan mcgrew, and watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as lou. when out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare, there stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear. he looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse, yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house. there was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue; but we drank his health, and the last to drink was dangerous dan mcgrew. there's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell; and such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell; with a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done, as he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one. then i got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do, and i turned my head -and there watching him was the lady that's known as lou. his eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze, till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze. the rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool, so the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool. in a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and i saw him sway; then he clutched the keys with his talon hands -my god! but that man could play. were you ever out in the great alone, when the moon was awful clear, and the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could _hear_; with only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold, a half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold; while high overhead, green, yellow and red, the north lights swept in bars? - then you've a haunch what the music meant... hunger and night and the stars. and hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans, but the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means; for a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above; but oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love - a woman dearer than all the world, and true as heaven is true - (god! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, - the lady that's known as lou.) then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear; but you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear; that someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie; that your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die. 'twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through - "i guess i'll make it a spread misere," said dangerous dan mcgrew. the music almost died away... then it burst like a pent-up flood; and it seemed to say, "repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood. the thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash, and the lust awoke to kill, to kill... then the music stopped with a crash, and the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way; in a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and i saw him sway; then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm, and "boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn; but i want to state, and my words are straight, and i'll bet my poke they're true, that one of you is a hound of hell... and that one is dan mcgrew." then i ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark, and a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark. pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was dangerous dan mcgrew, while the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as lou. these are the simple facts of the case, and i guess i ought to know. they say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch", and i'm not denying it's so. i'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two - the woman that kissed him and -pinched his poke - was the lady that's known as lou. the cremation of sam mcgee _there are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold; the arctic trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold; the northern lights have seen queer sights, but the queerest they ever did see was that night on the marge of lake lebarge i cremated sam mcgee._ now sam mcgee was from tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. why he left his home in the south to roam 'round the pole, god only knows. he was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell". on a christmas day we were mushing our way over the dawson trail. talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. if our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see; it wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was sam mcgee. and that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, and the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, he turned to me, and "cap," says he, "i'll cash in this trip, i guess; and if i do, i'm asking that you won't refuse my last request." well, he seemed so low that i couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan: "it's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till i'm chilled clean through to the bone. yet 'tain't being dead -it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains; so i want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains." a pal's last need is a thing to heed, so i swore i would not fail; and we started on at the streak of dawn; but god! he looked ghastly pale. he crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in tennessee; and before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of sam mcgee. there wasn't a breath in that land of death, and i hurried, horror-driven, with a corpse half hid that i couldn't get rid, because of a promise given; it was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "you may tax your brawn and brains, but you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains." now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. in the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how i cursed that load. in the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, howled out their woes to the homeless snows - o god! how i loathed the thing. and every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; and on i went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; the trail was bad, and i felt half mad, but i swore i would not give in; and i'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin. till i came to the marge of lake lebarge, and a derelict there lay; it was jammed in the ice, but i saw in a trice it was called the "alice may". and i looked at it, and i thought a bit, and i looked at my frozen chum; then "here," said i, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum." some planks i tore from the cabin floor, and i lit the boiler fire; some coal i found that was lying around, and i heaped the fuel higher; the flames just soared, and the furnace roared - such a blaze you seldom see; and i burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and i stuffed in sam mcgee. then i made a hike, for i didn't like to hear him sizzle so; and the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. it was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and i don't know why; and the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky. i do not know how long in the snow i wrestled with grisly fear; but the stars came out and they danced about ere again i ventured near; i was sick with dread, but i bravely said: "i'll just take a peep inside. i guess he's cooked, and it's time i looked";... then the door i opened wide. and there sat sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; and he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "please close that door. it's fine in here, but i greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm - since i left plumtree, down in tennessee, it's the first time i've been warm." _there are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold; the arctic trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold; the northern lights have seen queer sights, but the queerest they ever did see was that night on the marge of lake lebarge i cremated sam mcgee._ my madonna i haled me a woman from the street, shameless, but, oh, so fair! i bade her sit in the model's seat and i painted her sitting there. i hid all trace of her heart unclean; i painted a babe at her breast; i painted her as she might have been if the worst had been the best. she laughed at my picture and went away. then came, with a knowing nod, a connoisseur, and i heard him say; "'tis mary, the mother of god." so i painted a halo round her hair, and i sold her and took my fee, and she hangs in the church of saint hillaire, where you and all may see. unforgotten i know a garden where the lilies gleam, and one who lingers in the sunshine there; she is than white-stoled lily far more fair, and oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream! i know a garret, cold and dark and drear, and one who toils and toils with tireless pen, until his brave, sad eyes grow weary -then he seeks the stars, pale, silent as a seer. and ah, it's strange; for, desolate and dim, between these two there rolls an ocean wide; yet he is in the garden by her side and she is in the garret there with him. the reckoning it's fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant, with terrapin and canvas-back and all the wine you want; to enjoy the flowers and music, watch the pretty women pass, smoke a choice cigar, and sip the wealthy water in your glass. it's bully in a high-toned joint to eat and drink your fill, but it's quite another matter when you pay the bill. it's great to go out every night on fun or pleasure bent; to wear your glad rags always and to never save a cent; to drift along regardless, have a good time every trip; to hit the high spots sometimes, and to let your chances slip; to know you're acting foolish, yet to go on fooling still, till nature calls a show-down, and you pay the bill. time has got a little bill -get wise while yet you may, for the debit side's increasing in a most alarming way; the things you had no right to do, the things you should have done, they're all put down; it's up to you to pay for every one. so eat, drink and be merry, have a good time if you will, but god help you when the time comes, and you foot the bill. quatrains one said: thy life is thine to make or mar, to flicker feebly, or to soar, a star; it lies with thee -the choice is thine, is thine, to hit the ties or drive thy auto-car. i answered her: the choice is mine -ah, no! we all were made or marred long, long ago. the parts are written; hear the super wail: "who is stage-managing this cosmic show?" blind fools of fate and slaves of circumstance, life is a fiddler, and we all must dance. from gloom where mocks that will-o'-wisp, free-will i heard a voice cry: "say, give us a chance." chance! oh, there is no chance! the scene is set. up with the curtain! man, the marionette, resumes his part. the gods will work the wires. they've got it all down fine, you bet, you bet! it's all decreed -the mighty earthquake crash, the countless constellations' wheel and flash; the rise and fall of empires, war's red tide; the composition of your dinner hash. there's no haphazard in this world of ours. cause and effect are grim, relentless powers. they rule the world. (a king was shot last night; last night i held the joker and both bowers.) from out the mesh of fate our heads we thrust. we can't do what we would, but what we must. heredity has got us in a cinch - (consoling thought when you've been on a "bust".) hark to the song where spheral voices blend: "there's no beginning, never will be end." it makes us nutty; hang the astral chimes! the tables spread; come, let us dine, my friend. the men that don't fit in there's a race of men that don't fit in, a race that can't stay still; so they break the hearts of kith and kin, and they roam the world at will. they range the field and they rove the flood, and they climb the mountain's crest; theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, and they don't know how to rest. if they just went straight they might go far; they are strong and brave and true; but they're always tired of the things that are, and they want the strange and new. they say: "could i find my proper groove, what a deep mark i would make!" so they chop and change, and each fresh move is only a fresh mistake. and each forgets, as he strips and runs with a brilliant, fitful pace, it's the steady, quiet, plodding ones who win in the lifelong race. and each forgets that his youth has fled, forgets that his prime is past, till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, in the glare of the truth at last. he has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; he has just done things by half. life's been a jolly good joke on him, and now is the time to laugh. ha, ha! he is one of the legion lost; he was never meant to win; he's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone; he's a man who won't fit in. music in the bush o'er the dark pines she sees the silver moon, and in the west, all tremulous, a star; and soothing sweet she hears the mellow tune of cow-bells jangled in the fields afar. quite listless, for her daily stent is done, she stands, sad exile, at her rose-wreathed door, and sends her love eternal with the sun that goes to gild the land she'll see no more. the grave, gaunt pines imprison her sad gaze, all still the sky and darkling drearily; she feels the chilly breath of dear, dead days come sifting through the alders eerily. oh, how the roses riot in their bloom! the curtains stir as with an ancient pain; her old piano gleams from out the gloom and waits and waits her tender touch in vain. but now her hands like moonlight brush the keys with velvet grace -melodious delight; and now a sad refrain from over seas goes sobbing on the bosom of the night; and now she sings. (o! singer in the gloom, voicing a sorrow we can ne'er express, here in the farness where we few have room unshamed to show our love and tenderness, our hearts will echo, till they beat no more, that song of sadness and of motherland; and, stretched in deathless love to england's shore, some day she'll hearken and she'll understand.) a prima-donna in the shining past, but now a mother growing old and gray, she thinks of how she held a people fast in thrall, and gleaned the triumphs of a day. she sees a sea of faces like a dream; she sees herself a queen of song once more; she sees lips part in rapture, eyes agleam; she sings as never once she sang before. she sings a wild, sweet song that throbs with pain, the added pain of life that transcends art - a song of home, a deep, celestial strain, the glorious swan-song of a dying heart. a lame tramp comes along the railway track, a grizzled dog whose day is nearly done; he passes, pauses, then comes slowly back and listens there -an audience of one. she sings -her golden voice is passion-fraught, as when she charmed a thousand eager ears; he listens trembling, and she knows it not, and down his hollow cheeks roll bitter tears. she ceases and is still, as if to pray; there is no sound, the stars are all alight - only a wretch who stumbles on his way, only a vagrant sobbing in the night. the rhyme of the remittance man there's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin, and it roamed the velvet valley till to-day; but i tracked it by the river, and i trailed it in the cover, and i killed it on the mountain miles away. now i've had my lazy supper, and the level sun is gleaming on the water where the silver salmon play; and i light my little corn-cob, and i linger, softly dreaming, in the twilight, of a land that's far away. far away, so faint and far, is flaming london, fevered paris, that i fancy i have gained another star; far away the din and hurry, far away the sin and worry, far away -god knows they cannot be too far. gilded galley-slaves of mammon -how my purse-proud brothers taunt me! i might have been as well-to-do as they had i clutched like them my chances, learned their wisdom, crushed my fancies, starved my soul and gone to business every day. well, the cherry bends with blossom and the vivid grass is springing, and the star-like lily nestles in the green; and the frogs their joys are singing, and my heart in tune is ringing, and it doesn't matter what i might have been. while above the scented pine-gloom, piling heights of golden glory, the sun-god paints his canvas in the west, i can couch me deep in clover, i can listen to the story of the lazy, lapping water -it is best. while the trout leaps in the river, and the blue grouse thrills the cover, and the frozen snow betrays the panther's track, and the robin greets the dayspring with the rapture of a lover, i am happy, and i'll nevermore go back. for i know i'd just be longing for the little old log cabin, with the morning-glory clinging to the door, till i loathed the city places, cursed the care on all the faces, turned my back on lazar london evermore. so send me far from lombard street, and write me down a failure; put a little in my purse and leave me free. say: "he turned from fortune's offering to follow up a pale lure, he is one of us no longer -let him be." i am one of you no longer; by the trails my feet have broken, the dizzy peaks i've scaled, the camp-fire's glow; by the lonely seas i've sailed in -yea, the final word is spoken, i am signed and sealed to nature. be it so. the low-down white this is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down; there's money to burn in the streets to-night, so i've sent my klooch to town, with a haggard face and a ribband of red entwined in her hair of brown. and i know at the dawn she'll come reeling home with the bottles, one, two, three - one for herself, to drown her shame, and two big bottles for me, to make me forget the thing i am and the man i used to be. to make me forget the brand of the dog, as i crouch in this hideous place; to make me forget once i kindled the light of love in a lady's face, where even the squalid siwash now holds me a black disgrace. oh, i have guarded my secret well! and who would dream as i speak in a tribal tongue like a rogue unhung, 'mid the ranch-house filth and reek, i could roll to bed with a latin phrase and rise with a verse of greek? yet i was a senior prizeman once, and the pride of a college eight; called to the bar -my friends were true! but they could not keep me straight; then came the divorce, and i went abroad and "died" on the river plate. but i'm not dead yet; though with half a lung there isn't time to spare, and i hope that the year will see me out, and, thank god, no one will care - save maybe the little slim siwash girl with the rose of shame in her hair. she will come with the dawn, and the dawn is near; i can see its evil glow, like a corpse-light seen through a frosty pane in a night of want and woe; and yonder she comes by the bleak bull-pines, swift staggering through the snow. the little old log cabin when a man gits on his uppers in a hard-pan sort of town, an' he ain't got nothin' comin' an' he can't afford ter eat, an' he's in a fix for lodgin' an' he wanders up an' down, an' you'd fancy he'd been boozin', he's so locoed 'bout the feet; when he's feelin' sneakin' sorry an' his belt is hangin' slack, an' his face is peaked an' gray-like an' his heart gits down an' whines, then he's apt ter git a-thinkin' an' a-wishin' he was back in the little ol' log cabin in the shadder of the pines. when he's on the blazin' desert an' his canteen's sprung a leak, an' he's all alone an' crazy an' he's crawlin' like a snail, an' his tongue's so black an' swollen that it hurts him fer to speak, an' he gouges down fer water an' the raven's on his trail; when he's done with care and cursin' an' he feels more like to cry, an' he sees ol' death a-grinnin' an' he thinks upon his crimes, then he's like ter hev' a vision, as he settles down ter die, of the little ol' log cabin an' the roses an' the vines. oh, the little ol' log cabin, it's a solemn shinin' mark, when a feller gits ter sinnin' an' a-goin' ter the wall, an' folks don't understand him an' he's gropin' in the dark, an' he's sick of bein' cursed at an' he's longin' fer his call! when the sun of life's a-sinkin' you can see it 'way above, on the hill from out the shadder in a glory 'gin the sky, an' your mother's voice is callin', an' her arms are stretched in love, an' somehow you're glad you're goin', an' you ain't a-scared to die; when you'll be like a kid again an' nestle to her breast, an' never leave its shelter, an' forget, an' love, an' rest. the younger son if you leave the gloom of london and you seek a glowing land, where all except the flag is strange and new, there's a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand, and greet you with a welcome warm and true; for he's your younger brother, the one you sent away because there wasn't room for him at home; and now he's quite contented, and he's glad he didn't stay, and he's building britain's greatness o'er the foam. when the giant herd is moving at the rising of the sun, and the prairie is lit with rose and gold, and the camp is all abustle, and the busy day's begun, he leaps into the saddle sure and bold. through the round of heat and hurry, through the racket and the rout, he rattles at a pace that nothing mars; and when the night-winds whisper and camp-fires flicker out, he is sleeping like a child beneath the stars. when the wattle-blooms are drooping in the sombre she-oak glade, and the breathless land is lying in a swoon, he leaves his work a moment, leaning lightly on his spade, and he hears the bell-bird chime the austral noon. the parrakeets are silent in the gum-tree by the creek; the ferny grove is sunshine-steeped and still; but the dew will gem the myrtle in the twilight ere he seek his little lonely cabin on the hill. around the purple, vine-clad slope the argent river dreams; the roses almost hide the house from view; a snow-peak of the winterberg in crimson splendor gleams; the shadow deepens down on the karroo. he seeks the lily-scented dusk beneath the orange tree; his pipe in silence glows and fades and glows; and then two little maids come out and climb upon his knee, and one is like the lily, one the rose. he sees his white sheep dapple o'er the green new zealand plain, and where vancouver's shaggy ramparts frown, when the sunlight threads the pine-gloom he is fighting might and main to clinch the rivets of an empire down. you will find him toiling, toiling, in the south or in the west, a child of nature, fearless, frank, and free; and the warmest heart that beats for you is beating in his breast, and he sends you loyal greeting o'er the sea. you've a brother in the army, you've another in the church; one of you is a diplomatic swell; you've had the pick of everything and left him in the lurch, and yet i think he's doing very well. i'm sure his life is happy, and he doesn't envy yours; i know he loves the land his pluck has won; and i fancy in the years unborn, while england's fame endures, she will come to bless with pride -the younger son. the march of the dead the cruel war was over -oh, the triumph was so sweet! we watched the troops returning, through our tears; there was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street, and you scarce could hear the music for the cheers. and you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between; the bells were pealing madly to the sky; and everyone was shouting for the soldiers of the queen, and the glory of an age was passing by. and then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear; the bells were silent, not an echo stirred. the flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer; we waited, and we never spoke a word. the sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack there came a voice that checked the heart with dread: "tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black; they are coming -it's the army of the dead." they were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow; they were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride; with faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe, and clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide. oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips! the reeling ranks of ruin swept along! the limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips! and oh, the dreary rhythm of their song! "they left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop on this, our england's crowning festal day; we're the men of magersfontein, we're the men of spion kop, colenso -we're the men who had to pay. we're the men who paid the blood-price. shall the grave be all our gain? you owe us. long and heavy is the score. then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain, and cheer us as ye never cheered before." the folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead; each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice; and every eye was staring at the horror of the dead, the pity of the men who paid the price. they were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace; through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam; they were coming in their thousands -oh, would they never cease! i closed my eyes, and then -it was a dream. there was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street; the town was mad; a man was like a boy. a thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet; a thousand bells were thundering the joy. there was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret; and while we stun with cheers our homing braves, o god, in thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget the graves they left behind, the bitter graves. "fighting mac" a life tragedy a pistol shot rings round and round the world; in pitiful defeat a warrior lies. a last defiance to dark death is hurled, a last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies. alone he falls, with wide, wan, woeful eyes: eyes that could smile at death -could not face shame. alone, alone he paced his narrow room, in the bright sunshine of that paris day; saw in his thought the awful hand of doom; saw in his dream his glory pass away; tried in his heart, his weary heart, to pray: "o god! who made me, give me strength to face the spectre of this bitter, black disgrace." * * * * * the burn brawls darkly down the shaggy glen; the bee-kissed heather blooms around the door; he sees himself a barefoot boy again, bending o'er page of legendary lore. he hears the pibroch, grips the red claymore, runs with the fiery cross, a clansman true, sworn kinsman of rob roy and roderick dhu. eating his heart out with a wild desire, one day, behind his counter trim and neat, he hears a sound that sets his brain afire - the highlanders are marching down the street. oh, how the pipes shrill out, the mad drums beat! "on to the gates of hell, my gordons gay!" he flings his hated yardstick away. he sees the sullen pass, high-crowned with snow, where afghans cower with eyes of gleaming hate. he hurls himself against the hidden foe. they try to rally -ah, too late, too late! again, defenseless, with fierce eyes that wait for death, he stands, like baited bull at bay, and flouts the boers, that mad majuba day. he sees again the murderous soudan, blood-slaked and rapine-swept. he seems to stand upon the gory plain of omdurman. then magersfontein, and supreme command over his highlanders. to shake his hand a king is proud, and princes call him friend. and glory crowns his life -and now the end, the awful end. his eyes are dark with doom; he hears the shrapnel shrieking overhead; he sees the ravaged ranks, the flame-stabbed gloom. oh, to have fallen! -the battle-field his bed, with wauchope and his glorious brother-dead. why was he saved for this, for this? and now he raises the revolver to his brow. * * * * * in many a highland home, framed with rude art, you'll find his portrait, rough-hewn, stern and square; it's graven in the fuyam fellah's heart; the ghurka reads it at his evening prayer; the raw lands know it, where the fierce suns glare; the dervish fears it. honor to his name who holds aloft the shield of england's fame. mourn for our hero, men of northern race! we do not know his sin; we only know his sword was keen. he laughed death in the face, and struck, for empire's sake, a giant blow. his arm was strong. ah! well they learnt, the foe the echo of his deeds is ringing yet - will ring for aye. all else... let us forget. the woman and the angel an angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street; his halo was tilted sideways, and his harp lay mute at his feet; so the master stooped in his pity, and gave him a pass to go, for the space of a moon, to the earth-world, to mix with the men below. he doffed his celestial garments, scarce waiting to lay them straight; he bade good by to peter, who stood by the golden gate; the sexless singers of heaven chanted a fond farewell, and the imps looked up as they pattered on the red-hot flags of hell. never was seen such an angel -eyes of heavenly blue, features that shamed apollo, hair of a golden hue; the women simply adored him; his lips were like cupid's bow; but he never ventured to use them -and so they voted him slow. till at last there came one woman, a marvel of loveliness, and she whispered to him: "do you love me?" and he answered that woman, "yes." and she said: "put your arms around me, and kiss me, and hold me -so --" but fiercely he drew back, saying: "this thing is wrong, and i know." then sweetly she mocked his scruples, and softly she him beguiled: "you, who are verily man among men, speak with the tongue of a child. we have outlived the old standards; we have burst, like an over-tight thong, the ancient, outworn, puritanic traditions of right and wrong." then the master feared for his angel, and called him again to his side, for oh, the woman was wondrous, and oh, the angel was tried! and deep in his hell sang the devil, and this was the strain of his song: "the ancient, outworn, puritanic traditions of right and wrong." the rhyme of the restless ones we couldn't sit and study for the law; the stagnation of a bank we couldn't stand; for our riot blood was surging, and we didn't need much urging to excitements and excesses that are banned. so we took to wine and drink and other things, and the devil in us struggled to be free; till our friends rose up in wrath, and they pointed out the path, and they paid our debts and packed us o'er the sea. oh, they shook us off and shipped us o'er the foam, to the larger lands that lure a man to roam; and we took the chance they gave of a far and foreign grave, and we bade good-by for evermore to home. and some of us are climbing on the peak, and some of us are camping on the plain; by pine and palm you'll find us, with never claim to bind us, by track and trail you'll meet us once again. we are the fated serfs to freedom -sky and sea; we have failed where slummy cities overflow; but the stranger ways of earth know our pride and know our worth, and we go into the dark as fighters go. yes, we go into the night as brave men go, though our faces they be often streaked with woe; yet we're hard as cats to kill, and our hearts are reckless still, and we've danced with death a dozen times or so. and you'll find us in alaska after gold, and you'll find us herding cattle in the south. we like strong drink and fun, and, when the race is run, we often die with curses in our mouth. we are wild as colts unbroke, but never mean. of our sins we've shoulders broad to bear the blame; but we'll never stay in town and we'll never settle down, and we'll never have an object or an aim. no, there's that in us that time can never tame; and life will always seem a careless game; and they'd better far forget - those who say they love us yet - forget, blot out with bitterness our name. new year's eve it's cruel cold on the water-front, silent and dark and drear; only the black tide weltering, only the hissing snow; and i, alone, like a storm-tossed wreck, on this night of the glad new year, shuffling along in the icy wind, ghastly and gaunt and slow. they're playing a tune in mcguffy's saloon, and it's cheery and bright in there (god! but i'm weak -since the bitter dawn, and never a bite of food); i'll just go over and slip inside -i mustn't give way to despair - perhaps i can bum a little booze if the boys are feeling good. they'll jeer at me, and they'll sneer at me, and they'll call me a whiskey soak; ("have a drink? well, thankee kindly, sir, i don't mind if i do.") a drivelling, dirty, gin-joint fiend, the butt of the bar-room joke; sunk and sodden and hopeless -"another? well, here's to you!" mcguffy is showing a bunch of the boys how bob fitzsimmons hit; the barman is talking of tammany hall, and why the ward boss got fired. i'll just sneak into a corner and they'll let me alone a bit; the room is reeling round and round... o god! but i'm tired, i'm tired.... * * * * * roses she wore on her breast that night. oh, but their scent was sweet! alone we sat on the balcony, and the fan-palms arched above; the witching strain of a waltz by strauss came up to our cool retreat, and i prisoned her little hand in mine, and i whispered my plea of love. then sudden the laughter died on her lips, and lowly she bent her head; and oh, there came in the deep, dark eyes a look that was heaven to see; and the moments went, and i waited there, and never a word was said, and she plucked from her bosom a rose of red and shyly gave it to me. then the music swelled to a crash of joy, and the lights blazed up like day, and i held her fast to my throbbing heart, and i kissed her bonny brow. "she is mine, she is mine for evermore!" the violins seemed to say, and the bells were ringing the new year in -o god! i can hear them now. don't you remember that long, last waltz, with its sobbing, sad refrain? don't you remember that last good-by, and the dear eyes dim with tears? don't you remember that golden dream, with never a hint of pain, of lives that would blend like an angel-song in the bliss of the coming years? oh, what have i lost! what have i lost! ethel, forgive, forgive! the red, red rose is faded now, and it's fifty years ago. 'twere better to die a thousand deaths than live each day as i live! i have sinned, i have sunk to the lowest depths - but oh, i have suffered so! hark! oh, hark! i can hear the bells!... look! i can see her there, fair as a dream... but it fades... and now - i can hear the dreadful hum of the crowded court... see! the judge looks down... _not guilty_, my lord, i swear... the bells -i can hear the bells again!... ethel, i come, i come!... * * * * * "rouse up, old man, it's twelve o'clock. you can't sleep here, you know. say! ain't you got no sentiment? lift up your muddled head; have a drink to the glad new year, a drop before you go - you darned old dirty hobo... my god! here, boys! he's _dead!_" comfort say! you've struck a heap of trouble - bust in business, lost your wife; no one cares a cent about you, you don't care a cent for life; hard luck has of hope bereft you, health is failing, wish you'd die - why, you've still the sunshine left you and the big, blue sky. sky so blue it makes you wonder if it's heaven shining through; earth so smiling 'way out yonder, sun so bright it dazzles you; birds a-singing, flowers a-flinging all their fragrance on the breeze; dancing shadows, green, still meadows - don't you mope, you've still got these. these, and none can take them from you; these, and none can weigh their worth. what! you're tired and broke and beaten? - why, you're rich -you've got the earth! yes, if you're a tramp in tatters, while the blue sky bends above you've got nearly all that matters - you've got god, and god is love. the harpy there was a woman, and she was wise; woefully wise was she; she was old, so old, yet her years all told were but a score and three; and she knew by heart, from finish to start, the book of iniquity. there is no hope for such as i on earth, nor yet in heaven; unloved i live, unloved i die, unpitied, unforgiven; a loathed jade, i ply my trade, unhallowed and unshriven. i paint my cheeks, for they are white, and cheeks of chalk men hate; mine eyes with wine i make them shine, that man may seek and sate; with overhead a lamp of red i sit me down and wait until they come, the nightly scum, with drunken eyes aflame; your sweethearts, sons, ye scornful ones -'tis i who know their shame. the gods, ye see, are brutes to me -and so i play my game. for life is not the thing we thought, and not the thing we plan; and woman in a bitter world must do the best she can - must yield the stroke, and bear the yoke, and serve the will of man; must serve his need and ever feed the flame of his desire, though be she loved for love alone, or be she loved for hire; for every man since life began is tainted with the mire. and though you know he love you so and set you on love's throne; yet let your eyes but mock his sighs, and let your heart be stone, lest you be left (as i was left) attainted and alone. from love's close kiss to hell's abyss is one sheer flight, i trow, and wedding ring and bridal bell are will-o'-wisps of woe, and 'tis not wise to love too well, and this all women know. wherefore, the wolf-pack having gorged upon the lamb, their prey, with siren smile and serpent guile i make the wolf-pack pay - with velvet paws and flensing claws, a tigress roused to slay. one who in youth sought truest truth and found a devil's lies; a symbol of the sin of man, a human sacrifice. yet shall i blame on man the shame? could it be otherwise? was i not born to walk in scorn where others walk in pride? the maker marred, and, evil-starred, i drift upon his tide; and he alone shall judge his own, so i his judgment bide. fate has written a tragedy; its name is "the human heart". the theatre is the house of life, woman the mummer's part; the devil enters the prompter's box and the play is ready to start. premonition 'twas a year ago and the moon was bright (oh, i remember so well, so well); i walked with my love in a sea of light, and the voice of my sweet was a silver bell. and sudden the moon grew strangely dull, and sudden my love had taken wing; i looked on the face of a grinning skull, i strained to my heart a ghastly thing. 'twas but fantasy, for my love lay still in my arms, with her tender eyes aglow, and she wondered why my lips were chill, why i was silent and kissed her so. a year has gone and the moon is bright, a gibbous moon, like a ghost of woe; i sit by a new-made grave to-night, and my heart is broken -it's strange, you know. the tramps can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped god's land together, and we sang the old, old earth-song, for our youth was very sweet; when we drank and fought and lusted, as we mocked at tie and tether, along the road to anywhere, the wide world at our feet - along the road to anywhere, when each day had its story; when time was yet our vassal, and life's jest was still unstale; when peace unfathomed filled our hearts as, bathed in amber glory, along the road to anywhere we watched the sunsets pale? alas! the road to anywhere is pitfalled with disaster; there's hunger, want, and weariness, yet o we loved it so! as on we tramped exultantly, and no man was our master, and no man guessed what dreams were ours, as, swinging heel and toe, we tramped the road to anywhere, the magic road to anywhere, the tragic road to anywhere, such dear, dim years ago. l'envoi you who have lived in the land, you who have trusted the trail, you who are strong to withstand, you who are swift to assail: _songs have i sung to beguile, vintage of desperate years, hard as a harlot's smile, bitter as unshed tears._ little of joy or mirth, little of ease i sing; sagas of men of earth humanly suffering, _such as you all have done; savagely faring forth, sons of the midnight sun, argonauts of the north._ far in the land god forgot glimmers the lure of your trail; still in your lust are you taught even to win is to fail. _still you must follow and fight under the vampire wing; there in the long, long night hoping and vanquishing._ husbandman of the wild, reaping a barren gain; scourged by desire, reconciled unto disaster and pain; _these, my songs, are for you, you who are seared with the brand. god knows i have tried to be true; please god you will understand._ note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 39643-h.htm or 39643-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/39643/39643-h/39643-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/39643/39643-h.zip) [illustration: sandy was a good swimmer and he struck out valiantly. _page 58._] the bungalow boys along the yukon by dexter j. forrester author of "the bungalow boys," "the bungalow boys marooned in the tropics," "the bungalow boys in the great northwest," "the bungalow boys on the great lakes," etc., etc. with four illustrations by charles l. wrenn new york hurst & company publishers copyright, 1913 by hurst & company contents chapter i. a mysterious craft ii. northward ho! iii. mr. dacre explains iv. sandy finds a mascot v. a mid-ocean hunting trip vi. a libation to the totem vii. an adventure of jack's viii. "the tale of a whale" ix. wild waters x. the tidal "bore" xi. adrift on the ocean xii. shifting for themselves xiii. an island life xiv. the great bears of kadiak xv. hemmed in xvi. uncertainty xvii. the yukon rover xviii. an encounter with the natives xix. hard ashore xx. down the glacier xxi. the grip of the yukon xxii. two strange visitors xxiii. olaf's great lesson xxiv. on the porcupine river xxv. the mysterious men xxvi. the dead man's mine xxvii. in need of a friend xxviii. --and a friend in need xxix. condemned to the mines xxx. the grasp of circumstance the bungalow boys along the yukon chapter i. a mysterious craft. on a certain may afternoon, tom jessop, assigned to "cover" the seattle waterfront for his paper, the _seattle post-intelligencer_, had his curiosity aroused by a craft that lay at the spring street dock. the vessel was newly painted, trim and trig in appearance and was seemingly of about two thousand tons register. amidships was a single yellow funnel. from the aftermost of the two masts fluttered a blue flag with a square of white in the center. the reporter knew that this was the "blue peter," flown in token that the steamer was about to sail. but the steamer, which bore the name of _northerner_, flew no house flag to indicate the line she belonged to, nor in the shipping news of the day did her name appear. the reporter scented a "story" at once. from some hangerson about the dock he found out that the strange craft had formerly been the _james k. thompson_, of san francisco, in the coastwise trade. she had been refitted and equipped at the aetna iron works by her purchaser, a mr. chisholm dacre. that was all that the longshoremen could tell him. on the bridge was a stalwart form in a goldlaced cap indicating the rank of captain. by his side stood a well-built man of middle age with a crisp iron-gray beard neatly clipped and a sunburned face, from which two keen blue eyes twinkled quizzically as he gazed down at the figure of the reporter on the dock. "are you mr. dacre?" hailed the reporter, guessing that the bearded man was the _northerner's_new owner. "that is my name. what can i do for you?" was the rejoinder. "my name is jessop. ship-news man for the _post-intelligencer_. can i come on board?" "i am afraid not, mr. jessop," rejoined mr. dacre, whom our readers know as the bungalow boys' uncle. "what do you want?" "why, your destination, the object of your voyage and so forth." "that will have to remain my private property for the time being," was the reply in a kindly tone. "i appreciate your keenness in looking for news, but i cannot divulge what you would like to know just now." "it's no time for visiting, anyhow," said the sailor-like man at mr. dacre's side, who tom jessop had guessed was the skipper of the mysterious craft, "we'll soon be getting under way." the young reporter's face grew fiery red. "what line are you?" he demanded. "what's the game, anyway?" "i am not at liberty to answer questions." "private craft, eh? tramp?" there was almost a sneer in his tones as he spoke. he was trying to make the captain angry and by that means get him to talk. but the other remained quite unruffled. "not in trade at all." "pleasure trip, eh? why can't i come aboard?" "against orders." just then, and before the young newsgatherer could vent his indignation further a cab came rattling up the dock and disgorged at the foot of the _northerner's_ gangplank three brightfaced, happy-looking lads. they were tom and jack dacre and their inseparable chum, sandy mactavish, the voluble scotch youth whose "thatch" and freckles gave him his nickname. jack was tom's junior by two years, but he was almost as muscular and tall as his brother. both lads were nephews of mr. dacre, who had given them their home in the sawmill valley of maine where they had acquired the name of "bungalow boys," by which they were known to a large circle of friends. tom jessop turned from the captain to the new arrivals. "where is this vessel bound?" he asked. "she clears this afternoon for alaska," responded tom dacre. the reporter's eye flashed a look of triumph upward at the bridge. "in the northern trade?" he asked. "i didn't say that," was the quiet rejoinder. tom jessop began to get mad in good earnest. he swept his eyes over the ship's decks. amidships she carried an odd-looking pile of timber and metal. "a small steamer in sections, eh?" he questioned with a knowing look. "you're right as to that," spoke tom. "going gold dredging?" "i can't say." "training ship for kids, maybe?" "well, i know some folks who might take lessons in good manners without its hurting them a bit," flashed jack angrily. the reporter changed his tone to a more conciliatory one. "you might help a fellow out," he said. "what are your names?" "i guess we can tell you that much," said tom. "i am tom dacre, this is my brother, jack, and this is our friend, mr. mactavish." the good-natured sandy broke into a grin at this formal introduction. he was about to speak, but the reporter interrupted him. "dacre!" he exclaimed. "you're the kids that broke up that gang of chinese smugglers on the sound a while ago!" "you're unco canny to guess it," said sandy. "we're the boys." at this instant another figure appeared on the bridge--a tall man with rough-looking clothes and a battered derby hat. it was the pilot. he addressed mr. dacre. "the tide serves, sir. if you are all ready, we'll get under way." "come, boys," hailed mr. dacre from the bridge. "time to get aboard." the three lads hastily gathered up the few packages that they had been purchasing at the last moment. the cabman was paid and they bounded with elastic strides up the gangway. as they reached the end of it, the stern lines were cast off. "let go breast and bow lines," bawled the foghorn voice of the pilot. the order was quickly executed. jessop shouted something, but his voice was drowned in the three mournful blasts of her siren that were the _northerner's_ farewell to seattle. but the instant the whistle ceased and the tug that was to tow the _northerner_ into the stream began to puff energetically, he found his voice again. "s-a-y!" he shouted across the widening breach between the steamer and the dock. "hullo!" hailed back tom, who, with his two companions, stood at the rail amidships watching the city they were leaving. "won't you tell me anything about this trip?" "that's just it," hurled back tom at the top of his voice, "we don't know ourselves!" "well, i'll be jiggered!" exclaimed tom jessop as he turned away from the dock and the moving vessel, which he now felt certain held a mystery within her gray steel sides. chapter ii. northward ho! it was hardly surprising that the ship-news reporter had instantly recognized the bungalow boys when he heard their names. their exploits in many quarters had received numerous columns of newspaper space, much to their amusement. the clever manner in which they had broken up forever the operations of the gang of counterfeiters in the sawmill valley, as related in the first volume of this series, "the bungalow boys," had brought them before the public. further interesting "copy" had been made by their wonderful adventures in search of a sunken treasure galleon. readers of this series were given full details of that adventurous voyage on the surface and below the ocean, in the second volume dealing with our young friends' experiences, which was called "the bungalow boys marooned in the tropics." in the third volume we followed them throughout their venturesome doings in the northwest. "the bungalow boys in the great northwest" showed how pluck and self-reliance can win out even against such a combination as the boys found in the "chinese runners." the fourth volume dealt with their voyage on the great lakes. the mysteries of castle rock island, the ways of the wreckers who captured the lads, and the daring manner in which the boys escaped from the ruined lighthouse, all were set forth in the book in question, which bore the title, "the bungalow boys on the great lakes." now the bungalow boys found themselves setting forth on a voyage to the northland on board a fine, staunch steamer. that adventures and possibly perils lay ahead of them they could not doubt; but just what the object of the voyage was, had not been revealed to them. tom had stuck to the strict truth when he told the reporter that he did not know anything about the voyage. his uncle had merely invited jack and himself to take a "sea voyage." at the lad's solicitation, sandy had been allowed to make one of the party. of course, the boys would not have been taken from their studies to make this trip, but the headmaster of the academy that they all attended had been taken very ill a short time before and the school had been temporarily closed. the pilot had been dropped and the _northerner_ was in free sea room, forging ahead through the great swells of the ocean. the steamer appeared oddly silent. there were no passengers rushing about, no bustle and confusion. the voyage had begun as unobtrusively as the departure from the dock. the small crew moved about under the direction of a mate, setting things to rights, coiling ropes and making everything snug. on the bridge were captain goodrich and mr. dacre. presently a third person joined them--a man of massive build with crisply curling hair and a big beard. this was colton chillingworth, the rancher friend of mr. dacre, whose washington ranch had formed the scene of some of the boys' most exciting adventures in the northwest. "where are we headed for?" asked jack, as the three lads stood at the stern of the steamer watching the white wake that was rolling outward from the vessel's counter at a twelve-knot gait. "bang for the straits of san juan de fuca. i heard the captain tell the pilot so when we dropped him," replied tom. on one side of the steamer were the picturesque, snow-capped selkirks, on the other the olympics, calm and majestic in the afternoon light. along the shore were small settlements fringing the deep woods. above all towered mount rainier, sharply chiseled against the sky. the pearly whiteness of its eternal snow-cap glistened in the sunlight like a field of diamonds. broken at intervals by cliffs of chalk, white or dark brown stone, immense forests of somber green fir and cedar stretched from the hills almost to the water's edge. here and there a cascading stream like a silver thread could be seen dashing its troubled way down the steep mountainside. it was a beautiful, impressive sight, and the boys felt it so as they gazed. but uppermost in their minds was the question of the object of the trip, of its destination. in this regard they were not to be left long in the dark. "and after the straits?" the question came from the scotch boy. "northward, i guess, to alaska. that's positively all we know," came from jack. "awell, we're entitled to a guess, i ken," hazarded sandy. "suppose we are going pole hunting?" "what!" "looking for the north pole," responded the other stoutly, while tom and jack exploded with laughter. "nonsense," said tom. "uncle chisholm has too much sound common sense to go off on a wild goose chase like that." "anyhow, the pole has been found," quoth jack in tones of finality. "you can be sure of one thing at least," put in tom; "whatever we are after, the whole expedition has been carefully thought out. that steamer on the upper deck, for instance." "she's all in numbered sections to be put together when we get ready," said jack. "doesn't that suggest something to you?" "how do you mean?" questioned tom in his turn. "just this. in my opinion, we are going to ascend some river." "but what for?" "ah! that's just what we shan't know till they choose to tell us." "hoot, mon," exclaimed sandy, "gie ower guessing! we'll ken all aboot it in gude time. in the meanwhile, we're three mighty lucky boys to have a chance to make such a trip." "them's my sentiments," coincided tom heartily. they looked seaward. the air had a sharp brisk tang in it, a veritable sea tonic that braced and invigorated. the waves were choppy and as the _northerner_ steamed onward through them, from time to time a glistening cloud of spray was hurled high above her sharp bow. from her funnel poured a column of wind-whipped black smoke, showing that coal was not being spared to drive her along at her best gait. "oh, but this is great!" exclaimed jack, pulling off his cap and letting the wind blow through his tousled hair. "one thing is certain, this is no idle cruise. there's an object in it," said tom, "and i reckon that we boys are due to play a part in whatever enterprise is on hand." "well, i hope we make good, whatever it is," said jack. "nae fear o' that," spoke up sandy confidently. the _northerner_ arose on a higher swell than usual, and then with a sidewise motion settled glidingly down into a watery hollow, rising the next instant on the crest of another roller. her masts swept the sky in broad arcs. all at once sandy released his hold on the rail and slid half across the deck before he brought up. his face had suddenly grown very pale. his freckles stood out on it in bright relief. "what's the matter?" demanded jack, noticing the woe-begone expression of his friend's face. "um?" inquired sandy. "matter? naething's the matter, mon. o-h-h-h-h!" "seasick, eh? that's the last meal you ate ashore. i warned you against all that pie." sandy shuddered. "don't talk of pie," he groaned. just as tom was about to suggest that sandy go to his stateroom and lie down for a while, the second mate approached them. "you young gentlemen are to go to the charthouse. mr. dacre says he has something to tell you." the boys exchanged glances. even sandy forgot his woes in the interest aroused by this communication. the officer walked on aft while tom exclaimed in a low tone: "at last we'll find out where we are bound, and what for. come on, jack." "how about me?" inquired sandy. "thought you were seasick." "i was," rejoined sandy, "but, mon, i feel grond again. if mr. dacre is going to talk, i'm a weel boy the noo." chapter iii. mr. dacre explains. both mr. dacre and his companion, colton chillingworth, regarded the boys smilingly as the latter filed into the charthouse, wide-eyed with expectation at the news they were confident they were to hear. "well," began mr. dacre, "i suppose you young men are anxious to know a good deal more about this voyage than you have yet been told?" "anxious is no word for it," rejoined tom. "sandy has even forgotten seasickness so that he can hear what you have to tell us." "it will not take long. mr. chillingworth, here, is my partner in the enterprise on which we are bound. we are going to alaska in search of foxes." had mr. dacre said that they were going to the moon in search of green cheese, the boys could not have looked more astonished. "foxes!" exclaimed tom. "just common foxes?" "by no means. the kind we are after are silver grays and blacks. mr. chillingworth and i have decided to start raising them on his ranch. when i tell you that a good skin of a silver fox is worth anywhere from twenty-five hundred dollars upward, you will see why we have spent so much in equipping this expedition and chartering this steamer. you will wonder why we did not embark on a regular passenger steamer. for many reasons. one was that we could not care properly for such valuable and timid animals on a regular craft. another was that we do not want any details of our plans to leak out till the business is well established. such creatures as silver foxes might well tempt unscrupulous persons to steal or kill them, so that on all considerations, it was deemed best to charter this craft, which we managed to get cheap, and to form our own expedition." "what country are we going to hunt for the foxes in?" asked tom, his eyes shining at the prospect before them. the other boys looked equally excited and delighted. "along the yukon river," was the reply. "that is why that light draught portable steam launch is on deck." "how long shall we be gone?" came the next question. "that is impossible to say. if we do not 'get out,' as they call it, before the winter sets in, we may have to remain in the north till the spring." the boys exchanged delighted glances. "the prospect appears to please you," said mr. chillingworth. "please us!" cried tom. "we're tickled to death." "well, i think you will have an instructive and, i hope, a pleasant time," said mr. dacre, "and at the same time be useful to us. both mr. chillingworth and myself have been in the yukon country before, and i can assure you that it won't be all picnicking. it is a wild country we are going to. north of fifty-three lies one of the few really wild territories left in the world. it's a great chance for you boys to show what you are made of." soon afterward the boys left the charthouse, half wild with excitement. the lure of the north was upon them. each hastily went over in his mind all that he could recall about the land for which they were bound. there was magic in the name of yukon, that mighty river of frozen lands, whose course winds through golden sands and solitudes undisturbed by the foot of man. "fellows, it seems too good to be true," exclaimed jack warmly. "it's the chance of a lifetime." "we'll have lots of good hunting. i'm glad we brought our rifles," said jack. "maybe we'll find gold!" exclaimed sandy. "well, at the market rate for silver and black foxes, a few of them would be as good as a gold mine," declared tom. "but who ever heard of raising foxes to sell?" objected jack. "foxes wi' siller coats, too!" added sandy incredulously. "don't try to be funny, sandy," struck in tom. "it appeals to me as a great business and one with lots of possibilities in it for the future." "well, it seems at any rate that we are going to get plenty of fun out of it," declared jack. "i wouldn't much mind if we did get stuck up north for the winter. it would be a great experience." the gong for dinner cut short their chat, and they hastened to their cabins to get ready for the meal. as the _northerner_ had once been a passenger steamer, she was well provided with cabins, and each boy had a well-equipped stateroom on the main deck. their elders occupied cabins forward of midships, and on the opposite side of the superstructure the captain, his two mates and the engineers had their quarters. they entered the dining saloon to find it a handsomely fitted white and gold affair, a relic of the passenger-carrying days of their ship. electric lights gleamed down on the table and the boys, when joined by their elders, set to with sharp appetites on a meal excellently cooked and served by two chinese stewards. as they ate, the object of the trip was, of course, the main topic of conversation, and mr. dacre gave them much valuable information concerning the country whither they were bound. as we shall accompany the boys in their own experiences "north of fifty-three," there is no need to set down here all that the enthusiastic man told his eager young listeners. absorbed in the wonders which were being described, the two bungalow boys and sandy mactavish sat late at the table, listening to accounts of the great river for which they were bound, of the flaming volcanoes of the aleutian archipelago, of the seal poachers, the midnight sun and the vast undeveloped riches of uncle sam's northerly possession. the thought that soon they would be up there themselves, participating in the marvelous life of which they had heard, sent them to bed in anything but restful moods. it was long before they slept, and then their dreams were of the most jumbled description, in which huge bears and other denizens of the wild figured, together with golden rivers and snow-capped mountains. when they awakened and hastily dressed, it was to find the _northerner_ out of sight of land and rolling briskly along in a sea flecked with white-caps. ahead of the ship flashed the wet backs of a school of porpoises, seemingly intent on a race with the _northerner_. the boys watched them with interest, although they were no novelty to them, many such schools having been encountered during their cruise in the tropics. but there was, nevertheless, a fascination in watching the sportive creatures as they rolled and tumbled along, from time to time leaping right out of the water and showing their black, glistening bodies. "this is the life for me," exclaimed jack. "how is the seasickness, sandy?" the sandy-haired youth gave him a reproachful look. "i dinna ken what you mean," he said. "i wonder how soon breakfast will be ready?" "you're cured, all right," chuckled tom. "but glorious as all this is, i can hardly wait till we get that steamer together and go chugging up the yukon into the heart of alaska." "i guess we all subscribe to that," echoed jack with enthusiasm. just then the breakfast gong boomed out its summons. "i'll beat you to the table!" shouted jack. the challenge was accepted and off they all dashed, while the long silent decks of the converted _northerner_ rang with their shouts of merriment. chapter iv. sandy finds a mascot. northward, along the rugged, rock-bound alaskan coast, the good ship _northerner_ plowed her way. the boys by this time had become quite used to life on board the staunch craft and every day found something new to rouse their interest and enthusiasm. among the equipment left on the craft when she had been chartered by her present navigators was a wireless outfit. mr. mackenzie, the second officer, could work this, and the boys whiled away some of their time in studying the use of the apparatus. as they all knew something of telegraphy they speedily became quite proficient, considering the short time they had to pick up a knowledge of the wireless operator's methods. one bright noonday the vessel's course was changed and she nosed her way into the entrance of that great indentation of the coast known as resurrection bay. her destination was the town of seward, which lies at the head of the harbor. the boys were all excitement as they passed the rugged rocks at the bay's mouth and saw hundreds of sea lions crawling on them like huge slugs, or else plunging into the water after fish. as the _northerner's_ whistle gave a shrill blast, the seals set up an answering shout, barking and leaping from the rocks in hosts. the purpose of the stop at seward was to purchase some supplies which had been overlooked in the haste with which the departure from seattle had been made. some minor repairs to the machinery, too, were necessary, and it was decided to stop over two days. the boys found plenty to interest them. they wrote voluminous letters and sent them home, as well as post cards, which were readily obtained even in that out-of-the-way corner of the world. the second morning of their stay, while tom and jack remained on board writing letters, sandy elected to go ashore in one of the small boats. he returned just before dinner time. as he approached the ship, pulling laboriously at the oars, it was seen that some object was being towed astern. "hey! what's your souvenir?" hailed tom, with a grin. "looks like a log." "we're not hard up for firewood," added jack. "whist!" exclaimed the scotch youth, with a knowing look. "bide a wee and be more respectful." he shipped his oars and turned his face up toward his two companions, who stood leaning over the rail good-naturedly chaffing him. "if you've naething else to do, you may rig a block and tackle, the noo," said he. "what for? to hoist that old saw-log on board?" disrespectfully inquired tom. "it's nae a saw-log," protested sandy with spirit. "then what on earth is it?" demanded jack. "it's an idol." "an idol!" echoed both boys in a breath. "aye, an idol, or rather a 'totem,' is what they call 'em up here. no home is complete without one." jack broke into a laugh. "why, you bonehead, there's nothing sacred about a totem. they're simply family records, that's all. something like the crests that our newly rich keep librarians so busy digging up." sandy looked blank. "and that's all they are?" he questioned doubtingly. "that's all. the natives used to set them up outside their houses like door-plates to show who lived within. for instance, john smith aleut would be known by a seagull's head at the top of his totem pole, while on the stalk of the thing would be carved some of his big stunts and those of his ancestors." with a disgusted look, sandy pulled out his knife. he bent over the tow-rope, ready to cut loose the bulky object bobbing about astern. but tom checked him. "what are you up to now?" "hoot, mon! i've been stung by an innocent native. the gloomeroon that sold me yon totem told me that it was a sacred idol. that's why i bought it. whist! back she goes, and i paid five dollars of my good money for it!" "hold on a minute!" cried tom checking him. "maybe we have found a mascot after all." "yes," declared jack, who had been leaning over the rail closely scanning the figure of the totem as it bobbed about alongside the _northerner_, "it looks as if it were the figure of some old gent of these parts. maybe the old fellow is the 'good genius of the white north.'" "anyhow, that's a good name for him," agreed tom. "come on, fellows, let's rig a block and tackle and get him on board." the three boys set about preparing to hoist the "genius of the white north" on board. it was a crudely carved figure about seven feet in height. a fierce-looking face with big chunks of wood inserted for teeth and a large, round stomach were the chief characteristics of the totem, which was about two feet wide and tapered toward the grotesquely small feet. carved on the body was what appeared to be meant for a whale or a seal hunt. the figure had once been brightly daubed with red, yellow, black and white, but these colors were faded now. "well, he was a beauty, whoever he was," declared tom, when the boys had hoisted the dripping figure on deck. "looks like an 'ad' for a dentist, with those teeth of his," laughed jack. "that is meant for a good-natured grin," maintained sandy, confronting his purchase critically. "appears more as if he was getting ready to tackle a whale steak or something of that kind," declared tom. "i guess it will bring good luck," went on sandy, poking his prize in the ribs. "the native told me that if you kept it handy, say in your pocket, you'd have good luck all the time. never go hungry or get sick." "that alone is worth the price of admission," chuckled jack skeptically. "how does it work?" "you just stick it up in front of your house, and as long as it is planted there and kept painted it'll stay on the job," was sandy's glowing reply. "that's simple," said tom, "about as cheap a way of maintaining a mascot as you could find." at this point mr. dacre, who had been busy below consulting with the engineering force, came on deck. a smile overspread his face as he saw the totem. "well, well. you young men are certainly acquiring the rudiments of a museum," he said amusedly. "who is the owner of the gentleman with the 'bowsprit' teeth?" sandy proudly proclaimed his ownership and the manner in which he had come by it. mr. dacre declared that he had not been unduly cheated except in the declaration of the native that the totem possessed magic powers. "the use of the totem pole may fitly be termed 'alaskan heraldry,'" said he. "it acts as the shield of the various tribes or families. among the totems of the haidas, to mention only one tribe, the insignias of the eagle, whale, crow, wolf and bear are found. to anyone who can decipher it, the totem pole in front of a house forms a history of the family within. "the figure at the top may sometimes be a rude portrait, as in the case of sandy's old gentleman, or it may be any symbol similar to those i have mentioned. the carvings on the pole usually represent traditional events connected with the history of the tribe. "according to ethnologists, the totem was first adopted to distinguish the four social clans into which the alaskan indians were formerly divided, namely, the kishpootwadda, the lacheboo, the canadda and the lackshkeak. the kishpootwadda symbolically were represented by the fish-back whale on the sea, the grizzly bear on land, the grouse in the air and the sun and stars in the heavens. "the canadda tribes adopted the frog, raven, starfish and bull's-head. the wolf, heron and grizzly proclaimed the lacheboo, and the lackshkeaks selected the eagle, beaver and halibut. members of a clan, though living hundreds of miles apart, are recognized as blood relations by means of their totems. "according to indian legends, in the dim past they lived in a beautiful land where there was unlimited game and fish. the creatures on the totem poles were the divinities of this mystic land, just as the ibis and the cat are held sacred in egyptian lore. "families having the same crest may not intermarry. a frog may not marry a frog, or an eagle an eagle. a young lochinvar of the frog family may woo and win,--sometimes with a club,--a maiden of the whale family. but it would be considered very bad form for a wolf and an eagle to marry, as both are creatures of prey. "like most other races, the alaskan indians have a 'bogyman' story with which to frighten naughty children. in a northern village there is a totem pole surmounted by the whitened face of a caucasian, flanked on each side by the figure of a child wearing a tall hat. the story is that long, long ago a chief's wife left a temporary summer camp. taking her two children with her she crossed a channel in a bidarka or native canoe, and landed on an island where she gathered spruce boughs for holding salmon eggs. "before she entered the woods, she drew the canoe up on the beach and told the children to stay right by it. when she came back the children had vanished. she called and called, but in vain. from the woods came back the mocking voices of crows and that was all. in despair she returned to the camp and told her story. the shaman, or medicine man of the tribe, brewed potions and wrought spells and found out that a white man had stolen the children and that they had been taken to america to wear tall hats and forget their tribe. the white man is supposed still to haunt the woods and waters looking for disobedient children, and if the story is doubted, there is the totem pole to show the recorded history of the fate of the two youngsters in the dim past. and that, young gentlemen, will conclude what i'm afraid has been a tedious lecture on totem poles." but the interested faces of the boys showed that they had appreciated mr. dacre's little talk, and the figure of the old gentleman with the prominent teeth took on a new interest in their eyes. "that indian told me that if you poured oil on this totem when you were going fishing, your boat would go where you wanted to go and make no trouble for you," said sandy. "well, he certainly gave you your five dollars' worth," smiled mr. dacre. at five o'clock that night the _northerner's_ anchor rumbled home. she was off once more. in the extreme bow of the vessel, erect and boldly facing the north, was sandy's totem. its head glistened with oil. although rather dubious as to whether it was the right brand, the boys had used kerosene for the baptism. but so far as the totem displayed his feelings, he had no preference in the matter! chapter v. a mid-ocean hunting trip. "well," remarked jack after breakfast the next day, "old 'frozen face' seems to be on the job all right." "yes, but, mon, we should have baptized him wi' seal oil! i've just remembered that that was what the native told me to use." "seal oil, eh?" laughed tom. "well, there's a scarcity of that article on board just now, so i'm afraid that mister totem will just have to job along without any." "huh!" grunted sandy, "then dinna depend on yon old gent to treat us right. i'll bet he's got it in for us richt noo." the next day it appeared, indeed, as if sandy's dire predictions were about to be verified. the _northerner_ ran into a storm that buffeted her about sadly. her speed had to be cut down till she made scarcely any headway. it was a difficult matter to get about on deck owing to the great seas that washed over the laboring vessel. by orders of mr. dacre the lads were kept below much to their disgust. the gale finally blew itself out and the boys found that the old totem had remained at his post through it all, although they had more than half expected to find him washed overboard. but their faith in him as a mascot was sadly shaken. from time to time, as they nosed northward, the ship encountered floating icebergs. none of them were so large as to cause alarm, however, and for the most part they were low and islandlike in appearance. the boys were idly watching one of these as the ship approached it, when tom made out several black objects on the floe. what these specks were did not become apparent till some time later when jack proclaimed their nature. "seals!" cried he. "don't i wish we had a harpoon! we'd have a seal hunt!" tom smiled and drew from his pocket his automatic revolver which he had been cleaning. "i guess this is as good as any harpoon that ever harpooned," he said, tapping its heavy stock. "i wonder if we could get permission to go after them?" pondered jack. "i'm sick of being penned up on board here." "i'll be the lad to go and ask," declared sandy boldly. "if we can kill a seal it'll be a chance to baptize old 'frozen face' in the richt style. i'll point oot to mr. dacre that all the hurlyburly the other day came from shampooing him with kerosene instead of seal oil." "i hope he puts the seal of approval on your plan," declared jack. "don't repeat that offense, or in case we do get leave to go, you'll be left behind," said tom. "i'll seal you later," cried sandy, dashing off before a justly merited punishment could be visited upon him. he was back in a few minutes. "it's a' richt, fellows!" he exclaimed. "we're to take the small boat and not delay longer than we have to. they won't give us more than half an hour." "then we'll have to hustle. we'll be up to that floe before long," cried jack. the boys darted to their cabins to get ready for the hunt. their faces glowed with pleasure at this unexpected break in the monotony of the voyage. when they returned on deck, they found mr. dacre awaiting them and the boat lowered alongside with the accommodation ladder dangling above it. "boys," he exclaimed with some excitement, "we've been looking at that floe through the glasses. they're not seals that have taken passage on it, but walruses, a herd of them." "good!" cried tom. "we'll get a fine lot of tusks to send home." "steady on, steady on," warned his uncle, "walrus hunting is a very different matter from chasing seals. an old bull makes a formidable enemy." "are you coming along?" asked tom, who saw that his uncle had his rifle. "yes, i wouldn't care to let you lads go on such an expedition alone. seals, as i said, are too tame to afford real sport. walrus hunting is another thing altogether." while the steamer lay by, the adventurous little party clambered down into the boat. from the bridge, mr. chillingworth, who had elected to remain on board, waved a farewell to them and shouted his wishes for their good luck. tom and jack took the oars and rowed with strong, swift strokes toward the drifting berg. as they neared it, it was seen that its sides were higher than they had looked from the steamer's decks. it was no easy task to make a landing. finally, however, mr. dacre scaled a four-foot shelf and then pulled tom up after him. jack followed, and sandy, who had not much fancied a closer view of the big-tusked, formidable-looking walruses, was not sorry to be told to stay behind and look after the boat, which there was no means of mooring to the smooth, slippery floe. when the hunters gained the top of the berg, they saw that had they rowed around to the other side, a landing might have been effected much more easily. a depression ran like a small valley down to the water's edge, making an almost perfect landing place on the ice floe. jack was ordered back to tell sandy to row the boat around the floe to this point and await the hunters there. in the meantime, mr. dacre and tom had crept cautiously forward, crouching behind every projection that afforded cover, for at the approach of the boat the big walruses had flopped clumsily to the other side of the drifting berg. as jack made his way back from his errand to sandy, he saw mr. dacre suddenly crouch low, and tom, who was at his side, did the same. the boy suspected that the game had been sighted and was within range. he made his way cautiously to the hunters' sides, and was rewarded with the sight of about a dozen huge black masses lying along the outer edge of a ridge of ice that ran into the "valley" before mentioned. mr. dacre put a warning hand on jack's arm to prevent his making any outcry. he pointed to the highest point of the ice valley. there, with his great, clumsy head erect, his hairy nostrils distended and his long tusks gleaming white against his fat, shiny body, was a huge bull walrus. the sentinel, perhaps the leader of the herd of formidable-looking creatures. "we're on his wind," whispered mr. dacre, "we must creep along this ridge. follow me and make no noise. he's scented us, but he hasn't seen us yet." with nerves athrill the two boys followed their elder, wriggling cautiously over the ice. suddenly mr. dacre stiffened. his rifle was jerked to his shoulder. taking careful sight, the hunter's weapon rang out echoingly above the ice floe. tom and jack saw the great bull shake his head, roar angrily and emit a hoarse, shrill bellow of pain and rage. he had been shot, but he stood his ground. all about him the herd gathered. "you hit him!" shouted tom, half wild with excitement. he was about to run forward exultingly, but his uncle jerked him backward. "_you stay right here_," he said as he pulled the boy down beside him. chapter vi. a libation to the totem. mr. dacre rose to his feet and began scrambling forward over the rough ice. slipping and bumping, he pushed toward the stricken bull, with the two boys close behind him. "he looks ready for a fight," whispered tom. "he sure does. wow! look at those tusks! i'd hate to have them bite into me," rejoined his brother. "halt!" cried out mr. dacre suddenly. before them was the roaring bull. behind him were grouped his companions. they appeared to be unsettled whether to fly or give battle. apparently they were waiting to see what action their leader would take. the boys came to a standstill. as they did so, mr. dacre raised his rifle for a second shot. but as he was about to shoot something jammed in the repeating mechanism of his weapon. at the same time, with a roar of rage, the wounded bull threw himself forward on his awkward flippers. "they're going to attack us!" called tom. "why don't you fire?" "i can't. something's gone wrong with the magazine of my rifle!" explained his uncle. "you boys run for the boat. these fellows are ugly customers when they get roused." but tom's automatic revolver was out of his pocket in a jiffy. he leveled it and then pulled the trigger. there was a spiteful crack as the weapon began shooting lead. the big walrus sank to the surface of the floe with an earpiercing squeal, but wounded as he was, he turned and managed to propel himself along over the ice on his clumsy flippers. "after him. he's the prize of the herd!" cried mr. dacre. as their leader had turned tail, the others had swung round. now their great bulks were in full retreat across the ice. the boys ran forward while mr. dacre struggled to get his rifle into working order once more. tom swiftly reloaded and threw up his automatic. but as he ran his eye along the barrel he dropped the weapon with a gasp of alarm. at the landing place to which he had been directed was sandy, standing erect in the boat. toward him, down the valley leading to the break in the ice, wallowed the retreating walrus herd. the boy was directly in their path. "look out! look out!" screamed tom, but sandy, if he heard him, paid no attention. tom saw the scotch lad pick up an oar and stand brandishing it as the herd, in full retreat and snorting alarmedly, bore down upon him. behind them lumbered the great creature that carried the bullets of mr. dacre and tom in his gigantic carcass. bloodstains showed that the monster had been severely wounded, but tom did not dare risk another shot at it. right in line of fire with it was sandy's upstanding form. "gracious, they'll charge right down on him and maybe stave the boat!" cried tom, almost sick with apprehension. but sandy appeared quite unaware of his danger. with uplifted oar he awaited the oncoming of the vanguard of the retreating herd. but it now appeared that they did not intend to attack the boat. with noisy splashes they flopped into the water all about it, while sandy, in a frenzy of excitement, waved his extemporized weapon and yelled at the top of his voice. "let 'em all come! hooray!" he shouted, and whacked one of the animals between the eyes as it plunged below. he actually appeared delighted at the novel combat. "whoop! overboard with ye!" he shouted shrilly, "get along now"; and down would come the oar with a resounding thwack! mr. dacre and jack came running up. the former had got his rifle under control again. "the boy's gone crazy!" he cried. "if he doesn't look out, one of those creatures will turn on him and then there'll be trouble." "look! look!" broke in jack suddenly. the wounded bull had reached the water's edge. he raised his head and snorted as he glared with angry eyes at the upstanding boy. then, with a snort, he lunged downward into the water out of sight. "it's gone! the prize one's gone!" shouted jack. "what a shame," echoed tom, and then the next instant, "no, see there! he's coming up again." sure enough, the next moment a bulky, hideous head appeared above the water close to the boat. the animal was gnashing his teeth as if determined to wreak vengeance on one at least of the party that had attacked him and his companions. "hoots!" yelled sandy. "take that, you old oomeroon!" he brought down his oar on the walrus, but the creature caught the blade in his tusks and split it with a rending sound as if it had been merely matchwood. "look out for him!" shouted mr. dacre as, having accomplished this destruction, the monster dived once again. "he hasn't gone yet. look behind you!" but although sandy turned quickly, he was not swift enough. the great sea monster had only dived a few feet. now he came up like a battering ram. he drove his big, fleshy nose right against the boat's side. had the craft not been of the stoutest construction, it must have been stove in. as it was, caught unawares, the shock threw sandy from his feet. he made an ineffectual effort to save himself, but the next instant, while his friends set up a shout of dismay, he toppled overboard into the cold water which was now alive with bobbing black heads. directly they had recovered from their first shock at the accident, the boys, followed by mr. dacre, set off faster than ever over the rough ice. as they ran they shouted encouragement to their chum. sandy's head could be seen in the water. he was striking out for the side of the boat. but behind him came the blunt head of the big walrus. the others appeared to be taking no notice, leaving the task of demolishing the boat and sandy to the wounded animal. "good boy, sandy! strike out! you'll make it!" roared tom, all a-quiver with apprehension. "swim for your life, my boy!" shouted mr. dacre. "make the boat and you'll be all right. i'll attend to the walrus." sandy was a good swimmer and he struck out valiantly. but the monster head, with its huge gleaming tusks, was terribly close behind him as he made his way through the water. mr. dacre raised his rifle. he was going to try a desperate shot. the head of the walrus, huge though it was, was moving too swiftly to offer a good target, and yet it was the only chance to save sandy. steadying his aim with an effort, mr. dacre drew a careful bead on the creature, aiming for a spot between the eyes. between his sights appeared the oily head, the bristling whiskers and the fierce tusks of the creature. he pulled the trigger. in the churn of the water and the wave of spray that succeeded the sharp report, it could be seen that the wounded walrus had been struck again and had sunk from sight. but his tenacity of life had been such that they were still by no means sure that he was dead. "get into the boat! the boat!" called mr. dacre as he saw the blood-stained swirl of waters where the walrus had last been seen. sandy was clinging to the bulwark of the craft, and after some difficulty climbed on board. just as he reached safety, there came a shout from his friends. "behind you! behind you!" shrieked tom. sandy looked. coming toward the boat was once more a swirl of water. the old bull was rushing down on the boat, rearing his head aloft. his ugly creased neck tilted back. his great tusks impended above the boat's side ready to crush on it as a terrier seizes on a rat. but before the ponderous jaws could close, "spit!" came from tom's automatic, and dazed and finally wounded unto death, the huge bull slipped back harmlessly into the water. as the craft careened in the swell of the sinking body, sandy almost went overboard for a second time. but he managed to save himself just as the carcass came bobbing up alongside. he seized the boat hook, jabbing it down into the great body, and gave a yell of triumph. "i got him," he yelled, as the others came running and stumbling toward him. "come on, and get your dead walrus!" a cheer answered him. not long after, with the shivering sandy wrapped in what dry clothing they could spare, the boat, with its prize in tow, was sculled back to the ship where, as you may imagine, all hands had a thrilling tale to tell. sandy was made to gulp down boiling coffee and was hustled into a change of garments, while the others examined the body of the monster in whose slaying it might be said that they all had had a more or less active share. tom felt not a little proud of his part as they gazed at the dead bull and admired his huge proportions. soon sandy joined them. "aweel, i'm thinking that we'll have a christening the noo," said he. while the sailors were skinning the walrus and cutting out the four foot tusks, sandy snatched up some strips of blubber and vanished. in a quarter of an hour or so he appeared with a cooking pan in his hands. its contents was steaming and emitted a rank and fishy odor. "what in the world have you got there?" tom wanted to know. "give you three guesses," rejoined sandy. "it smells like sixty," observed jack. "yes; keep to leeward of us, my lad," put in the captain. "well, what is it?" asked mr. dacre. "soup,--walrus soup," guessed jack. "if it is, i don't want any of it," declared tom, sniffing the fishy odor. "don't worry, _you_ won't get any," chortled sandy. "what are you going to do with it?" asked jack. "as i observed some time ago, we'll have a christening the noo," was the rejoinder. "a christening!" "aye! that native said that old 'frozen face' needed a shampoo wi' seal oil, but i'm thinking that walrus oil will be just as good or better." a shout broke from the boys. "good for you, sandy," cried tom. "come on, we'll give the old boy a bath in it. he surely looked out well for you to-day." while their elders looked on amusedly, the lads doused the long suffering totem with the ill-smelling oil and danced around the aged figure with mock solemnity, intoning what was meant to be a mystic chant: "_oh, totem in our hours of ease,_ _uncertain, coy and hard to please;_ _now you have had your walrus bath,_ _be nice and kind, and smile and laugh;_ _and kindly watch our destiny,_ _northward, toward the arctic sea._" chapter vii. an adventure of jack's. "what's that yonder, uncle?" asked tom. it was the morning after the adventure with the walrus and the _northerner_ was steaming steadily on toward valdez, her next port of call on her voyage north. at that place she would take on coal for the final stage of her journey to st. michaels near the mouth of the yukon, where the party would be left after the small steamer had been put together. tom was a great boy to lean against the rail scanning the sea in search of something that might prove exciting. he had been gazing steadily against the far horizon for some minutes. mr. dacre hastened to his cabin and came back with a pair of binoculars. he raised them and looked fixedly in the direction that tom had indicated. "it's a whale," he declared, "or rather a whole school of them, if i'm not mistaken. they are dead ahead of us. if we keep on this course, we shall run almost squarely into them." he hastened off to inform the captain and mr. chillingworth while tom set out to find his chums. he found them in the wireless room practicing on the key. at his news they speedily jumped up and joined him in the bow. within an hour they came into plain sight of what appeared at first to be so many giant logs rolling about in the sea. all at once, among the "logs," which of course were the whales, appeared splashes of white water. the leviathans swam swiftly here and there as though in fear. "what's the matter with them?" wondered tom. "maybe it's the ship's coming that has scared them," suggested jack. "it's the totem at the bow, mon," declared the scotch boy solemnly. the captain leaned over the bridge rail and shouted to them. "there's a school of killers in among them." "killers?" "yes, the killer whales. they are the enemies of the other kind and just naturally take after them when they meet. watch close now!" the boys needed no second bidding. strangely fascinated by the turbulent scene below, they leaned far out to watch the thrashing water. it was a strange combat of the sea. the monster fish appeared, in their panic at the advent among them of the killers, not to notice the oncoming steamer. "look close now and you'll see tall, upright fins moving about among 'em," sung out the captain. "i see them!" cried tom. "are those the killers?" "that's what. sea tigers, they ought to call 'em. they're as bad as sharks," was the reply. mr. dacre joined the boys. one of the biggest of the whales appeared to be an especial target for the "killers." they pursued it relentlessly in a body. "wow!" cried tom suddenly, "look at that!" the big whale had leaped clear out of the water, breached, as the whalers call it. its body shone in the sunlight like a burnished surface. they saw its whole enormous bulk as if it had been a leaping trout. "he's as big as a house!" cried jack. "i've seen houses that were smaller!" laughed mr. dacre; "your bungalow, for example." down came the whale again with a splash that sent the spray flying as high as the _northerner's_ mast tops. "how do they fight the whales?" tom wanted to know, when their excitement over this episode had subsided. "they tear them with their teeth," replied his uncle. "they get round them like dogs worrying a cat. they literally tear the poor creatures to bits piecemeal." "looks like one of the whale hunts that old 'frozen face' here must have had a hand in," said jack. "here, old sport, take a look for auld lang syne." he loosened the lashings that held the totem in place in the bow, and while they all laughed, he tilted the old relic till "old frozen face," as they called him, actually appeared to be gazing at the conflict raging about them. "see, the big fellow is acting kind of sleepy!" cried jack suddenly. "yes, he must have got his death warrant," declared mr. dacre. "look! he's coming right across our bows!" yelled sandy. "hey! look out, captain, you'll hit him!" roared out tom. but even as he spoke, there came a heavy jar that almost stopped the sturdy steamer. her steel bow had struck the whale amidships with stunning force. the craft appeared to quiver in every rib and frame. the party on the fore deck, taken by surprise, went over like so many ninepins. they recovered themselves in a jiffy. "goodness! don't run into any more whales! you'll have the ship stove in the first thing you know," cried mr. dacre. "i don't think----" but a shout from tom checked him. "jack! where's jack?" "he was there a minute ago. by the totem." "i know, but the totem has gone!" "great scott, it must have gone overboard when that shock came and carried the boy with it." they darted to the rail where jack had last been seen. the next instant they set up a mingled cheer and groan. the cheer was in token that jack was alive, the groan was at his precarious position. clinging to the totem as if it had been a life buoy, the lad was drifting rapidly astern, and toward him was advancing the mad turmoil of waters that signified the battle royal raging between the killers and their huge awkward prey. as he saw his friends, the boy on the floating totem waved his hand in a plucky effort to reassure them. he shouted something encouraging that they could not catch. but the peril of his position was only too plain. only a short distance separated the killers and their frightened quarry from the drifting boy. once in the midst of that seething turmoil his life would be in grave danger. it was a moment for action, swift and decisive. within a few seconds, although to jack's excited friends it appeared infinitely longer, a boat had been lowered and the steamer's way checked. this latter was the more easy to accomplish for the huge carcass impending at her bow had almost brought her to a standstill. manned by two sailors, the boat flew toward the imperiled boy. in the stern, with pale faces, stood tom and sandy, side by side with mr. dacre and mr. chillingworth. all carried rifles. jack's position was a grave one as the school of whales, pursued by their remorseless foes, rushed down upon him. but those in the boat were in equal danger. one flip of those giant tails or a chance collision, and the stout boat would inevitably be sent to the bottom with a slender chance of its occupants being saved. no wonder that little was said as they rowed swiftly toward jack and that many anxious glances were cast at the waters astern, which were boiling like a maelstrom as the huge bodies of the whales and their foes dashed blindly hither and thither! chapter viii. "the tale of a whale." "give way, men!" implored mr. dacre anxiously, as the sailors bent to their task vigorously. there was small need to admonish the men. the affair had literally become a race for life between the boat and the surging, battling whales. as they came alongside jack, who was clinging to the totem, he gave an encouraging wave of the hand. "gee! i'm glad you've come. this water is pretty cold, i can tell you." he was hauled on board with all swiftness. "don't forget old 'frozen face,'" he begged anxiously as he heard his uncle give orders to take to the oars again. "no time to wait for him now, jack," declared mr. dacre; "look there!" he pointed behind them. rushing toward the boat with the speed of an express locomotive was a mighty head. it parted the water like an oncoming torpedo boat. the boys gave a shout of alarm. "it's coming straight for us!" the sailors pulled on their oars till the stout ash wood bent as if it had been bamboo. suddenly there came a loud crack. one of the oars had snapped. no doubt, as sometimes occurs, there was a flaw in the wood. the man who was pulling it rolled off his seat into the bottom of the boat. as he did so, there came a second loud cry of affright. the whale was almost upon them. on either side of its enormous blunt head was a mountainous wall of water. even if it did not hit them, the mighty "wash" that its onrush made was likely to swamp the little craft, deeply loaded as she was. the snapping of the oar had cost valuable time. a collision appeared to be inevitable. the second sailor seemed to be paralyzed with fright. he stared stupidly at the great bulk bearing down upon them. with a sharp exclamation mr. dacre seized an oar out of the fellow's hand. in the stern of the boat was a "becket." he thrust the oar through this, and with a few powerful strokes moved the boat forward. it was then out of the direct path of the whale, but still in peril of the mighty wave the great body of the creature upreared. it was at this juncture that tom proved his mettle. he grabbed the other oar from the stupefied sailor's hands and thrusting it overboard on the port side tugged on it with all his might. "that's right! good lad! head her into it!" cried mr. dacre, perceiving the object of tom's maneuver, which was to force the boat bow first against the towering wave sweeping down upon them. it was the only thing to do, and tom's experience had taught him to act quickly. hardly had the boat's bow been swung till it was facing the onrushing wave, than, with a roar and smother of foam, a huge black bulk shot by, drenching them with spray. carried away by excitement, jack did a foolish thing. raising his revolver he fired point blank at the huge wet side of the whale. instantly, as the bullet struck it, the great creature spouted. from its nostrils two jets of water shot up with a roar like that of escaping steam. "duck your heads!" roared out mr. chillingworth. he had hardly time to get out the words before the spouted water came down with the force of a cloudburst upon the boat. it was half filled, but they had hardly time to notice this before the great wave that the speeding whale had caused to rise swept under them. the small boat, half full of water and overcrowded, rose sullenly. to the boys it seemed that they were rushed dizzily heavenward and then let down into an abyss that was fathomless. but a few seconds later a glad cry from mr. dacre announced that the danger had passed. the boat had ridden the wave nobly, and as for the killers and their quarry, all that could be seen of them was a fast receding commotion in the water. "phew, what a narrow escape!" gasped out tom. "i thought we were goners sure that time!" "same here," agreed sandy with deep conviction. the strained faces of the others showed what they had thought. mr. dacre relieved the tension by ordering all hands to get busy and bale out the boat with some baling cans that were under the thwarts. they were in the midst of this task when jack gave a sudden outcry and pointed over the side. "what's up now, another whale?" cried sandy, his face showing his alarm. "whale nothing!" scoffed jack. "look, it's the 'good genius of the frozen north!'" "the mascot!" cried sandy. "the mascot, sure enough," declared mr. dacre. "it undoubtedly helped to save jack's life." "yes, after carrying me overboard first!" snorted jack. sure enough, alongside the boat old "frozen face" was bobbing serenely about. "we've got to take him back to the ship," declared sandy. "yes, since he's inviting himself we can't be so impolite as to leave him," said mr. chillingworth. accordingly, a line was made fast to the totem and he was towed back to the ship and once more restored to office as official mascot in the bow of the _northerner_. but the ship did not get under way at once following the adventure of part of her crew. the body of the wounded whale still hung limply to her bow. sailors with tackles had to be called into requisition before the vast obstruction could be cleared. by this time, as if by magic, thousands of birds had appeared. they fell upon the carcass, paying scant attention to the men at work on it, and fought and tore and devoured flesh and blubber as if they were famished. the captain said that they were whale birds, such as haunt the track of ships engaged in whale trade for weeks at a time. "gracious, we certainly are having exciting times!" said tom as the ship once more got under way bound for her next port of call, valdez, to the east of the great kenai peninsula. "i expect you boys will have more exciting times later than any you have yet experienced," remarked the captain, who happened to be passing along the deck at the time. "your adventure with the whales reminds me of a yarn that a certain old captain peleg maybe used to spin, of the perils of whaling. like to hear it?" the boys chorused assent. they knew something of the captain's ability as a spinner of yarns. "well, it appears, according to the way old captain peleg used to tell it, that his ship, the _cachelot_, was becalmed in these seas while out after whales," began the skipper with somewhat of a twinkle in his eye. "one day he decided to enliven the monotony of the constant doldrums by having his small dory lowered and going a-fishing after halibut. well, the boat was lowered away and the skipper pulled off to some distance from the ship before he cast his lines. "now it seems strange, doesn't it, in an ocean five hundred miles wide and a thousand feet deep, that when he cast his light anchor overboard, the fluke of it should land in the blow-hole of a whale, which isn't much bigger than a man's fist?" "what's a blow-hole?" demanded sandy. "why, the orifice through which a whale spouts or sounds, as whalemen call it. you had a specimen of spouting when that whale master jack shot at gave you a shower bath. but, according to captain peleg, that was just what happened to him. the fluke of his anchor lodged right in that whale's nostril. "as soon as the anchor hit that whale where the apple hit the man who discovered the law of gravitation, off he dashed, and naturally the boat being fast to him, off dashed the boat, too. the line was drawn as tight as the 'g' string on a bull fiddle. "cap'n peleg was standing up in the stern just ready to cast a line over, when 'bang!' the fun started. he almost went overboard, but recovered himself in time to find that he was being drawn through the water at 'sixty-'leven' miles an hour or more. he said afterward it was the fastest he'd ever traveled. the wind hit his face as if he was coasting down a forty-five grade mountainside in a runaway six-cylinder auto without brakes or windshield. "the cap'n said that the wind blew in his face so hard that every time he tried to get to the bow of the boat to cut the line, he was blown back again. all this time he couldn't think what he was hitched to. in fact he didn't do much thinking at all. it wasn't till the whale had gone what peleg said must have been a hundred miles or more, that it turned plum round and headed right back for his ship again. "they made the trip in as fast time as if he'd been hitched to a runaway cyclone. as they came near the ship there was the greatest excitement on board that they'd had since they ran into a herd of sperms up in bering sea. "'come aboard, cap!' yelled the mate. "'can't, you're only a way station,' yells back the skipper, 'and this is the alaskan flyer.' "just then, the way cap'n peleg told it, up comes the whale to spout. seems funny it didn't think of doing that before, but the way peleg told it, the creature hadn't. anyhow, just as they were passing the ship, up comes the whale and gives an almighty sneeze. that blew the anchor out of its nose and off it goes, while peleg takes an oar and guides the boat alongside his ship after the most exciting ride he ever had. the boat was going so fast when the whale cut loose, that he didn't need to row her alongside; all he had to do was to steer her like a launch and then he had to make two circles to reduce speed before he dared try to reach his ship. "peleg said that when they hoisted the boat on deck they found she had stood the trip all right, except that paint on her sides was blistered and burned by reason of the friction kicked up by the terrific pace they had traveled through the water." the boys burst into a roar of laughter at the conclusion of this surprising anecdote. the captain's eyes twinkled. "remember, i don't vouch for it," he said; "i'm only telling the tale to you as it was told to me." "the tale of a whale," chuckled tom. "a whale of a tale, i guess you mean," spoke jack. "captain, what did you say the name of that skipper was?" inquired sandy innocently. "maybe," was the answer. "aweel," said the scotch lad soberly, "i'm thinking he was well named." chapter ix. wild waters. early one morning the boys were awakened by the steady booming of the _northerner's_ whistle. by the lack of vibration they knew that she was proceeding slowly. wondering what could be the cause of the reduced speed and the constant raucous bellowing of the whistle, they hustled into their clothes and met each other on deck. it was at once apparent what was the matter. thick, steamy sea-fog enveloped the ship. through a fleece of blanket-like vapor, she was forging ahead at a snail's pace. the boys made their way to the bridge. there they found their elders in anxious consultation. and there, too, the blowing of the whistle was explained to them. it was not, as they had at first thought, for fear of encountering other vessels that the big siren was kept incessantly roaring its hoarse warning. the whistle was sounding to enable the captain to get his bearings in the dense smother. sea captains along the part of the coast where they were now steaming, keep their whistles going in thick weather so as to catch the sound of an echo. when they hear one reverberating back through the fog, they know that they are in dangerous proximity to the cliffy, rockbound coast, and keep outward toward the open sea. "where are we?" was naturally the first thing that the boys wanted to know. "we are somewhere off the coast of afognok island," was the rejoinder. "that's a misnomer for it," declared jack. "how's that?" unsuspectingly inquired tom. "why, it's the last place i'd think of calling a-fog-not," rejoined jack, dodging quickly to a place of safety behind a stanchion. "are we near a harbor?" inquired sandy. "as well as i can tell, we ought to be off the mouth of kadiak harbor soon after breakfast," rejoined the captain, squinting at the compass and giving a brief direction to the man at the wheel. sure enough, after breakfast the anchor was let go with a rattle and roar and the _northerner_ came to a standstill. the whistle was blown in impatient short toots as a signal to the pilot to come off, if, as the captain was certain, they were really near the harbor mouth. mr. dacre was anxious to go ashore, as he had some friends living in the alaskan town whom he had not seen for many years. at last, out of the fog came the sound of oars, and then came a rough voice roaring out through a megaphone a message to the _northerner's_ company. "steamer, ahoy! who are you?" "northerner, under charter, san francisco to st. michael," rejoined the captain succinctly. "are you the pilot?" "aye! aye!" was bellowed back through the all-enveloping mist. "come aboard then, will you?" admonished the captain, and jerked the whistle cord sharply so as to give the pilot his bearings. in a few minutes a big, capable-looking dory, manned by two aleuts appeared alongside. in the stern sat a grizzled, red-faced man in oilskins. this was bill rainier, the pilot. "how about taking her in, pilot?" demanded the captain anxiously. the man grinned. "all right, if you've no further use for her, cap," he rejoined. "if you don't mind piling her up on the rocks, we'll go right ahead." "mr. dacre here is anxious to go ashore," responded the captain. "he has some goods to give to some friends of his, mr. beattie and his brother. how long before this fog is likely to lift?" "can't say," was the noncommittal reply; "it may last a week. but tell you what you do. the beatties are good friends of mine. i'll take your man ashore if you like." but here arose a question about carrying the goods which mr. dacre had for his friends, who were storekeepers, and which he had brought up freight free. the question was finally decided in this way: a ship's boat would be used to transport the goods and bill rainier and mr. dacre would go ashore in her. the boys, who had begged to go ashore, too, would follow in the pilot's dory with the two natives as guides. it did not take long to get out the goods from the hold and lower them overside. then the boys scrambled down and took their places in the dory, while the natives, with grinning faces, stared at them. bill rainier roared something at the aleuts in their native tongue and off glided the dory into the fog, bearing three happy, excited boys as cargo. mr. dacre, busy superintending the work of getting the goods transferred, did not notice their departure till some minutes later. then he asked sharply: "where's that dory gone?" "that's all right, cap," rejoined bill easily, "i sent it ahead. those aleuts know the way as well as i do." "just the same, i wish they had waited for us," said mr. dacre with a slight frown. "oh, they'll be waiting for us when we get there," declared bill confidently, and no more was said. but when the steamer's boat reached the dock, no dory was there. nor had any of the loungers hanging about seen one. "maybe they've got into another channel and gone down wolf island way," suggested bill, looking rather grave. "don't you worry, sir, they'll be along." "well, if an aleut can do anything pig-headed and plum foolish, that's what he's a-goin' to do," opined the dock superintendent, who knew the facts in the case. "i'd suggest we get up to the store with these goods," said bill, "and by the time we're through that dory'll be here." "but it should have reached here long ago," said mr. dacre. "i tell you, rainier, i don't half like the look of this." "no harm can come to 'em," bill assured him. but nevertheless, for some time both men stood motionless, with lips compressed, staring out into the blanket of fog without exchanging speech. in the meantime, the dory was being rowed through the fog by the two stolid natives without the boys suspecting in the least that anything was wrong. as a matter of fact, the two natives, for reasons apparent to those who know the native aleut, had decided to take a short cut through a passage behind wolf island. but the fog had shut in thicker now and they were not at all sure of their bearings, skilled boatmen though they were. they rowed stolidly on and on through the dripping mist without speaking. tom was the first to notice that, although they had been rowing for an hour or more, the dory was still rolling on the heavy swells of the open sea. suspecting that something was amiss, he signaled to the men to stop rowing. without a change of expression, the flat-faced, lank-haired aleuts rested on their oars. everything about the tossing dory was silent except for the swish and sigh of the waves as they swept under her. listen as they would, they could hear no other sound from any quarter. "i don't like the appearance of things much," said tom in reply to a question from jack; "we ought to have reached the dock by now." "looks that way to me," was the response. "how far did the captain say it was?" inquired sandy. "not more than half an hour's row from the ship. if these fellows know their business, we ought to be there by now." "that's evident. how silent it all is," said jack in a rather awestruck voice. "surely if we were near the town even, we would be able to hear something." "just what i was thinking, more particularly as fog exaggerates sound," responded tom. "what makes it worse, too, is that the steamer has stopped sounding her whistle. we can't even get back to her now." "i wish we'd stuck to the pilot boat," put in sandy dismally. "see if you can get anything out of those aleuts," suggested jack. but although tom tried to get something understandable from the natives, they only grinned and shook their heads. but at last they fell to their oars again. "they don't know where they're going, but they're on the way," said jack with a rather weak attempt at humor. the sea began to come tumbling up astern of them in long black water rows that broke and whitened with spray now and again. the dory swung skyward and then plunged down as if bound for the bottom of the sea, as the swell nosed under her keel. the boys exchanged serious glances. their faces looked several shades paler than when they had left the steamer. the fog lent a ghastly grayish hue to everything. the dismal quality of the weather only added to their perplexity and alarm. the aleuts rowed steadily on without a shade of an expression on their greasy, yellow faces. "maybe they do know where they are going, after all," said tom hopefully. "we may be ashore in a short time and laughing over our scare." the others did not reply and the aleuts rowed stolidly on like two images as lifeless as sandy's totem. but in spite of tom's hopeful prophecy, there was no sign that they were approaching land and friends. instead, the water grew rougher, the white caps more frequent. the boys exchanged looks of dismay. in all their lives they had never been in such wild waters as these. chapter x. the tidal "bore." "what's the matter, sandy?" tom spoke as the dory swung dizzily between heaven and earth. "i--i'm scared!" confessed sandy, turning a white face to his chum. "pshaw! cheer up, sandy," said tom, trying to put a bold face on the matter, as was always his way. "yes, we'll come out of it all right," struck in jack bravely, concealing his real fear of the outcome of the adventure. "we've been in worse fixes than this before and got through all right," supplemented tom, and sandy appeared to pluck up some heart from the confident tones of his companions. "tell you what," suggested jack suddenly, "i've got an idea." "what is it?" "why, to find out where we are. it's no use asking those wooden indians; they wouldn't say if they did know, and couldn't if they didn't." "well, but what's your plan?" asked tom impatiently. "just this. you remember how the captain on the _northerner_ found out when he was dangerously near to the coast by blowing the whistle and waiting for the echo?" tom nodded. "well, why can't we do the same by hollering at the top of our voices?" "good boy! i see your idea. if we're near land, we ought to catch the echo of our voices." "that's the scheme exactly." the boat was tossing too violently to stand up in it, but the boys placed their hands to their mouths, funnel-wise, and set up as loud an uproar as they could. sure enough, back out of the fog faint and obscure, but still audible, came an unmistakable reply. "hul-l-o-o-o-o!" their faces brightened. even sandy broke into a grin. "we're aboon the land!" he cried out. "must be," declared tom positively. he looked at the two natives, who had been regarding the proceedings with no more interest than they appeared to display in anything else. "row that way," he ordered in a loud, clear voice, pointing off into the fog in the direction from whence the answer to their shouting had come. the natives obeyed without a word. whether they understood him or not tom never knew, but they appeared to apprehend his vigorous gesture well enough. as they rowed along, the boys repeated their practice, and every time the echo came louder and more clearly. "wish we'd thought of that before," sighed jack, "we might be in the harbor by this time." "better late than never," tom assured him cheerily. before long they could hear the roar of waves breaking on the coast. the natives apparently heard them, too, and kept the boat out a little. the angry sound of the breaking waters was sufficient warning that no landing could be attempted there. "we must be running along the coast," decided tom. "how can you guess that?" inquired jack. "yes, i dinna ken how you know, unless you hae the second sight," agreed sandy, who had in a large measure recovered his self-possession at the idea of the proximity of land. "easy enough," responded tom, "the echo only comes from one side. if we were in a harbor or channel it would come from both sides." "so much the worse," declared jack. "we know now that we are not anywhere near kadiak, for that is rock walled on either side and we should get the echo from both directions." "still, it's something to know that we are even within touch of land," said tom, and in this they all agreed. after a while the roaring of the surge grew less loud. this gave tom an idea. "we must be near to an inlet or something that will afford a landing place," he said, as the thunder of the surf diminished and finally almost died away. "what do you say if we go ashore?" "what kind of a country will we find?" objected jack. "it couldn't be worse than tossing about in this dory, could it?" demanded tom. "at any rate, we might find people ashore and a shelter and some food." both jack and sandy agreed to this, and tom made motions to the native oarsmen that they were to make a landing if possible. in response to his gesture the men nodded as if they understood what was wanted, and began rowing directly toward the direction in which they had guessed the landing place lay. as they neared the shore, which was still, however, invisible through the mist, the surf thunder grew louder. but the natives did not appear alarmed. no doubt they were thoroughly used to handling their craft in the surf and such proved to be the case. when they got quite close to the shore and the boys could see a dark outline against the mist which they judged was a wall of cliffs, the two natives stopped rowing and back-watered. they did this till a big wave came along behind the dory, lifting its stern high in the air. then, with a piercing yell they dug their blades into the water. the dory was flung forward like a stone from a sling. the men leaped out as the wave broke, and ran the craft amidst the surf and spume high and dry upon what proved to be a sandy beach in a little covet between two frowning battlements of rocky cliff. the boys scrambled out. even though they had not the remotest idea where they were, the touch of solid earth felt good under their feet after that blundering voyage in the mist. but their surroundings were cheerless enough. above them, except where the soft blanket of fog obscured the view, towered the dripping walls of black rock, all moist and shiny with the mist. on the beach, the surf thundered and screamed as the waves broke and receded. now and then the sharp shriek of some sea-bird rose startlingly clear above the voice of the sea. the boys felt lonely and wretched. but this feeling, seemingly, was not shared by the stoical aleuts. they drew out pipes and began to smoke in silence. they appeared to pay no attention to the boys whatever, and tom began to get angry at their indifference. after all, their blundering had placed the boys in their predicament, and tom felt, and so did his companions, that the natives ought to make at least some effort to right their error. "here, you," he said angrily, addressing one of them, "where are we?" the man shook his head. if he knew, he did not betray it by a change of expression or a spoken syllable. "ask him about getting something to eat," said sandy. "mon, but i'm famished." tom tried to convey this idea to the natives in speech, but it was plain they did not understand. then he fell back on the sign language. here he succeeded better. he pointed to his mouth and then rubbed his stomach, a sign understood from the arctic ocean to statenland. the native grinned and gave over smoking a minute. he nodded his head. "bye'm bye," he said, "bye'm bye." "well, at least he understands that much english," cried tom triumphantly. "i wish i could tell him to hurry up. 'bye'm bye' might mean any time." but in answer to further efforts, the native only nodded and smiled amiably. after a while, during which the boys strolled about disconsolately, the natives smoked their pipes out, and then began to talk in their guttural, grunting tongue. of course, the boys could not understand what they were saying, but as well as they could judge the two men were coming to some sort of a decision. suddenly they got to their feet and made off through the fog at a swift pace. the boys ran after them, shouting, but the aleuts speedily vanished. it was a pity that the boys could not know that the two natives, after a discussion, had decided to set off across the island to a fishing settlement for help. for it was wolf island on which the party had landed and the natives had only delayed to get a smoke before starting for aid. but of this the boys knew nothing. hour after hour they waited with despairing faces for the two aleuts, whom they thought had basely deserted them. at length tom reached a decision. "those fellows have left us. we'll leave them," he declared. "how?" inquired jack. "in the dory." "which way will we go?" "toward the direction from which we came. we are bound to get somewhere, and at any rate the fog seems to be lifting. we can keep track of the shore by the echo, and so find our way back to kadiak." "the sea's pretty rough," objected jack. "the dory's a good sea boat, and anyway it isn't as rough as it was. i'm for pulling out of here right away before we waste any more time." "so am i," agreed jack, and sandy, although he looked rather sober at the thought of venturing out on the big swells again, assented to tom's plan. by good luck they managed to get the dory launched on a big sea, and almost before they knew it, they were out on the tossing waves once more. the dory proved heavy and hard to pull, but the boys all had well-seasoned muscles and they made fairly good progress. they were laboriously toiling in the direction tom had pointed out, when jack gave a shrill cry of real fear. "look! look there!" he cried. for a moment they all stopped rowing and gazed ahead. bearing down on them was a towering, walllike ridge of white, foamy waves. they were higher than their heads, even had the boys been standing upright in the boat. the mighty phalanx of water appeared to be rushing down on them with the purpose of engulfing them in its maw. "what is it?" gasped jack, cowering. "more whales!" shouted sandy. but it was something far worse than any creature of the deep. although they did not know it, the mighty waves that it appeared certain would presently engulf them, were caused by the tide-bore, the irresistible wall of water that twice each day sweeps down the east coast of kadiak between the islands that form what is virtually an inland channel. the mighty forces of the pacific tide and the japan current unite to make the titanic tide-rip which now threatened the boys. with blanched faces they watched its oncoming. escape was impossible. sandy covered his eyes and crouched in the bottom of the dory. jack shook with fear. tom alone kept a grip on his faculties. "get her round. let her head into the wave quartering, or we're goners!" he shouted. swirling and breaking and crying out with a thousand voices, the parapet of water marched down on the seemingly doomed boat. chapter xi. adrift on the ocean. the dory was a better sea boat than they had imagined. in a situation where a craft of another build would not have lived an instant, she succeeded in riding the first onslaught of the tide-bore. in another instant, tom and jack had her around with stern to the stampeding seas and were being borne swiftly along. alongside, a thousand angry, choppy waves reached up like hungry hands, as though determined to come on board and drag the craft to her doom. the manner in which the boat handled surprised and delighted tom, and jack was no less pleased. true their position was still a highly precarious one, but at least the watery grave they had dreaded had not yet engulfed them. sandy sat up in the bottom of the boat and looked about with wondering eyes. "we're all right the noo?" he asked. "i won't say that," rejoined tom, "but at least we have got over the first great danger." "what are we doing?" "riding along on the top of the tide-rip, for that's what it must be, and now i remember hearing of such a thing on this coast." "how long will it keep on, i wonder?" questioned sandy. "i don't know. i suppose till the tide is full or till we get out of the passage that we must be in." the others looked at him silently. "but this is a dandy boat," went on tom cheerily, plying his steering oar, for there was no need to row in that rushing current, "she rides like a chip." even a powerful steamer, if caught where the boys were, could have done little more than they were doing to meet the emergency. her only course would have been to run before the furious tide. the boys began to be resigned to their fortune. the fog seemed to lift occasionally now and then, shutting down, however, as densely as ever between the intervals of lighter weather. wild screams of sea birds that flew by like spirits of mist assailed their ears. now and then the herculean splash of a great dolphin feeding in the tide came close alongside and startled them smartly. true it was that they were still afloat and now appeared likely to remain so, but each moment was carrying them rapidly further from their friends and closer and closer to dangers whose nature they could only surmise. as sandy thought of all this, his fears began to return. his lip quivered. "i wish we'd never left the ship," he said at last. "that's a fine way to talk," spoke tom sternly. "when you're in a scrape the only thing to do is to try to get out of it as best you can." "that's the stuff," assented jack, "but if we only had something to eat, i'd feel a little better." "maybe there's something under that stern seat," suggested tom, indicating the place he meant. sandy raised the seat, which tilted back disclosing a locker, and gave a cry of delight. two tins of beef, some packages of crackers and a big pie reposed there. evidently bill rainier, the pilot, believed in carrying lunch with him when he went out in a fog. "jiminy crickets," roared jack, as one after another sandy held up the eatables, "just think, those have been there all this time! let's eat and forget our troubles." "better go slow," admonished tom, no less pleased, however, than the others at this unexpected good fortune. jack cut open the meat tins with his knife and they fell to eating as they discussed their situation. they made a good meal, not forgetting liberal portions of the pie. but the lack of water troubled them. crackers and salt beef with dried raisin pie do not make a lunch calculated to allay thirst. but they were in no mood to complain. the food alone heartened them wonderfully and put them in a mood to face their dilemma less despairingly. little by little the waves began to grow smaller. the current grew less swift. "we must have reached some place where the channel widens and the tide can spread out," observed tom, noticing this. "now if the fog would only lift, maybe we could get ashore some place." "let's try the oars again," suggested jack. "that's a fine idea if we only knew where to row to," rejoined tom. "i'm afraid we'll have to drift till the fog lifts. i've no more idea which way our course lies than the man in the moon." "same here. i'm all twisted up like a ball of yarn," admitted jack. although they had been afloat for such a long time, it was still daylight. at that time of year in those regions it is light almost all day long. this was a good thing, for if darkness had overtaken them they would doubtless have become even more alarmed than they were. for some time they drifted on, when all at once a sudden shift of the wind came. the fog was whipped into white ropy wreaths that drifted off like smoke. and there before them, not half a mile off, was a fair sized bay edged by rocky cliffs, but green and tree-grown close by the water. the blue bay, smooth and calm compared to the open sea, led back into the heart of a noble mountain panorama. beyond the coast hills were snow-covered peaks and inaccessible valleys. between the hills that formed the bay, the vegetation was plainly fresh and verdant. "hurray!" shouted jack, carried away by enthusiasm at the sight of land once more. tom checked him gently. "remember we have no idea where we are yet," he said. "this country is sparsely settled and we may have stumbled on some desert part of it." jack's face fell, and sandy, who had been about to share his rejoicing, remained silent. "can't you figure out what land this is?" asked jack. "i've not the remotest idea. i'm like you, all twisted up as to locality." "that bore gave us such a shaking up, i couldn't tell east from west," observed sandy. "at any rate, that land yonder is no illusion," declared tom cheerily. "come on, boys, get busy with the oars and we'll be ashore in no time." "i hope it is inhabited," said jack. "same here; but that remains to be seen. at any rate, judging by the green trees and grass there's water there from the mountains beyond. we can stop some place ashore and make camp." chapter xii. shifting for themselves. this was voted a good idea. as they drew closer to the shore the aspect of the little bay became more inviting. tom pointed to a strip of beach which bordered a rather deeper indentation on the edge of the inlet. "i guess that's the place for us to land," he said. "looks like there is water there and a good beach." wearily--for now that the strain of their wild ride on the tide-rip was over, they felt exhausted--wearily they pulled on the oars, moving the heavy dory slowly over the placid waters of the inlet. the sea, its force broken by an outcropping reef across the mouth of the miniature bay, broke gently on the shore, and it was an easy matter to make a landing. the dory was pulled as far up the beach as they in their tired state could manage, and its painter made fast to a stunted willow tree. the beach, bordered with trees and stunted shrubs, rose upward. they mounted it and found themselves on a yielding, marshy carpet of moss. it was the tundra of alaska. it would have made hard walking to cross it, but while they were pondering the advisability of doing so, tom made a discovery. "look! a path!" he exclaimed. "it runs right along here." he pointed to a beaten path, plainly enough made by human beings, leading along the top of the "sea-wall" between the tundra marsh and the beach. "there must be people here. somebody must have made it." "evidently, and look over there, that's the answer." tom had followed the path slightly in advance of the others. now he had come to a halt, pointing toward a singular structure at some little distance, toward which it was clear that the path led. the hut was shaped like a low beehive and appeared to be built of drift-wood and peat. "it's a native hut of some sort," declared jack, rather an alarmed look coming into his eyes. the boys' experience with aleuts had not inclined them to place much confidence in the natives, for it will be recalled that our heroes thought that their two boatmen had deliberately left them on the beach. "there's no smoke coming from it," said tom. "in that case, maybe it is deserted." "perhaps so. but we had better be careful." "that's right, after what we experienced from those two rascals of the pilot's, i'm taking no chances with these people." tom did not confide to his chums another bit of information that he had acquired concerning this part of alaska from the captain of the _northerner_. this was that in a part of the country in which they were cast away, the native tribes are ugly and vicious, never visiting a white settlement except when they must, and refusing to have any intercourse with caucasians. he had heard many tales of the bloodshed and theft attributed to these renegade natives, and as may be imagined, the thought that perhaps they had stumbled on a camp of them was not a pleasant one. however, tom said nothing for fear of unnecessarily scaring his companions. the landscape looked wild enough to form the dwelling place of any desperate natives who, for any reason, wished to evade the united states revenue cutters and missionary ships. but the need of water was imperative, and judging by the greater luxuriance of the trees and grass near the hut, there was water there. in fact, the presence of the hut in that site argued the existence of water near by. they watched the solitary structure for some minutes. but no sign of life appeared about it. seemingly, they were the only human beings for many miles in that wild country. "well, come on," said tom at length; "anything is better than enduring this thirst any longer, and i'm pretty sure there must be water yonder." they followed the path and soon found themselves on the threshold of the hut. its door, a clumsy contrivance, was ajar, and littered all about were fish bones, scales, and bones and remnants of animals. a rank odor assailed their nostrils, the true smell of an aleut settlement. tom strode boldly forward and was about to cross the threshold when something dashed out of the hut, making him jump back with an involuntary shout of alarm. for a minute he was sure they had been attacked by whoever dwelt within. his companions, too, echoed his cry, but the next instant they all burst out laughing. what had alarmed them so was a small red fox that had darted off like a flash. "that shows us no one is inside," chuckled tom, turning to his comrades. "i guess we've dispossessed the sole inhabitant." they crossed the threshold and found themselves in a low, smoke-begrimed structure with a dome-shaped roof. in the middle of the roof was a hole presumably for the smoke to escape, although soot hung thick on the rafters that supported the grass-sods, peat and earth that formed the covering of the rude dwelling. tom bent and examined a heap of ashes in the middle of the dirt floor under the hole. "nobody has been here for a long time," he declared, "except wild beasts." "i wonder who put it up?" inquired sandy. "trappers, maybe; but most likely aleuts," replied tom. "i've seen pictures of their huts and they are very like this one. i never thought we'd have to take up quarters in one, though." "hoot! d'ye think we'll have to stay here lang?" asked sandy. "impossible to tell," rejoined tom. "of course, as soon as they find we're gone they will start on a search for us; but unless they find those rascally aleuts they'll never know what became of us, unless they stumble on us accidentally." there was a brief but eloquent silence, which tom dispelled cheerily. "the first job is to look for water," said he. "let's explore a little." they left the hut, but before they went tom picked up an old tin pail that lay on the floor in a corner. he did not explain what he wanted this for. as he had expected, where the luxuriant growth flourished, was a stream which ran down crystal clear and cold as ice from the snow mountains to the sea. the sight of this made the boys forget all their troubles temporarily. they lay flat on their stomachs and drank to repletion. never had anything tasted half so good as the waters of that mountain stream. their thirst quenched, tom methodically filled his pail with water and then started back. "what are you going to do?" demanded jack in some astonishment. "clean out the hut and get ready for supper while you fellows catch some fish." "fish for supper? where?" demanded jack. "right in this creek. i saw them dart off when we came down, but they will soon be back." "how about hooks?" "i saw some in the bottom of the boat. and by turning over some of those stones, i guess you'll find some sort of things that will do for bait. hurry up now, boys, and while you're getting the tackle, bring the rest of the grub and the oars out of the boat." glad to be busy, the boys all hurried off on their tasks. when jack and sandy had brought the oars and tackle from the boat, they set off on their fishing expedition. long alder limbs broken off from the bushes that overhung the creek, served them for poles. under the rocks, as tom had surmised, they found fat, white grubs in abundance. the fish bit hungrily, for it was still early in the year. soon they each had a fine string. with lighter hearts, for now they had at least the essentials of existence, they set out on the return journey to the hut. when they got back, they found that tom had made a fire, using matches from his water-proof box, which none of the boys would have gone without. it crackled up cheerily. when he had a good bed of red coals, tom split the fish which the others had scaled and cleaned, and held them on sharpened sticks above the blaze till they were cooked. with crackers and the broiled fish they made a rough but sufficient meal. there was plenty of firewood in the hut and they made a roaring blaze, so that, lacking blankets as they did, they would not get cold. in a corner was a pile of sweet-scented dried grass, evidently used as beds by whoever had occupied the hut before them. on this they threw themselves down while the fire glowed cheerily, warming the hut comfortably since the door had been closed. despite the strangeness of their position on this wild, unknown coast, they were too weary to remain awake long. outside came occasionally the cry of a bird or the booming of the sea, but it all acted as a lullaby to the three tired boys. one by one their eyes closed and they dropped off into the deep, dreamless slumber of exhaustion. never, in fact, had they slept more profoundly and peaceably than they did in the smoky native hut on the wild shores upon which they had been so strangely cast away. chapter xiii. an island life. tom was awakened by the sun streaming down into his face. it came through the vent-hole in the roof. at first he could not recall for the life of him where he was, and for a time thought that the vent hole was the port hole of his cabin, oddly misplaced by some accident to the roof. but he soon realized all that had happened, and aroused the others, who at first were equally confused. "the steward has called for breakfast!" said tom laughing. "humph! and where is the breakfast coming from?" grunted sandy, looking at the remains of the fried fish and thinking of the scant store of crackers and tinned beef that remained. the others did not reply to this, and tom devoted himself to dressing. as he had taken off only his outer garments, this did not take long. shoving open the door he looked outside. "gee whiz, fellows, a dandy day!" he exclaimed. "clear as a bell and the sea is quite calm." in a few minutes the others joined tom at the door. they stood looking about a while, when suddenly a loud splash not far off made them all exclaim. "what was that?" asked jack. "don't know. sounded like somebody throwing a big rock into the water," was tom's reply. "it did, too," declared sandy. "hark! there it is again!" "it's down by the creek," announced tom. "i tell you what, fellows, it's fish!" "fish!" "surely. fish leaping. big ones, too, by the sound of them." two or three more splashes came while the boys were talking. they hurried down to the creek, and as they went they noted that a great cloud of crows and ravens were hovering above it. wondering greatly what all this could mean, they quickened their footsteps. arrived at the creek, they found the shallow sand bar between its mouth and the sea all aboil with confusion. masses of fish seemed to be trying to get from the sea into the creek. all at once a great fish eagle swooped down out of a cottonwood on the opposite side of the creek. it struck the water with a splash. there was a brief struggle and then the bird of prey shot upward again. in its talons it held a silver-scaled fish of large size. "well, he's going to breakfast all right," remarked jack ruefully. "my, what a whumping big fish!" "no wonder: it was a salmon," declared tom. "this must be the season when they rush up into the rivers to spawn." "look! there's lots of them wriggling about on the sand bar!" cried jack. "hookey! so there are. if only we could grab some of them we'd solve the breakfast problem in jig-time." all this time sandy had been quietly whittling a long stick to a sharp point. now he rushed suddenly forward, wading waist deep in the creek to the sand bar. half a dozen salmon lay wriggling there, their silvery scales flashing in the sun. sandy's arm holding the spear shot up and then descended, spearing one of the stranded fish. before he could strike again, the others had escaped and joined the rest of the "run" in their mad rush up the creek for their spawning grounds. with a cry of triumph sandy came ashore again and received the congratulations of his comrades. broiled salmon and the remainder of the crackers formed their breakfast, which they ate with much gusto. the food problem appeared to be solved by the salmon run and the other fish with which the creek abounded; but a bread supply offered a further puzzle. however, the boys did not worry much about this at the time. after breakfast they visited the dory and found everything all right with the boat. "i don't know that we'll be so badly off here for a time," said tom. "yes, but we can't stay here forever," objected jack gloomily. "oh, dinna fear but they'll find us oot," declared sandy hopefully. "what do you say if we hoist up a flag on the point yonder?" "that's a good idea," declared tom, "but in any event we won't stay here long. if no help comes before many days, we'll set out in the dory and keep along the coast till we reach some settlement where we can get into communication with our friends." the flag question bothered them sadly for a time, but it was solved by utilizing an old bit of canvas that was in the dory. with this they improvised a signal, affixing it to a tall limb of a tree which they had lopped off and anchored on the rocky point by piling stones about its base. they were coming back from this task, having vainly scanned the sea for a sail, when tom halted suddenly and pointed toward the hillside that sloped upward behind the hut. the others likewise came to a standstill at his sudden exclamation. among the bushes, which grew thickly on the lower part of the slope, some large animal was moving. a glimpse of a shaggy back could be seen and the bushes waved and swayed as some big body came lumbering through them. "what can it be?" wondered jack, round-eyed, gazing at the disturbance. the mystery was soon explained and in no very pleasant way. out into an open space there suddenly emerged the huge, clumsy form of an enormous bear. it was almost as big as a colt, and shaggy and ferocious looking. "o-o-oh!" cried sandy, his cheeks turning white. there was good reason for the boys to feel scared. the bears of kadiak island are the largest in the world. the specimen the boys were now gazing at with awestruck faces was a giant even among his own kind. "cracky!" cried jack. "that fellow could eat us all without salt. what'll we do?" "get back to the hut as soon as possible. we must make a detour to avoid him," decided tom quickly. "is he after us do you think?" asked sandy. "no, i guess he's come after salmon. see, he's heading for the creek." "wow! christmas!" yelled jack suddenly. "look, there come two more!" out of the brush from which the first bear had emerged there came two more shaggy, lumbering brutes. one was quite tiny, plainly a cub. the larger animal, which was a sort of yellowish-gray color, the boys guessed to be the little fellow's mother. it certainly was an exciting moment as, crouching behind a friendly patch of brier bushes, the boys watched the mother and cub join the head of the family. luckily the wind was blowing offshore, that is from the bears toward the boys. but, nevertheless, the great animals appeared suspicious. the mother stopped suddenly and sat up on her haunches. then she began swaying a huge head from side to side as if puzzled. but evidently her suspicions were lulled soon afterward, for after a few minutes in this attitude of listening, she dropped on all fours and the three bears began to advance once more. "now's our chance," declared tom as the bears vanished in the tall, thick growth between the hillside and the creek. the boys raced down the hill at top speed. they were between the bears and the sea, and it was their object to cross the creek and gain the hut on the further side before the bears sighted them. they made good time and reached the creek and crossed it, while the bears were still in the thick growth. they reached the hut and tom closed the door. then the boys exchanged blank glances. unless the bears went away they would be prisoners, for the hut was quite visible from the creek. tom found a peephole in the sod covering of the shack and peered through. then he beckoned to the others. the bears had reached the creek and were fishing. the old mother sat in midstream with her offspring beside her, while father bear was further up the creek on a sand bar. serious as their position was, the boys could hardly help laughing at the antics of the old bear and her cub. the cub was apparently learning to fish. and it was not an easy lesson. his mother proved a hard task mistress. the boys could see her long hairy paw swoop out in scoop fashion, land a fine salmon and throw it up on the bank. the cub wanted to start for the bank every time this was done. but the old lady would have none of this. every time it happened, she raised her huge paw and struck the cub a box on the ears that knocked him into the water. he would get up whining and crying pitifully and then try to fish on his own account. but his small paws failed to land the fish. all his efforts were failures. at last his mother appeared to relent. she waded ashore followed by master bruin, who was then allowed to regale himself on the pile of fish the old bear had landed. while both mother and son were eating greedily, up came the old father bear. he, apparently, was not much of a success at fishing. at any rate, with growls and blows he drove his wife and son away from their pile of fish and pitched into it himself. his blows must have had the force of a sledge hammer, for huge as she was, the mother bear reeled under them. "one of those blows would mean good-night to the strongest man that ever lived," declared tom. "and to think that if they don't go away we've got to stick in here, or run the risk of getting a dose of the same medicine or worse," groaned jack despairingly. "hoot, mon, we're nae sae safe even in here," put in sandy. "we're caught in a fine trap and yon bears hae the key." chapter xiv. the great bears of kadiak. this appeared to be only too true. the bears, so far as the boys could observe through their peephole, were thin and famished from the long winter they had spent in some cave back in the mountains, and intended probably to remain camped by the creek as long as the salmon were running. having finished his meal, the father bear lay down and rolled over in sleep, while the mother and cub set about catching some more fish, which they devoured. but instead of going to sleep as the boys hoped, the old mother kept herself on sentry duty. once or twice they caught her looking toward the hut. it caused an uncomfortable sensation to run through them. luckily they had a little water in the place, although none too much. at any rate it would not satisfy more than their immediate needs. for food there were a few crackers, the remains of the salmon that they had broiled for breakfast, a few fragments of tinned beef and that was all. the situation was about as serious as it could well be. all that afternoon they took turns watching the creek, awaiting an opportunity to sally forth after water. but the bears remained as if they meant to take up permanent quarters there. the question of how they were to make their escape began to be a serious one with the practically imprisoned boys. the door of the hut opened toward the creek and to attempt egress by that way would at once attract the attention of the monster bears, with what results the boys guessed only too well. so the afternoon hours dragged away. although tormented with thirst, the boys decided to refrain from drinking more than enough of the precious water to cool their mouths. from time to time one of them would relieve his comrade at the peephole. but the bears remained there as if firmly determined to stay. when the old mother bear took a snooze, either the cub or the largest of the bruins was on sentry duty. "if only we had some rifles," sighed tom. "this is a lesson to me as long as we are in this country, i'll never leave ship or camp again without a weapon of some sort." "wait till we get back to the ship or to a camp," scoffed jack; "it's my belief that we will be prisoners here till winter." "nonsense," said tom sharply. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, jack dacre, for talking like that. it's no use giving way to despair. maybe we'll hit on some way of getting out before long." "not unless those bears change their minds and go back to their happy mountain home," said jack positively. they sat in silence for a while. "if it would only get dark up here like it does in more southerly latitudes, we could take a chance on sneaking down to the dory and getting away to some other part of the coast," said tom at length. "couldn't we make it anyhow?" inquired sandy. tom shook his head. "i don't see how. the minute we came out of the hut one of the bears would be bound to see us and take after us. they can run mighty fast, too, in spite of their clumsy forms." another silence ensued. all the boys were thinking hard, from time to time approaching the peephole to watch the bears. "we might as well eat, i guess," said tom at length. the embers of the fire were still alive and fresh wood was piled on till there was a cheerful blaze. the boys warmed their salmon above it and fell to on what was the gloomiest meal they had ever eaten. in the middle of his supper, jack got up and went to the peephole. he turned from it with a face full of alarm. "the wind has carried the smoke down toward the bears and they are sniffing at it suspiciously," he announced. "maybe it'll drive 'em away," suggested sandy. "they're not mosquitoes," scoffed jack. "wow! they are coming this way, tom! what in the world shall we do now?" "sit tight. i don't know what else to do." "but suppose they claw down the door?" "in that case, our troubles will soon be over," was the brief reply. what jack had said was correct. the smoke drifting down on the bears had caused them to sniff suspiciously. hunters came to kadiak island frequently, and doubtless they knew that smoke betokened the presence of human beings. the big bear's fur bristled angrily. he gave a low growl, which was echoed by his mate. after sniffing and listening for a few seconds the great creatures, the most formidable foes the boys had ever encountered, began slowly to lumber up the slope from the creek toward the hut. that they did not advance hastily made their approach even more sinister in its effect. it was as if they were in no hurry to reach the hut, as though they realized that they could afford to take their time, their prey was so certain. the boys all realized, too, that when animals are accompanied by their young they are rendered three times as ferocious as on ordinary occasions. "maybe they'll sheer off after all," suggested tom hopefully. but his confidence was misplaced. the bears lumbered steadily forward till they were wading through the tall, half dry grass that grew almost up to the shack's sides. then the female and the cub stopped, and the big father bruin came on to investigate. for all the world like some huge dog, he began sniffing around the walls at the base of the oven-shaped structure. then, all at once, in an unlucky moment, he discovered the door. there was quite a big crack under it, and the boys watched with horror-struck eyes as the huge creature's sniffing and poking sent the dust on the floor of the place flying up in little clouds. then they heard a heavy body hurled against the door and the scratching of feet shod with claws as keen and sharp as steel chisels. it was a thrilling moment for all of them. jack and sandy in particular were badly scared. their faces blanched and their knees knocked. it hardly seemed possible that the door could survive the attack of the monstrous creature that assailed it. but although built of driftwood fastened together with old iron bolts and strips of skin, the portal held its own much better than might have been expected. it shook and trembled, but remained standing. after a while the bear appeared to tire of this method of attack and ceased. the boys breathed more easily. "perhaps he'll go away now," suggested jack. but a glimpse through the peephole showed that the bear had no intention of doing anything of the sort. with the stubbornness of his kind, he began pacing up and down in front of the hut, from time to time emitting a low growl. "looks as if he meant to keep up the campaign on these lines if it takes all summer," said tom with grim pleasantry. chapter xv. hemmed in. "we must get to the boat," said tom. "yes, but how?" questioned jack. "if only we'd gone to the boat at first instead of bolting in here, we'd have been safe the noo," spoke sandy. "that's obvious," agreed tom, "but having foolishly allowed ourselves to be bottled up, it's up to us now to devise some means of getting out." "well, we're all open for suggestions," struck in jack. "bother that smoke, it was that which brought the bears to the hut to investigate." "no question about that," agreed tom, "but i've just got an idea, fellows." "good, let's have it," chorused his young companions. "well, it is granted that we can't stay in here forever." "nor even for many more hours," supplemented jack. "very well. then it is up to us to take a chance on escaping, no matter how desperate the scheme may appear." "it's a case of life or death, it seems to me," said sandy soberly. "what's your plan?" asked jack impatiently. "just this. we must burn those bears out." "burn them out!" sandy and jack stared at the lad, who, by common consent, was their leader. "that is what i said. don't look at me as if i was crazy. this hut is surrounded almost up to its walls by semi-dry grass which ought to burn easily, isn't it?" "yes; but i don't see your drift," spoke jack. "we'll set the grass on fire. that will drive the bears off, and while they are on the run we can make our escape to the boat." "but the grass will burn all round the hut. how can we get out through the flames ourselves?" objected jack. "hold on a minute. wait till i explain. we can set the grass alight by throwing out some of the hot brands from our fire." "of course, that's easy," assented jack, and then with the air of somebody pronouncing an unanswerable question he went on: "but how are you going to get your burning embers outside? if you open the door, the bears will rush us at once." for answer tom indicated the hole in the top of the roof. "i must get up there and roll the blazing embers down the roof into the grass. then when it is on fire, we'll have to scramble out somehow, slip down to the boat before the fire surrounds the hut, and then row out to sea." "sounds delightfully easy," said jack rather sneeringly, for the plan did not appeal to him, "but in the first place, how are you going to get on the roof?" "the simplest part of it. this hut isn't more than seven feet, or so, high. you 'give me a back' and then i can reach the hole easily and boost myself through." "well, i admit that is possible, but after the fire is started, and supposing everything goes all right, how are sandy and i going to get up?" "sandy is the lightest. he will have to give you 'a back' and i'll haul you through somehow. then sandy must stand up, and together i guess we can hoist him through without much difficulty." jack shrugged his shoulders. sandy looked dubious. "i know it's a desperate chance," admitted tom, "but ours is a desperate situation. now then, let's lose no time in putting it into effect. if it fails, we can't be much worse off." "no, that is true enough, unless the hut burns down." "oh, the damp, thick sod that covers it wouldn't ignite as easily as all that," declared tom, who was waxing enthusiastic over his plan. jack got down on all fours and tom mounted on his back. he was able in this way, being a tall boy, to grasp the edges of the hole. this done he hoisted himself up with his muscular young arms, much as a lad "chins the bar." once up on the roof, he reached down into the hole for the firebrand, which it had been arranged that jack was to hand up. he had hardly grasped it when an angry growl from close at hand apprised him that the bears had perceived him. there was no time to be lost. raising a wild, blood-curdling yell that awoke the echoes of the cliffs, tom flung his firebrand down into the thick grass. almost instantly it ignited and a thick smoke curled up. the bears sniffed uneasily. any boy who has seen marsh land burned off in the spring knows how swiftly flames spread among dried grass and weeds. the herbage amidst which tom had flung the blazing bit of wood proved no exception. fanned by a brisk breeze it ran literally like wildfire among the dried grasses. luckily the wind was from the side of the hut in which tom was perched and blew toward the bears. as the flames swept down on them, they uttered loud snorts of terror and turned tail ingloriously. the mother bear, with her frightened cub, was the first to depart, and she stood not on the order of her going, but galloped off at top speed. the huge male bear lingered but a few minutes longer, then he, too, fled before the fiery terror which tom's clever strategem had kindled. "hooray, boys, they're on the run!" shouted tom, unable to restrain his enthusiasm. he swung down his arms and dragged up jack without much difficulty. then came sandy's turn. they had just hauled the scotch lad to the roof, however, when an alarming thing occurred. the covering of the aleut hut had not been built to withstand any such strain as the weight of the three lads now perched upon it. without warning, save for a sharp crack, it suddenly sagged. "look out! it's caving in!" roared tom. "cracky, so it is!" echoed jack as he felt the sod roof begin to sink under them. "roll!" shouted tom. "roll down it!" he seized sandy, who appeared to be paralyzed from alarm, and gave him a shove. down the roof rolled the scotch lad, landing in a heap on the ground, shaken and bruised, but not otherwise injured. close behind him came tom and jack. behind them the roof fell in with a roar, leaving a big gaping cavity. but the boys had no time to notice this just then. scrambling to their feet they dashed off toward the beach where the dory lay. the flames almost reached them as they left the hut. but looking back tom saw something worse than the flames pursuing them. they could easily distance the blazing grass and that gave him no alarm. but what did cause his heart to stand still for an instant and then resume beating furiously was the sight of the bears. they had rallied from their fright and perceived the escape of the boys. now, skirting the flames by outflanking them, they were lumbering toward the fugitives at a speed that would not have been thought possible in such bulky creatures. chapter xvi. uncertainty. "run! run for your lives! run!" tom panted out the words as he pointed behind them. the others saw almost as soon as he, and quickened their pace, though they had been running almost at their top speed before. there was a reason for tom's thus urging them to hurry, although they had a good start of the bears. the tide, as he had seen, was low. the dory lay at some distance from the water. that the craft was a heavy one he knew, and it was likely that it might take some time for them to get her to the water's edge. in the circumstances even a brief delay was a thing to be avoided, and it was important that they should gain every second that they could. they reached the boat and seized hold of her on either side. but although the beach was hard and sloping, it was terribly slow work to drag the heavy craft along. tom spied some dead limbs lying below a cottonwood tree and they used these as rollers, after which their progress was swifter. but just as they reached the water's edge the bears were upon them. one good shove and they were knee deep in the water. "she's afloat!" cried jack gleefully. he sprang into the boat. sandy was not a minute behind him. but tom's foot caught on a boulder as he shoved off the bow, and he fell headlong into the water. as he fell, he was conscious of a hot breath and a deafening roar almost in his very ear. then he heard something crash downward with a dull thud, followed by a scream of pain. the next instant jack had him in a strong grip and pulled him on board the dory. sandy plied the oars furiously. in a few moments more they were out of danger and jack was telling tom how, just as the big bear prepared to seize him, following his unlucky stumble, it had come into his, jack's, head like a flash of inspiration that in the grapple that lay in the bottom of the boat was a weapon that could be utilized against the monster. he had snatched it up and whirled it around his head for an instant, and then let the weighty mud-hook, with its sharp points, come crashing down on the bear's head. one of the points had wounded the creature too badly for it to give its attention to anything but a gaping cut for the next few seconds, during which the dory had been rowed far out of reach of the big bears of kadiak with which the boys had had such a thrilling encounter. "well, where away?" asked sandy, as they gazed back at the shore. on the beach stood the three bears, while beyond them the smoke of the fire they had kindled towered high into the sky in a wavering pillar. [illustration: he let the weighty mud-hook ... come crashing down on the bear's head.--_page 154._] "we'll pull right along the shore," decided tom after a moment's thought, "we may fall in with some ship, or at any rate a native canoe." accordingly the oars were manned and the dory rowed along the coast, while the boys all kept a sharp lookout to seaward for any sign of a vessel. "there's one good thing," said tom presently; "the smoke from that fire would attract the attention of anyone who might be in the neighborhood and lead them to make inquiries." "yes, but there's not a vessel in sight," objected jack. "never mind. that smoke must be visible at a great distance. i don't doubt that the _northerner_ is out hunting for us and they would not be likely to neglect such a clue as that smoke column will afford." "i think you're right there," agreed jack, "but they may have started the search in another direction." "that is a chance we shall have to take." the brief darkness of the alaskan night fell without a single sign of a ship being detected on the lonely ocean. thoroughly disheartened, hungry and half crazy from thirst, the boys rowed on till tom ordered jack and sandy to take some sleep. they obeyed and were soon wrapped in deep slumber. tom allowed the dory to drift. rowing only increased his thirst, and in any event could not accomplish much good. they would have rowed ashore long before and searched for water, but the land off to their right was a frowning escarpment of rugged cliff which offered no hope of water. the boy found himself wishing that they had had the foresight to stock up the dory in case of their leaving the cove hurriedly; but it was too late for such regrets now. tom caught himself dropping off to sleep. he dozed half awake and half in the land of nod for some time. how long it was he did not know, but he was suddenly awakened by a harsh shout that appeared to come from the air above him. "hard over your helm! it's a boat!" "where away!" "right under our bow! sheer off! hard over!" tom sprang to his feet, broad awake in an instant. right above, like an immense black cliff, towered the bow of a steamer. he could see the bright running lights shining like jewels. "jack! sandy!" he bawled out. "get up! they'll run us down!" the huge black bulk of the strange craft did, indeed, appear as if it must inevitably cut the drifting dory in two. but the outcry of the bow watch had come in time. just as jack and sandy sprang up and tom was thinking that everything was over, the great bow swung off. the steamer rushed by so close that tom could almost have touched her with his hand. "ahoy!" roared a voice from the bridge. "what boat is that?" "it's a native canoe," came another voice. "not on your life it isn't," yelled tom. "this is an unofficial exploring expedition and----" "tom dacre!" bellowed a voice from the bridge. "ahoy, uncle!" hailed back tom, who had caught the word _northerner_ on the steamer's bow as she was swinging by. "tom, is it you? are you all right?" there was a ring in mr. dacre's tone that showed how he had suffered since the strange disappearance of his nephews and their chum. "we never were better in our lives," cried tom, deftly catching a rope that came snaking down as the steamer's speed diminished. "but how in the world did you come to run across us? talk about a needle in a haystack!" "never mind the details now, my boy. come on board at once. i can hardly wait till i see you." not many minutes later, in the comfortable cabin of the _northerner_, tom, jack and sandy, ragged and begrimed, were telling, between intervals of eating and drinking, the tale of their strange adventures since they were lost in the fog. when they had concluded the tale, tom inquired of his uncle how it was that he had so miraculously found them. "if you hadn't almost run us down we'd never have seen you," tom continued, "for i was too sleepy to keep my eyes open." mr. dacre's story was soon told. the two aleuts who had apparently deserted the boys had really come back from the village with food. they were terrified when they found the boys and the dory gone, for they knew that it was time for the daily tide-bore to sweep through the straits. getting a native canoe, they made their way to kadiak, sought out mr. dacre and told him what had happened. the _northerner_ was at once put in commission for the hunt, although mr. dacre confessed that he had had a dreadful fear, not unshared by mr. chillingworth and the captain, that the boys had been caught in the tidal bore and lost. from the captain's knowledge of the coast, they had been able to make a fairly intelligent search. just before the brief darkness closed in that night they had made out a column of smoke rising on the horizon, and more as a forlorn hope than anything else, had made toward it, hoping against hope that it had been kindled by the young castaways. "and so it was," laughed tom happily, his hand finding his uncle's. "after all, maybe those bears were a blessing in disguise. if it hadn't been for them, we wouldn't have lighted that fire, and if it hadn't been for the fire, you'd like as not never have found us." chapter xvii. the "yukon rover." some weeks later there steamed away from the wharf side at st. michaels, a small, stern-wheeled craft of light draught. so light was it, in fact, that the loungers on the dock who watched its departure declared that it would be possible to navigate it on a heavy dew. it bore the name _yukon rover_, and was painted white with a single black smoke-stack. as it drew away from the dock, it blew a salute of three whistles which was answered by a fair-sized steamer lying in the roads. as our readers will have guessed, the _yukon rover_ was the portable steam craft which had been shipped north to the yukon on the deck of the _northerner_, which latter was the vessel that replied to the small craft's farewell. the _northerner_ was to return to seattle, carrying down what cargo she could pick up, and come back late in the year with a cargo for the needs of the country during the rigid alaskan winter, when little can be shipped. in this way mr. dacre and mr. chillingworth hoped to make their venture additionally profitable. on the bow of the small light-draught craft was a strange ornament. this figure-head, if such it can be called, was nothing more nor less than the figure of a buck-toothed man roughly carved out of wood and daubed with faded paint. in a word, it was sandy mactavish's mascot, now assigned to duty on the small craft which was to carry the adventurers up the turbulent currents of the mighty yukon. as to the _yukon rover's_ mission, there was much speculation in st. michaels concerning it. but the consensus of opinion was that the two gentlemen and the boys were going on a scientific expedition of some sort. the "bug hunters" was the name bestowed upon them in the far northern town from whence embarkation for the mouth of the yukon was made. this suited mr. dacre and his partner well enough, as they had no wish for the real object of their expedition to become known. the hunters and trappers of the far north are a jealous, vindictive lot when they imagine that what they consider their inalienable rights to the fur and feather of the land are being invaded by outsiders. both gentlemen knew that if any suspicion of the real object of their voyage leaked out, much trouble might be made for them, although it was still rather early in the year for any trappers to be going "inside," as penetrating into the interior of alaska is called. a shed near the waterfront had been rented and ways constructed, and here the _yukon rover_ had been rapidly put together by the engineers from the _northerner_. but on her trip up the river the boys were to act as machinists and stokers, and as the _yukon rover's_ machinery was simple enough, this was a delightful and interesting task to them. like most healthy, normal boys, our young friends liked to tinker with machinery, and they had had plenty of instruction in their new duties on the trial trips of the stern-wheeler. tom, who had been relieved at the engines by jack, while sandy attended to stoking the small boiler, adapted to either wood or coal burning, came on deck and surveyed the scene they were leaving behind them. astern was st. michael, lying on the island which bears its name and which is separated from the mainland by a shallow strip of water known as st. michael's slough. the town was uninteresting and he was not sorry to leave it, a feeling that his two chums fully shared. the white houses, the spire of the old russian church and the odd-looking fort, half ruinous, which stood near the alaska trading company's hotel, were the most conspicuous features of the dull, drab town. there was hardly a tree on the island, and fuel was in the main supplied by the timber which in flood time drifted down the yukon from the interior in great quantities and was washed up on the beach or secured in boats. "good-by, st. michael, and ho, for the yukon!" thought tom, as turning his face in the other direction, he gazed forward. the _yukon rover_ was ploughing along at about eight knots an hour. black smoke pouring from her stack showed that sandy was keeping up his furnace faithfully. forward of the bow-like structure which contained sleeping and eating accommodations, was a miniature pilot house. in this was mr. dacre at the wheel, while beside him mr. chillingworth was poring over charts of the treacherous sandy delta that marks the junction of the yukon and the sea. the course was southwest, along a flat, dreary-looking coast that afforded nothing much worthy of notice. since their memorable adventures at kadiak, life had moved dully for the excitement-loving bungalow boys. tom found himself hoping that now that their voyage for the yukon had fairly begun, they would find some lively times. how near at hand these were and how lively they were to be, he did not dream as the _yukon rover_, rolling slightly in the swell, made her way toward the "golden river." jack joined his brother on deck. "everything running smoothly?" asked tom. "smooth as silk," declared jack. "say, isn't it fine to be under way again after sticking around st. michael like bumps on a log?" "i should say so. i have a notion that we are going to have some fun, too, before we get through." "same here. well, i'm ready for whatever happens, short of another tidal bore. one was quite enough for me." that afternoon they came in sight of the northern mouth of the yukon, by which they were to enter the stream. it required skillful steering to guide the _yukon rover_ through the maze of sand bars and shoals that encompassed her, and they had not gone far between the low, marshy shores when mr. dacre gave a hail from the pilot house through the speaking tube that connected the steering compartment with the engine-room. "leave your engines a while to sandy's care," he ordered jack, who answered the hail, "and come on deck." tom and jack lost no time in obeying the summons, and found that they were required to manipulate the big poles, with which it was necessary to help guide the small steamer against the stiff current. it was hard work, even with the aid of mr. chillingworth, to keep the _yukon rover_ on her course, but from time to time the stream widened out and became deeper and they got a short respite. toward dusk they passed a native canoe or bidarka, a narrow-beamed, cranky craft of walrus skins stretched over frames. in it sat two high-cheek-boned natives with slanting eyes, bearing remarkable resemblances to the inhabitants of japan. the small, cranky craft shot swiftly past and was followed, round a bend in the river, by three more. the natives appeared not to pay much attention to the steamer, although the boys shouted and hulloed in salute as they passed. a short time after passing the natives, jack announced that the engine, a new one, was heating up badly and that it would be necessary to stop and make a thorough inspection of the machinery. accordingly, the _yukon rover_ was tied to the bank and preparations made for a somewhat lengthy stop. flocks of wild geese and other birds could be seen settling down above the flat country surrounding them, and the boys begged permission to go out with their guns. that is, tom and sandy did. jack was too busy on his engines to spare the time. the notion of a hunting trip to kill time till supper was voted a good one, and mr. dacre and mr. chillingworth decided to accompany the boys. full of high spirits, the party struck off across the tundra, leaving jack hard at work on the machinery. they had been gone perhaps an hour when the boy was surprised to hear a step in the engine-room. he looked up quickly, thinking that possibly it was his friends returning, but instead, facing him, he saw the yellow face and skin-clad figure of one of the natives who had passed them in the canoes. jack possessed a mind that worked quickly. a notion shot into his head that the fellow was there on mischief bent, and certainly the startled way in which he regarded the boy supported that suspicion. it was plain that the native had not expected to find anyone on board the _yukon rover_, and that he and his companions, some of whom now swarmed into the engine-room, had imagined, from the fact that they had seen the hunting party, that the craft was deserted by all hands. this being the case, they had returned to see what they could find in the way of small plunder. jack recalled having heard at st. michaels that the natives of the yukon are notorious small thieves and he at once decided that knavery was the purpose of their visit. he stood up, monkey-wrench in hand, and facing the first arrival, who seemed to be the leader, he demanded of him what he wanted. the man appeared not to understand him. it was at this instant that jack noticed that under the arms of the other natives were cans of provisions and other small articles plainly pilfered from the store-room of the steamer. the boy was in a quandary for a moment. there were six of the natives and he was alone on the boat. doubtless, too, the hunting party was out of ear-shot. it was an anxious moment for the boy as he stood there facing the pilfering natives and undecided how to act. but the next moment there came to him that indignation which everyone feels when marauders intrude upon his possessions. "hey, you! what do you mean by stealing those things?" demanded jack, indicating the cans and other articles which the natives had tucked under their arms. the chief broke silence with what was meant for a friendly grin. "me good mans! all good mans!" he said. "humph! well, that being the case, it's funny you should come aboard here when you thought no one was about and steal our food." "you give us. we good mens," said the chief, with unruffled amiability. "we might have been willing to do that if you hadn't helped yourselves," said jack indignantly, "but under the circumstances you'll have to put those things back and get off this boat." unquestionably the chief did not understand all of this speech, but part of it was within his comprehension for he said: "no, no; you give us." "not on your life," declared jack, coming forward wrench in hand. now, whether the chief interpreted this move into a hostile signal or not cannot be decided, but it is certain that he uttered some quick, guttural words to his followers and instantly all sorts of weapons appeared as if by magic--rifles, harpoons and nogocks, or whale-killing weapons. things began to look grave. but jack held his ground. he looked the chief right between the eyes and then spoke slowly, giving every word due emphasis. "you give back all you take. we, uncle sam's men. understand?" this remark appeared to give the chief ground for reflection, for he hesitated an instant before replying. but when he did, it was in an irritated voice. "you no give 'um,--we take." so saying, the natives backed slowly out of the engine-room, which was flush with the deck. jack, completely taken aback, hesitated for a moment, which gave the men time to clamber over the low sides of the _yukon rover_ and into their bidarkas. as jack emerged on deck, they started paddling swiftly off. jack bounded into his cabin and came back with a rifle. he had no intention of shooting the men, but he wanted to give them a good scare. he had hardly raised the weapon to his shoulder before he saw the chief rise up in his wabbly skin boat and whirl his nogock. from the weapon there flew, much as a stone is projected from a sling, a sharp-barbed dart of steel. the boy by some instinct dodged swiftly, and the barbed dart whistled by his ear and sank into the woodwork of the deck-house. in his indignation, he discharged the rifle. the bullet must have gone uncomfortably close to the natives, although he did not aim it at them, for they fell to their paddles with feverish energy and vanished around a bend in the stream, working furiously to get out of range. "well," remarked jack to himself, "our adventures are surely beginning without losing any time over it." chapter xviii. an encounter with the natives. jack hastened to the store-room and found that the wily natives in their soft-soled skin shoes had wrought great havoc there, while he, all unconsciously in the engine-room, was working without dreaming that there were unwelcome visitors on board. the _yukon rover_ was well stocked with food and there were settlements up the river where the raided stock could be replenished, but it annoyed the boy to think that the plundering rascals had had such an easy time in absconding with what they had abstracted from the steamer's larder. "it's a lesson to keep a sharp lookout," thought the boy to himself. "in future we'll keep all bidarkas at long range unless they can give an account of themselves." the boy went back to his work, but this time with a rifle beside him. he was still at his task when he heard voices. "cracky! it's those rascals coming back, i'll bet a doughnut," he exclaimed to himself excitedly. with hands that shook a little, he picked up the rifle and prepared to give them a warm reception. as he was stepping out on deck, he collided with a figure just entering the engine-room door. "stop right where you are or i'll fire!" he cried out in a loud tone. "what's the matter with you, jack, are you crazy?" cried a voice that he instantly recognized as tom's. his relief was great, and as the hunting party, laden with three geese, some ducks and shore birds, came into the deck-house, explanations ensued. it appeared that the hunting party had been almost as much alarmed as jack, for they had heard the report of his rifle and had hastened back at once without lingering at their sport. naturally jack's tale of the occurrences during their absence aroused a good deal of indignation. mr. chillingworth, however, said he was not surprised. the yukon indians are great thieves, and it is necessary to be on constant watch against them. he was astonished, though, at jack's story of the dart from the _nogock_. "these indians don't usually resort to anything like that," he said. "that old chief must be what the police in the yukon country call a 'bad one.' i suppose he saw that only a boy opposed him and his men, and he intended to give you a good scare." "well, he succeeded all right," declared jack, with conviction, "but i guess i managed to give him as good as he gave me. the way those bidarkas shot around that bend was a caution." "do you think there is any chance of their coming back again?" asked tom. "because if there is, we might give them a warm reception." "i hardly think they'll return," said mr. dacre. "they were probably on their way to st. michaels. that raid on our store-room must have been a wind-fall for them." "hoot! i'd take a wind-fall oot of them if i had my way," grunted sandy. "can't we take the dinghy" (for the _rover_ carried a small boat), "and get after them?" "they are probably miles away by this time," said mr. chillingworth. "i guess the shot that jack fired after them gave them considerable to think about. i doubt if they'll be in a hurry to attack another boat." supper, cooked on a gasolene stove in a small galley by tom and jack, who were quite expert as cooks, was served in the large cabin which did duty as both living and dining room. jack announced that his engines were once more in a1 shape, but it was decided that as they were all tired it would be better to remain where they were for the night. by this time the boys had become quite used to going to bed by daylight, although at first it had been a very odd sensation. they were soon asleep, and their elders, after discussing the prospects of the trip for some little time longer, followed the lads' example and sought their cabins. before long the _yukon rover_ was wrapped in slumber and silence, only the swift ripple of the current, as it ran by, breaking the stillness. it was tom who first opened his eyes with the indefinable but distinct idea that something was wrong. it was almost dark, so he knew that it must be after midnight. what the trouble he vaguely guessed at could be, he was at an utter loss to determine, but the feeling was so strong that he slipped on some clothes and emerged on deck. he looked about him for a minute and almost decided that he had been the victim of one of those transient impressions that often come to those abruptly awakened from sleep. but almost simultaneously with this idea the truth broke sharply upon him like a thunderclap. "uncle!" he shouted. "boys! wake up! we are drifting down stream!" the others were awake in an instant, and in all sorts of costumes they crowded out on deck. jack carried a rifle under the impression that they had been attacked. "what's the matter?" "is it the natives again?" "are we attacked?" these and half a dozen other questions assailed tom's ears before he was enabled to point out the true state of affairs. "we are drifting rapidly down the stream," he said. "we must be far from where we tied up." this was unquestionably the truth. the _yukon rover_ was not only drifting on the swift current, but was near the middle of the stream where the tide was more rapid than at the sides. in the deep twilight, which is the far northern night, they could see the low-lying banks slipping by like a moving panorama. the profound stillness rendered the scene still more impressive as the alarmed party stood thunderstruck on the deck of the castaway steamer. "what can have happened?" demanded jack. "perhaps the mooring rope broke," suggested sandy. "not likely. it was a brand new one of the best manilla," declared mr. dacre. "there is more in this than appears." "the first thing to do is to get out an anchor before we drift down on a sand-bar," said mr. chillingworth. "yes, it's a miracle we haven't struck one already," agreed mr. dacre. the boys hustled off to get overboard the heavy spare anchor that the drifting steamer carried on her bow. but as the splash that announced that it was in the stream came to their ears and the rope began to tauten, there was a heavy shock that almost threw them all off their feet. "let out more rope!" cried tom, thinking that the sudden tautening of the anchor rope had caused the shock. "no need to do that," said mr. dacre, "we are anchored hard and fast." "where?" "on a sand-bar." chapter xix. hard ashore. it was at this juncture that tom came aft with a rope trailing in his hand. it was the original rope. he had drawn it aboard when he discovered it dangling from the mooring bitts into the water. "look at this rope," he cried excitedly. "it was no accident that we went adrift." "what do you mean?" asked mr. dacre. "that it was cut." "cut?" "yes." "how do you know that?" "all the rope is not here. if it had slipped from the anchor we cast ashore among the rushes, or if the anchor had slipped, it would be." "perhaps some animal chewed it." "we'll soon see that. who's got a match?" tom struck a lucifer. as it flared up, mr. dacre took the end of the rope in his hand. a single glance sufficed. the rope had been severed so cleanly that there was no question that it had been done by a sharp knife. no animal's teeth could have made that neat, clean incision. "well, what do you think of that?" demanded tom. "who could hae done it?" wondered sandy. "i know." jack interjected the remark with confidence. "who?" "those natives. that bunch that raided our pantry." "by jove, boy, i believe you are right," declared mr. chillingworth. "it would be just like one of their tricks." "well, here we are, stuck hard and fast," said mr. dacre. "i suppose those natives would feel highly gratified if they could see our predicament." "i guess we ought to be glad that they didn't set the boat on fire," commented jack indignantly. "i'd like to have a brief interview with them." as an examination showed that the _yukon rover_ was in no particular danger, it was decided to wait till daylight before trying to get her off the bar. in the meantime, sandy went below and began getting up steam, for he had banked his fires during the sleeping period. the others discussed the situation. it was plain that they had drifted some distance, though how far they had, of course, no means of estimating. although no actual harm had been done, they naturally felt incensed against the natives, who they were certain had played the scurvy trick on them. had the wily old chief and his followers happened along just then, they would have met with a warm reception. perhaps it was just as well that they did not. after hot coffee had been served out, all hands went to work with a will to release the steamer from her sandy bed. but this proved to be no easy task. it had been hoped that she could be got off under her own power by dint of utilizing the stern wheel. but the blades of the wheel were stuck in the sand, and to have tried to work them might have crippled the ship permanently. another plan, therefore, was adopted. the boys got out the small boat and taking the anchor on board carried it some distance up the stream. then they returned to the ship and began heaving with might and main on the cable, using the small capstan to do this. a cheer went up when, after about half an hour of back-breaking work, they felt the _yukon rover_ give a quiver and move about an inch. "hurrah, boys! keep it up! we'll soon be afloat!" cried tom cheerfully. sure enough, as they worked they got the vessel further and further off the sand-bank and at last had the satisfaction of feeling her floating free. as soon as this happened, the engine was started and the steamer began bucking the current once more. the anchor was hoisted as the _yukon rover_ came "up on it" and the voyage, which had been so mischievously interrupted, was resumed with great cheerfulness. about ten miles up the river they came to the spot where they had anchored the night before. the steamer was stopped and the boys went ashore to investigate. on the banks were the tell-tale marks of the keels of the bidarkas and numerous footmarks around them. the anchor was found undisturbed, with about ten feet of rope attached to it, and was brought back on board. the resumption of the journey found them still traversing much the same kind of country as that they had hitherto steamed through. low banks, thickly grown with alders and other water-loving trees, islands covered with willows, sand-bars and sluggish, outbranching sloughs innumerable. these willow islands formed troublesome obstructions to navigation. but the outcropping willows at least served one useful purpose. they indicated the presence of sand-bars which, in some instances, lay several feet beneath the surface of water at the high stage of the river. it was not till some days later, during which time they had steadily bucked the current, only tying up for sleep, that the character of the scenery began to change and the boys felt that they were really getting into a wild country at last. the flat banks and occasional small towns with remnants of russian forts and occupancy about them, had been left behind. now the banks shot up steeply above the swift current, and the _yukon rover_ was called upon to test her power against the full strength of the stream. one night,--of course, it was not dark, but "rest time,"--the travelers tied up on the north bank of the stream under a particularly precipitous mass of cliff. it towered above them like the side wall of a skyscraper. mr. dacre, who examined it, declared that it had once been a glacier, and there were still traces of glacial action visible upon it. the ground thereabouts was also rich in fossils and the boys obtained permission to go ashore and collect a few of these last. they set off in high spirits, landing by the long gangplank which the _yukon rover_ carried for such purposes. shouting and laughing they made their way up through the woods till they had clambered to quite a height. all their pockets were bulging with specimens of rock formation, many of them very curious. "let's go over to the edge of that glacier," said sandy, "and hae a look doon on the river. it must be a grand sight." nothing loath, they struck off over the rough ground under the larch and pine trees, and soon found themselves at the edge of the sharp acclivity, which had been ground almost to the smoothness of a board by a mighty glacier centuries before. they had not climbed so far above the river as they had imagined from the laboriousness of the ascent. in fact, they were surprised to find that far from being at the top of the glacier, hundreds of feet of its extent still towered above them. below lay the _yukon rover_ tied to the bank, with the smoke wisping lazily from her funnel. mr. dacre and his partner sat out on deck reading. it was a peaceful scene, the silence broken only by the voice of the river as its mighty current hastened down to the sea. all at once though, the calm of the scene was rudely scattered by a loud yell from sandy. the scotch lad had been amusing himself by throwing rocks down the smooth incline of the glacier, which sloped right down into the river, and watching them vanish in the current. in the course of this amusement he had climbed up on the edge of the treacherously smooth rock chute, which was practically what it was. "look out there, sandy!" warned tom, knowing the boy's remarkable faculty for getting into trouble. "hoot toot! dinna fash yersel' aboot me," returned sandy easily, and set another rock rolling and bounding down the glacier. as if in bravado, he clambered right up on the smooth cliff before his companions could check him. but at that instant his foot caught on a rock and he stumbled and fell. tom jumped forward to save him, but the lad's clothes tore from his grasp, as sandy shot downward at a terrific speed, at the same time emitting a wild shriek of terror. at the same instant his cry was echoed by jack, for tom, who had in vain sought to save his chum, now shared sandy's misfortune and went chuting downward to the river on the smooth rock chute at lightning speed. "help!" cried jack, as if human aid could accomplish anything, "help! they'll both be killed." "ki-i-i-i-i-l-l-e-d!" flung back the mocking echoes from the cliffs. chapter xx. down the glacier. sandy's wild shout of alarm caused the gentlemen on the deck of the _yukon rover_ to start up in affright. they looked above them and what they saw was sufficiently alarming. two boys, rolling and tumbling down the smooth rock slope, bound straight for the river! so swiftly did it all happen that they had hardly time to realize the catastrophe that had overtaken the boys, before the two victims of this double disaster struck the water with a splash and vanished from view. "quick, chillingworth! the life preservers!" cried mr. dacre running to where they were kept. he flung all he could lay his hands on far out toward the spot where the glacier dipped into the water. in another instant, to the unspeakable relief of both men, they saw two heads come to the surface. but on sandy's head was a broad cut, and though he struck out toward the nearest life preserver, his efforts were feeble. it was evident that he had been injured in his fall, but how badly, of course, they could not tell. tom was striking out with strong, swift movements. he had seized one of the life preservers, when he perceived sandy's plight. instantly dropping the ring, he struck out for the scotch lad. just as he reached his chum's side, the rushing current caught both boys in its grip and hurtled them out toward the middle of the stream. so swiftly did it run that, despite tom's strong strokes, he could not gain an inch on the body of his chum, which was being borne like something inanimate down the stream. the gentlemen on the deck of the _yukon rover_ watched this scene with fascinated horror. powerless to aid, all they could do was to watch the outcome of this drama. in the meantime, jack, pale with fright, was coming down the steep cliffside in leaps and bounds. he had not seen his brother and his comrade rise and did not know but that they had not reappeared at all. tom felt the current grip him like a giant's embrace. he had been partially stunned by the swiftness of his flight down the steep, precipitous glacier, but the plunge into the cold waters of the river had revived him. when he had risen to the surface after his plunge, he was in full possession of all his faculties. to his delight he was not injured, and almost the first thing he saw near him was sandy's head. as we know, he struck out for it, only to have his chum snatched almost out of his very arms by the mighty sweep of the current. like those on the steamboat, he had seen the cut over sandy's eye and knew that he was injured. this made tom all the more feverishly anxious to catch up with him, for although sandy was a strong and good swimmer and had plenty of presence of mind in the water, if he was seriously hurt it was not probable he could stay long above the surface. but tom speedily found that, try as he would, he could make no gain on his chum. he heard sandy cry out despairingly as the current swept him round a bend. the next instant tom realized that not far below them lay some cruel rapids which the _yukon rover_ had bucked that afternoon with the greatest difficulty. he knew that if something didn't happen before they got into the grip of that boiling, seething mass of water, their doom was sealed. he almost fancied as he drifted along, allowing the current to carry him and saving his strength for the struggle he knew must come, that he could already hear the roaring voice of the rapids and see the white water whipping among the jagged black rocks, contact with which would mean death. it was at this instant that he spied something that gave him a gleam of hope. right ahead of them there loomed up a possible chance that he had forgotten. it was one of those willowy islets that have been mentioned as dotting the yukon for almost its entire length. if he could but gain that, if some lucky sweep of the current would but carry sandy in among the trees, both their lives might be saved. and now the river played one of those freaks that rapidly running streams containing a great volume of water frequently do. sandy's body was swept off into a sort of side eddy, while tom felt himself seized by an irresistible force and rushed forward in the grip of the tide as it roared down to the rapids. horror at his utter incapacity to stem it or to do aught but yield to the rush of the stream, rendered him almost senseless for an instant. in his imagination his body was already being battered in the rapids and flung hither and thither in the boiling whirlpools. but suddenly an abrupt collision that almost knocked the breath out of his body gave him something else to think of. twigs brushed and scratched his face and he was held fast by branches. with a swift throb of thankfulness he realized the next instant that the impossible had happened. a vagary of the current had swung him into the midst of the willow island and he was anchored safely in the branches of one of the trees. but he gave himself little time to think over this. his thoughts were of sandy. where was the scotch boy? had he been swept on down the river to the rapids or had he sunk? hardly had these questions time to flash through his mind, when he gave a gasp and felt his heart leap. coming toward him, and not more than a few feet away, was a dark object that he knew to be sandy's head. the next instant he saw the boy's appealing eyes. sandy had seen him, too, as the same current that had caught tom in its embrace hurtled his chum down the river. "tom!" he cried. "tom!" tom made no reply. it was no time for words. he quickly judged with his eye the spot where sandy must be borne by him, and clambered out upon a branch overhanging the water. his object was to save his chum, but it must be confessed that his chances of doing so looked precarious. the limb upon which he had climbed was, in the first place, not a branch in which much confidence could be consistently placed. it was to all appearances rotten, although it bore his weight. but it was no time to weigh chances. the stream was bearing sandy down upon the willow island, and tom realized that, unless the boy was carried into the midst of the clump as he had been, he would hardly have strength enough left to grab a projecting branch and thus save himself from the grip of the river. he had hardly made up his mind to the plan he would pursue when sandy was right upon him. but he was further out than tom had calculated. however, tom had anticipated this possibility and throwing himself flat on the limb, he twisted his legs around it and reached out, with an inward prayer that he might be successful in the struggle that was to ensue between himself and the mighty yukon. as sandy shot by, tom's arms enveloped him. the pull of the current was stronger than he thought, but he held on for dear life, his face almost touching the rushing waters. he was drawing sandy in toward him and in another instant both would have been safe, when there was an ominous "crack!" [illustration: throwing himself flat on the limb ... he reached out. (_page 200_)] the branch had parted under the double strain! in a moment both boys were caught in the clutch of the current of the swiftly flowing "golden river." chapter xxi. the grip of the yukon. the moments that followed were destined to be burned for his lifetime into tom's brain. half choked, sputtering, blinded by spray and spume, he found himself in the water with sandy, completely exhausted by this time, to care for as well as himself. the scotch boy lay like a dead burden on tom's arm, and it was all that he could do to keep him afloat and still keep his own head above water. suddenly something struck him on the back of the head. it was the branch that had snapped off and cast them into the wild waters. but tom at that moment hailed it as an aid and caught hold of it with his free arm. it was a large limb and to his delight he found that it kept them afloat, aided by his skillful treading of water. but barely had he time to rejoice in this discovery, when the roar of the rapids ahead of them caused his brain to swim dizzily with fear. he knew that in the center of the rapids was a comparatively wide, smooth channel through which they had ascended that afternoon in the _yukon rover_. if the current shot them through this, there was still a chance that they might live, slender though that hope appeared to be. but on either side of this channel, if such it could be called, there uprose rocks like black, jagged fangs in and amongst which the water boiled and swirled and undersucked with the voice of a legion of witches. it was into one of these maelstroms that poor tom was confident they were being borne. now the sound of the rapids grew louder. they roared and rumbled like the noise of a giant spinning factory in full operation. the noise was deafening and to tom's excited ears it sounded like the shrill laughter of malign fates. suddenly something dragged at his legs. it felt as if some monster of the river had risen from its depths and had seized him. but tom knew it was no living creature. it was something far more terrible,--the undertow. he caught himself wondering if this were the end, as he was sucked under and the water closed over his head with a roar like that of a thousand cataracts. his lungs seemed bursting, his ear drums felt as if an intolerable weight was pressing in upon them. tom was sure he could not have lasted another second, when he was suddenly shot to the surface with the same abruptness with which he had been drawn under. ahead of him were two rocks between which the pent up river rushed like an express train. tom had just time to observe this and figure in a dull way that he and sandy would be dragged through that narrow passage to a miserable death, when something occurred that gave him renewed hope. in that terrible plunge under the water when the undertow had its way with him, the boy, more by instinct than anything else, had retained his grip upon the willow branch. as has been said, it was a thick stick of timber and had parted under the leverage of the boys' double weight near to the trunk. what happened was this,--and tom did not realize what had occurred till some seconds later, so suddenly did his deliverance from what appeared certain death come upon him. as the boys were being drawn in between the two rocks the branch became twisted around, broadside to the stream. before tom knew what was taking place, and quite without effort on his part, the stick of timber was caught across the two rocks, barring tom's progress further. the force of the current kept it there like a barrier, while the water tugged and tore in vain at tom and sandy. for some time after his deliverance, tom was not capable of moving a limb. but now he began to edge his way toward the rock which was closest in to the shore. it sloped down to the river, and on the side nearest to him had a broad base which he thought would prove easy to climb. so it might have been had he not been burdened with sandy, but as it was, things took on a different aspect and he was confronted with a task of more difficulty than he had anticipated. by slow and laborious steps he managed to secure a foothold on the rock and to reach a position where he could draw sandy up beside him. when he had done this, tom, almost exhausted, sank back on the smooth stone surface, and while the river raced by almost at his feet gave thanks to providence for their wonderful delivery from the jaws of the rapids. for some time he reclined, thus getting back his strength and examining sandy's injury, which appeared to be only a flesh wound. the immersion in the cold water and the amount of it he had swallowed was probably more to blame for his collapse than the wound. tom bathed the cut and was presently rewarded by seeing sandy open his eyes. the scotch boy pluckily declared that he felt all right except for a slight dizziness. "well, rest up a while," said tom. "we've done a whole lot, but there's a heap more to be accomplished." while sandy got together his exhausted faculties, tom made a survey of their situation. what he saw did not encourage him much. toward the stream were swirling pools and jagged rocks. shoreward, the rocks extended in a line which, although broken here and there by water ways through which eddies bubbled tempestuously, he yet thought might be capable of being bridged. he was pretty sure, in fact, that he could manage the passage, but of sandy he was by no means so certain. it required a cool head and a steady nerve to negotiate the course to safety that tom had mapped out as being the only one available. manifestly the longer they stayed where they were, the more time they were wasting. it would be impossible for a boat to reach them where they were marooned, and the only course was to attempt to reach the shore. tom explained the case to sandy and the scotch boy declared that he felt strong enough to attempt the feat. with tom in the lead they set out. it was fully a hundred yards to the shore, and a slippery, dangerous causeway that they had to traverse. but although once or twice sandy was within an inch of losing his nerve and the passage was marked by many slips and halts, yet in time they gained the margin of the stream and drew long breaths as they attained safety under the big pines that fringed it almost to its edge. there followed a short rest and then they set off up the bank, eying the stream for the small boat from the _yukon rover_ which they felt certain would be sent out. sure enough, before long, a glad shout from tom announced that he had sighted the little craft. at the same instant, jack and mr. dacre, who manned it, caught sight of the two lads on the shore. they lost no time in pulling toward them, and in a very short time the reunited adventurers were warmly shaking hands and listening to tom's recital of their thrilling escape from a terrible death in the rapids. the adventurous lives the bungalow boys had led, made them disinclined to dwell upon the details of the occurrence, but in their hearts there was a feeling of deep gratitude to the providence that had intervened and saved them from one of the most perilous positions in which they had ever been placed. chapter xxii. two strange visitors. late one evening, when the savory odor of frying bacon, pancakes and coffee mingled with the balsam-like aroma of the pines, and the river was singing loudly its eternal murmuring song, jack, who had wandered a short distance from the others, came dashing back along a sort of shaly trail made some time in the past by the feet of wandering prospectors or trappers. they were camped up the river some distance above the scene of tom and sandy's adventure. "well, what's up now?" demanded tom, looking up with flushed face and rumpled hair from the cooking fire. the others regarded jack questioningly. "what is it, my boy?" asked mr. dacre, seeing that some unusual occurrence was responsible for jack's excitement. "visitors!" cried the lad. "visitors? i suppose lady wolf or baroness muskrat are coming to pay us a call the noo," scoffed sandy. "quit your joking, sandy, these are real visitors. regular company." "best bib-and-tucker folk?" demanded tom. "that's what. better fry up some more bacon and get ready an extra supply of other grub." "say, kindly have the goodness to explain what you are driving at, won't you?" pleaded tom. "just this. two regular wild west customers are coming down the trail. i kind of guess they'll be glad to accept any invitation we might be inclined to give them." jack knew that in the wild places the hospitality of any camp is gladly extended to the stranger, and that the news that visitors were approaching would be a pleasant surprise to these sojourners in the far north. it was long since they had seen strange faces. "of course they are welcome to the best the camp affords," said mr. chillingworth heartily. "you say that they are rather tough-looking customers, jack?" asked tom rather anxiously. mr. dacre set the lad's question aside with a laugh. "pshaw! you would hardly expect to find visitors in correct regalia for calling in this section of the country," he said. "come down to that," agreed tom, chiming in with his uncle's laughter, "i guess that we are pretty hard-looking cases ourselves." before they had time to comment on this remark, which was unmistakably a true one, the sound of footsteps coming down the loose, stony trail could be plainly heard. a few minutes later two men came in sight. both were typical products of the region. one was tall, strapping and sun-browned, six foot two in his stockings. his round, good-natured face was topped with a thatch of corn-yellow hair, which, with his light blue eyes and fresh complexion, showed his norse origin. the other wayfarer was smaller and more compact, but as he bent under his heavy pack they could see the tense muscles bulge and play under his coarse blue shirt. he was tanned almost to a mahogany hue and, no less than his companion, bore the stamp of a battler in the lonely places. a certain quiet air of watchfulness, of self-reliance and ruggedness sufficiently displayed this quality. the two men introduced themselves. the fair-haired one was olaf gundersen, for many years a dweller in the yukon region. he had packed, trapped, hunted and prospected for many seasons in the wildest parts of alaska. with his companion, lafe cummings, a wiry iowan, he was making a trail down the yukon to be used later on when the two established a pack train. from the proceeds of this venture they hoped to reap a golden harvest, which their rough, adventurous lives had so far failed to yield them. they were bid a hearty welcome and before long the entire party, re-enforced by the two newcomers, were seated about the fire devouring their supper in a way that bade fair to call for a replenishment of the larder in the near future. "ah-h-h-h! dase bane good grub," sighed olaf, as he finished up a hunk of cheese after disposing of two heaping saucerfuls of canned peaches, the latter opened as an especial compliment to the company. "you're dead right there, olaf," agreed lafe in a high, nasal tone. "you folks done us white and no mistake." they sat around the fire late that evening, and the boys' elders explained the object of their presence in the region as freely as they thought advisable. lafe and his partner were equally open in discussing their affairs, and the boys listened with rapt attention to the budget of tales the two hardy pioneers had to tell of the yukon and its pleasures and perils. as they talked, the rushing voice of the river and the deep sighing of the wind in the pines made a fitting accompaniment to their odyssey of the far north. lafe had just finished a picturesque tale of life in dawson city in the early days, when eggs were a dollar each and flour worth literally its weight in gold, when, from the forest behind them, came a shrill, unearthly cry. it was like the shriek of a human creature in mortal agony and it cut the silence like a knife. they all looked around, startled for an instant, and then mr. dacre exclaimed: "a wild-cat!" "that's what it is. one of them pesky varmints, sure enough," declared lafe. "i mind me of a time in nevady, when----" but they were none of them listening to lafe just then. their eyes were centered on olaf. an extraordinary change had come over the big, blonde norwegian. he glanced about him nervously, almost timorously. it was odd to see the effect that the ululation of the wild cat crying out in the woods had had upon the strapping frontiersman. his light eyes held, for an instant, all the fear of a frightened child. then the cry died out and with its passing, the fear faded from his face. by common consent they looked at lafe, as if seeking an explanation for the phenomenon. olaf glanced uneasily about as if he was half afraid of being ridiculed for his momentary exhibition of alarm. "one fears one thing, one is dead mortal scared of another," volunteered lafe at length. "i knowed an old lady at home that wouldn't go nigh a cat. 'nuther feller i hev in mind was as bold as a lion in everything but one, an' that was spiders. yes'ir, let a spider come anigh spence higgins and he'd come purty near hollering out like a school gal that spied one of the critters on her best pink muslin." "yes, i suppose that we all have our pet dislikes," said mr. dacre. "wa'al, olaf, he's got a heap more reason an' title to his dislike than most of us, i reckon," said lafe. "i'll bet a cookie right now that you thought that thar critter was a mounting lion fer a minute, na'ow, didn't yer, olaf?" the big norseman smiled his slow smile. "he bane sound powerful lake it, lafe," he said at length, "an' das a soun' you know i don't bane lake. no, sir, he skoll make me bane planty scared all right, i tale you." "you had some adventure with a mountain lion one time?" asked mr. chillingworth, scenting a story. "aye. i skoll bet you may lafe, i bane have bad time with mountain lion one tame long ago," said olaf slowly. "i never forgate him, i bate you, no not so long as i skoll live." "tell 'em about it," urged lafe, "go on. then they'll see why you've no reason to like the critters, though there's none round hereabouts that ever i heard tell of." olaf regarded the group about him with unblinking eyes and his slow, good-natured smile. "you lake i bane tale you why i no lake mountain lion?" he asked. "yes, please, by all means," urged mr. dacre, who knew that it could have been no common adventure that had branded this big-limbed giant with a dread of a creature which ordinarily is glad enough to give human beings a wide berth. "then i bane tale you why oaf gundersen give mountain lion the inside of the trail whenever as be i skoll meet him again," said the norwegian. "it all happened a long time ago," he began, and in telling his story we shall not try to reproduce his odd, broken idioms, nor his inimitable style, "a long time ago when the boys here must have been little fellows. it was back in californy where the creatures were as thick as blackberries and gave lots of trouble to the settlers and the miners. i was working a small mine and trying to run a small mountain ranch at the same time. my living i eked out by hunting and trapping when i got a chance. "one day while i was out hunting, a big mountain lion and his mate came down on the ranch and killed the only horse i had. i hunted the male for a week and then i found him and shot him down. but the account was not yet even. i determined to kill his mate, too. "i tracked her for days but could never get close enough to her for a shot. the creature appeared to have an uncanny sense of my purpose of revenge. she always evaded me with what appeared to be almost supernatural skill. time after time i thought that i had her at my mercy, only to have her escape my rifle-fire unharmed. "after some time devoted to this fruitless quest of vengeance, i began to see the killing of this puma as a fixed purpose. nothing else seemed to matter much so long as i could kill the beast that had so often evaded me. "i used to start out early every day and return home only late at night from the hunt, and always i was baffled. the she-puma still lived in spite of my efforts. if she had been human i would have said that she laughed at me, for sometimes at night i could hear her screaming in the forest like a big wild-cat, as if in defiance of me. "at such times i would grit my teeth as i lay in my bunk and say to myself. 'all right, my lady. it's a long lane that has no turning, and i'll never give up till i have killed you.' "but the next day she would avoid me again, sometimes by not more than a hair's breadth; but it was enough. she carried her hide whole and i was still unrevenged for the death of my horse. "one day i followed her trail to a part of the mountains where fallen trees, underbrush and jagged stones made the traveling hard. all at once, after some half hour of scrambling forward, i found myself facing a cave, a black, narrow opening in a cliff of grayish stone that towered high above the forest. "i knew as if by instinct that i had found the mountain lion's lair. but was she inside? that was the question. if she was, i determined to lie there till she came forth, even if it took days, and then despatch her without mercy. "with this object in view i cast myself on my stomach in the midst of a tangle of underbrush, and with my rifle all ready for instant use i began my vigil. "i lay there for quite some time," said olaf, "and then, all at once, i began to hear sounds that made me prick my ears up. from inside the cave came whining little growls and mews almost like the crying of kittens. of course i knew almost instantly what caused the noise. the puma had young ones. they were what i heard. "'aha!' thought i, 'so much the better. now i know i have you, my lady. when you come back to your cubs, i shall kill you and my revenge will be complete.' "the thought gave me much satisfaction and i lay there listening feverishly for the slightest sound of the returning mother. but after a while something happened that gave my thoughts a different trend. out of the cave mouth there came tumbling two fuzzy, fussy little mountain lion cubs. they looked like yellow balls of down. they sat there blinking in the sun for a while and then began playing just as kittens do. it was a pretty sight, but i had other thoughts to occupy me just then. an idea had suddenly come to me. "why not take the cubs and raise them? i would be able to sell them to some menagerie or zoo for a good sum when they grew older, and i would thus be repaid for the loss of my horse. the more i thought it over, the better my plan appeared to me. i resolved to put it into instant execution." chapter xxiii. olaf's great lesson. "another thing that urged me to take the cubs," continued olaf, "was the fact that i was certain that if i kept them captive in my hut the mother would sooner or later put in an appearance seeking them, and then i could kill her with ease. so, as the two cubs rolled about kitten-like, i wriggled through the brush toward them, and then with a sudden leap i pounced on them and seized them both by the scruff of the neck. they spat and growled vindictively, but i had hold of them in such a way that they could not hurt me. it didn't take me long to tie them together with a bit of twine, and then shouldering my rifle and carrying the mewing, spitting cubs, i set out for home. "the trail was a rough one to follow and i had a lot of difficulty. i had not gone more than a hundred yards before, quite close behind me, i heard a horrible yell. in an instant i dropped the cubs and jerked my rifle up to my shoulder. i knew what that yell meant. it was the mother lion after the man who had robbed her of her cubs. "i dropped to my knee to steady my aim, and as her tawny, lithe body came into view, i fired. it was a shot that i wouldn't have missed once in a hundred times under ordinary circumstances. but this was the hundredth time. "as my weapon was discharged, the lioness emitted a great roar, gave a whisk of her tail and dashed off into the forest. i knew that i had not harmed her. it was then that i began to think that the creature bore a charmed life. it certainly appeared so. "i was the crack shot of that part of the country and yet i had gone wide of a target that a ten-year-old boy could not well have missed. but as i picked up the cubs and resumed my journey, i thought to myself, with grim satisfaction, that it would not be long before i had another chance at the beast, and that next time i promised myself that my bullet would find its mark. "well, it wasn't long before what i expected and hoped for came true. i was out in the back of my shack splitting wood two days later, when through the light green of the trees that grew close up, i thought i saw the flash of a swiftly-moving, tawny body. "i chuckled to myself. 'so you have come at last, eh? that is good. now you and i will try conclusions together.' "such was the thought that ran through my mind as i made all haste into the hut for my rifle. as the light-colored mass moved again among the trees, i leveled my weapon and fired. but again i missed! "there was a swift dash, more like the passage of a streak of light than the moving of a living thing, and then i knew that the puma had fooled me once more. but i also knew that she would come back. the mother-love that lives in all animals would bring her. i was to pay dearly for playing upon this noble instinct. i have never tampered with it since. a creature with young is sacred to me. but i had not learned my lesson then, and i planned to use the puma's motherly instinct to trap her to her destruction. "that evening she was back. i heard her crying her soft, mother cry among the trees. from inside the cabin, in a sort of rough cage i had contrived for them, the cubs answered her with little sharp barking cries. "but strong as were the ties that bound her to the cubs, the mother mountain lion came no closer. she was not visible to me. i crouched, rifle in hand, waiting for one chance at her; but it didn't come. she kept far up the mountain side, from time to time giving her cry. it was like the cry of that wild-cat we heard to-night. it was a sound that i have come to dread. sometimes in dreams i hear it and then i waken and cry out. lafe can tell you. "i brought the cub's cage outside the hut. i thought that maybe that would bring her within range of my rifle. but the animal seemed to know i was laying a pitfall for her, for she did not approach any closer; but all that night her cries shook the forest. "i shouted at her. my desire for revenge had got the upper hand completely of me now. when the puma shrieked and howled, i shrieked and howled, too. "'i shall kill you yet,' i promised her, 'your hour is close at hand. olaf will have his revenge for his horse. you will see.' "toward morning the cries came closer. "'now is my time,' i thought. "i took my rifle and sallied out of the hut. it was bright moonlight. once more the cries came from a clump of woods up to my left. i swung round. my heart gave a bound of delight. out of the deep shadow of the woods i saw two burning points of light gleaming. i knew what they were. the puma's eyes! "all i had to do was to fire between them. for me, that ought to have been an easy task. but quick as i was in raising my rifle, the puma was quicker of movement than i. in a flash the points of light had vanished, and when next i heard her cries they came from some distance off. "utterly disgusted, baffled and angry, i went back to my bunk. i lay long awake revolving all sorts of schemes to catch the puma napping, and i was still planning when i fell asleep. that night my dreams were all of the working out of my revenge. i guess i wasn't far from going crazy. dwelling all the time on one thought and living alone, had worked powerfully on my mind. i felt that if i didn't kill that mountain lion she'd kill me, and how near she came to doing it, i'm going to tell you in a minute. "for one mortal week i tried every way i could think of to get a shot at that lion. but it was all of no use. if the animal could have read my mind, she couldn't have kept out of the way more cleverly than she did. "but all the time she was near at hand. the cubs, whom i fed regularly with venison and small game, used to answer her night and day. i lost sleep and flesh, but still i was no closer to attaining my object. "i tried dozens of ways of getting my chance to shoot the animal down. failing in all of them, i set poisoned bait around the house. but it was never touched. with the same uncanny instinct that had taught her how to keep out of my reach, the puma avoided the poisoned meat. steel traps were a joke to her, i guess, for conceal them cleverly as i might, she never went near them. "and all the time i grew madder and madder. i had hunted and trapped for a good many years and this was the first animal that had ever escaped me once i set out to get it. i began to get nervous. when i was out hunting, for i had to go pretty frequently to get food for the young pumas, the slightest unexpected sound would make me jump out of my skin. "'olaf, you've got to end this thing,' i told myself. "and then later on i said to myself again: "'olaf, you must end the puma or the puma will end you, my friend.' and so the days went by. a dozen times a day and as many at night i would think i was at last to put an end to the almost unbearable situation, and every time that puma fooled me. but all the time she was about the hut. always within earshot of the cubs. "one day, for security, i shut them in an inner room. i was afraid that during one of my absences the mother mountain lion might break in and effect a rescue. it was about two days after i had made this arrangement, that the thing happened that has ever since made me pale when i hear the shrill cry of a mountain lion or any sound resembling it. "it was in the early morning. i was sitting outside my shack cleaning my rifle. i was happy and whistling quite gaily. suddenly i looked round for some rags to finish up my job. there were none there and leaning my rifle against a stump, i went into the hut to get some. "i had just about got inside when i heard a roar, and then a great body came hurtling past me into the hut. the puma had been watching me. by this time, so often had i fired at her, she knew that my strength lay in my rifle. the instant that she saw me lay it down, she knew her chance had come. like a flash she was into the hut after her cubs. "and there was i, weaponless, powerless, and face to face with a mother puma mad to regain possession of her little ones. "i had one second in which to think and act simultaneously. my bunk was built high up, luckily, and with one bound, so active did my terror make me, i was in it and secure for an instant. the puma crouched, lashed her tail and with bared claws glared at me with terrible hatred in her green eyes. "i could feel the cold sweat break out upon me. i could almost sense the last struggle when she should have sprung upon me in the bunk. but at that instant the cubs beyond the door set up their cries anew. that saved me for the time being. with a mighty bound the puma flung herself against the door. again and again she flung herself at it like a battering ram. "but it was a stout door and it resisted all her attacks till at last, panting and breathless, she lay down on the floor of the hut to rest. i dared not move for fear of attracting her attention. i was in a horrible trap. noon came and passed and still she lay there. i was almost mad with thirst, but stronger than my thirst was my fear of that great cat crouching there with her eyes fixed on the door beyond which lay her cubs. "the door fastened with a steel catch. if only i could reach that catch, release it and open the door there was a possibility that my ordeal would be at an end. having regained her cubs, there was a chance, a mighty slim one, but still a chance, that the lioness would take them and go. "the time dragged along on leaden feet. the sun grew lower. a ray of the declining day struck in through the one window the hut boasted and struck the steel catch that confined the cubs. "how long it was after this that my nerve went all to bits, i don't know. but go it did. i gave a loud yell and then, careless of what might happen, but determined to end the tension at all hazards, i reached out with one foot and kicked up the steel catch. "i was quick but not quick enough. as the door swung open, the lioness leaped for my leg, but the next instant she saw in the room beyond her two cubs. in her joy at beholding them again everything else was forgotten by her. with her sharp, strong claws she tore the box that confined them to bits, and then, after licking them all over, she picked them up as a cat does her kittens and--strode out of the door. "i never saw her again; but i shall always remember her by this." the woodsman drew up one leg of his loose trousers and showed a long, livid scar. "that bane why i skoll never hear the cry of the puma or a cry that bane lake him without feeling the big fear," he concluded. olaf's story had taken some time in its narration, but it had held them spell bound. they all agreed that he had passed through an ordeal well calculated to make him dread the creatures, one of which had held him a prisoner for so many terrible hours. they turned in late and when they awakened, olaf and lafe had taken their leave without disturbing them. they had left a scribbled note of thanks, however, with their best wishes for good luck. "i shall never forget olaf gundersen," declared tom, a sentiment which the rest echoed. chapter xxiv. on the porcupine river. we must now pass over an interval of several weeks. during this period our readers are to imagine the numerous rapids and perils of the upper yukon conquered and the permanent camp of the silver fox hunters established upon the swift porcupine river, not far above its junction with the yukon and amidst a country wilder than any into which the bungalow boys had yet penetrated. the work of setting out the peculiarly constructed traps in which the silver and black foxes were to be trapped had occupied much time, and some exciting adventures with bears and wolves had accompanied the work. when completed, the "trap-line" extended for more than twenty-five miles from the camp, which was pitched on the bank of the river to which the _yukon rover_ was tied. did space permit we should like to tell in detail, and may at some future time, the numerous exciting episodes that marked those weeks of our young friends' lives. but we must now hasten on to an event which was to try their resources as they had rarely been tested before, and which was peculiarly characteristic of the life in that wild region "north of fifty-three" which they were exploring. it is first necessary to explain that the work of overseeing the trap-line was attended to every week, the work being divided into "shifts," one of the party, or more, being left to guard the camp during the absence of the others. at the particular time we are now dealing with mr. dacre was disabled with a slight fever, and sandy, also, was a "little under the weather" from the same cause. so that it devolved upon tom and jack to assume the task of going over the trap-line, a duty which had to be performed, while mr. chillingworth remained behind with the invalids. and right here it is proper to explain that although the traps had been set and baited, the trappers did not expect any results till later in the season when the "big cold" set in. nevertheless, in order to guard against the possibility of vicious or unprincipled trappers or "dog indians" interfering with them, a rigid patrol was necessary to insure the well being of the trap-line. the actual trapping was destined to come later when the wastes of forest to the north were frozen and the creatures of the wild came toward the river in search of food. well used to roughing it as the boys were, they carried little more with them on these expeditions than flour, "erbwurst,"--a sort of concentrated soup, not very palatable, but nourishing,--teas, salt and sugar. their rifles, blankets and canteens completed their loads, with ammunition, of course, sufficient to enable them to "live on the country." the trap-line led back into a wild range of mountains known as the frying pan range, though just why that name had been given to the section is beyond the present chronicler to explain. on the particular morning with which we are dealing, we find tom and jack almost at the end of the trap-line. not much to their surprise, their investigation of the fifty or more traps scattered through this territory had not resulted in their discovering any silver foxes ensnared. other wild creatures, though, had been entrapped, but they were not bothering with these. in every instance, if they were not maimed, the creatures were set loose, with one exception. that was the ugly "glutton" or wolverine, a notorious robber of trappers' and miners' camps, and a savage, truculent animal. when such creatures were found, they were despatched without mercy. tom, the first to open his eyes that morning, gave a glance of astonishment as he gazed about him from his blankets. on every side of them was a fleecy blanket of fog as thick and blinding as that which had encompassed them at kadiak. he awakened jack and the two looked about them rather anxiously. in pursuit of a deer, the carcass of which hung in a neighboring tree, high up so as to be beyond the reach of wild animals, the boys had, the evening before, wandered rather far from their beaten track. they had, in fact, been overtaken by night in a part of the mountains which was entirely strange to them. but they felt no apprehensions on that score. they, of course, carried, like all wilderness travelers, a good compass and had the accurate bearings of their camp. the trap-line itself was marked by a blazed trail, so that once upon it their course was as plainly recognized as if they had been on a public highway. after breakfast, consisting of deer-meat steaks, which when freshly killed are by no means as good as asserted, flap-jacks and tea, well sugared, the two young trappers took earnest counsel as to the best course to pursue. the fog enwrapped them closely in billowy folds of white. on the mountain top on which they had halted, the mist was peculiarly dense and heavy. "well, jack," said tom, "we're in cloudland, all right. are you in favor of waiting till the clouds roll by or striking out for camp?" jack at once declared for the latter course. mr. dacre's illness and sandy's indisposition had not a little to do with tom's falling in with this plan. he was anxious not to remain away longer than necessary for, as he knew, the river fevers sometimes resulted quite seriously. accordingly, the blankets were rolled up, some meat cut from the deer, canteens filled at a nearby spring, and the march back to the river begun. the fog still hung heavy and dense, and the boys strode along through the steamy vapor talking little, but saving their wind and their strength for the rough stony ground they were traveling over. about noon the mist lifted and rolled away like a drop-curtain in a theater. and it was then that the boys made a disquieting discovery. the general scenery adjacent to the trapping line was familiar to them. but the spot which they now had reached held nothing that struck a reminiscent note. instead of being surrounded by noble forests of huge, somber trees, they were in a place that resembled more the scenery found in the "bad lands" than anything else the boys could call to mind. grotesque piles of rocky hills, pinnacled like cathedrals and minsters, with here and there the semblance of some strangely formed animal, surrounded them on every side. towering columns and immense, fantastically-shaped masses of clay, suggesting pre-historic monsters of the pre-glacial period, rocky cliffs resembling enchanted castles,--these were only a few of the remarkable features of the section of the country into which they had strayed. they looked about them with awe. the strata of the various weird formations were brilliantly tinted with blue, red, white, yellow and other colors mingled and mixed like the hues of a kaleidoscope. the utter barrenness of the place suggested a city of the dead, untrodden by man or beast for centuries. "where under the sun have we wandered?" asked jack in an awed tone, gazing about with wonderment not untinged with alarm. "i've not the slightest idea. we've never even seen a suggestion of such country on our hunting excursions off the trapping line. we must have strayed far off our course." "but the compass?" "i followed what should have been our direction," declared tom. "i cannot understand this at all." "nor can i. let's have a look at that compass." tom fished it out of his pocket and extended it. he glanced at the dial and then uttered a cry of astonishment. the needle was dipping and plunging and behaving in a very odd manner. "gracious, what's the matter with the thing? is it bewitched?" gasped jack. "it is certainly behaving in a very mysterious fashion. something must have deflected it and led us out of our way." "what could have done this?" "i don't know, unless--hullo!" tom stooped and picked up a bit of stone which glittered with bright, shining particles. "iron pyrites!" he exclaimed. "i remember the professor back at school showing some to the geology class. no wonder the needle was deflected! look, jack, those cliffs yonder are almost solid masses of pyrites!" "and those deposits of iron switched the needle of the compass?" "beyond a doubt." "then we are lost." "i don't like to say that." "but we are far out of our way?" "no question of it." "how far?" "i have no idea. it's a nasty predicament, jack, but we'll get out of it, don't worry." "but you haven't any idea in which direction to go?" "no; we must scout around and try to get our bearings. i would suggest that we strike out for that high hill yonder that will place a ridge between us and the pyrites cliffs, and perhaps the compass will behave normally." they struck off in the direction that tom indicated. but it was hard traveling in that broken, uncanny country into which they had wandered in such a strange manner. the hill, too, was further than they thought, the clear air being deceptive. but dripping with perspiration and not a little anxious at heart, they gained it at last. as tom placed his hand in his pocket to draw out the compass, he almost let the instrument drop to the ground. a sudden sound had broken the stillness of the place. it was a sound that ordinarily would have caused confidence in the hearers. but heard under the circumstances in which it was, it was so unexpected, so out of keeping with the wild surroundings, that it startled and shocked them both. it was the sound of laughter. chapter xxv. the mysterious men. there could be no mistake about it. it was human laughter that they had heard. it has been said that his ability to laugh is what chiefly distinguishes man from other animals and it is an undeniable fact that the sound resembles no other in nature. the laughter they had heard was not loud, but it was none the less genuine and hearty on that account. jack gripped tom's arm and asked in an affrighted whisper: "what does it mean, tom?" "it means that somebody is pleased over something," replied tom, who, despite the light tone of his reply, was no less agitated than his companion, "but who can he be?" "one thing is certain, it isn't a native, for they only grin without making any racket over it." the boys stood side by side, and grasping their rifles firmly, peered toward a thick clump of fir woods from whence the sound had proceeded. but no more laughter came. instead, the branches parted and coming toward them they distinguished the forms of three men. suddenly the hearty mirth broke out once more, and the shoulders of one of the three were seen to bob up and down as if his mirth was unrestrainable. but this time the outburst was roughly checked. "shut up, rufus!" exclaimed one of the men angrily. "a joke lasts you longer than anybody i ever saw." "wha's dat? oh, lawdy! look-ee, boss! dere's two white boys!" it was a short, stocky negro who gasped out these words, his lower jaw dropping in a comical manner as he stared at them as though they had been beings from another world. for their part, the boys were no less astonished at this encounter. the negro's exclamation was the first apprisal that his two white companions had of the boys' presence on the scene, and their surprise appeared no less than his. they were both rough, wild-looking fellows, with shaggy, unkempt beards and rough clothes with knee boots. both carried shovels and tin pans, while the negro bore a pick and other mining tools. the boys guessed at once that the men were prospectors. "howdy, pards," exclaimed one of the men, coming toward the boys with extended hand, "what in the name of time air you doin' roun' these diggin's?" "glad to meet you," said tom, taking the proffered hand and introducing his brother and himself. he then explained his plight. both men raised their eyebrows as they listened, and the negro rolled his eyes in an odd fashion. "well, i'll be hanged," exclaimed the companion of the man who had first addressed the boys. "that's a tarnation bad fix and no mistake, ain't it, jim?" "it sure is, seth," replied the other, "an' i ain't got no idea of the track they ought to take, seem' as we come inter this country from the other way." jim stapleton, for that was his name, pulled out a pipe and lit it. his companion, seth ingalls, shook his head as if in meditation. then the two men whispered together for a time while the negro surveyed the boys with a blank expression. there was something about that look that puzzled them. it was not till afterward that they were to learn what it meant. the black man appeared to be about to speak, when the two men, who had withdrawn a little for their confab, came back. "how come you so far from the river?" asked jim, and tom for a passing moment thought he detected suspicion in his tones. "as i told you, to look after our trap line," said tom. "humph! this is a funny time of the year to go trapping." tom, omitting all the details that he could, explained the reason for the line being set out before the early winter closed in. if the man had been suspicious, as tom had for an instant fancied, the answer appeared to lull such thoughts. "we were foolish to start off in that fog," went on tom, "but of course i'd no idea that the compass would betray us like it did." the men made no rejoinder to this. then jim spoke up and in his rough voice told the boys that they were camped not far from there and would be glad to make them welcome if they cared to come along. the boys, after some hesitation, accepted this proposition. for one thing they were full of youthful curiosity concerning these men, and in the second place, after their experiences of the morning they did not feel inclined to resume their journey, which now bade fair to be a long and arduous one, till they had had some rest. the men explained that they had been out that morning with the negro rufus, who acted as cook and did the rough work about the camp, on a prospecting expedition to a distant ridge. but, explained jim stapleton, at their home camp lay the real object of their quest in these wild and solitary hills. "we're the luckiest fellows in the whole world," exclaimed jim, swinging his arms in wild gesticulation. "we'll be the richest people in america, in europe, in the whole world! the gold is not far off now. we'll be greater than solomon in all his glory. we'll be----" "here, here, choke off, will you, jim stapleton," growled his companion in a taciturn tone. the boys gazed at the two men in astonishment. the outburst of jim stapleton seemed more like the ravings of an unbalanced mind than the speech of a well disciplined one. his eyes had flashed as he spoke, with a wild sort of light and his gesticulations were extravagant. tom was about to speak, but in the very act his eye caught that of rufus, the negro cook. to his astonishment the black man's left eye closed in a swift but unmistakable wink that said as plainly as words, "say nothing." jack, who was not so alert as his brother, had noticed none of this by-play, but he, too, had been astonished at the miner's outburst. as for tom, a suspicion shot into his mind that was to bear fruit in the near future. the gruff rebuke of seth ingalls seemed to have had its effect upon his companion, for jim stapleton said no more as they trudged on, and ere long they came in sight of what was the gold-seekers' headquarters. among piled up masses of huge rocks and boulders, the two men had found a retreat which could not have been better suited to their purposes if it had been built to order. it consisted in a general way of a cavern about a dozen yards in depth and one-fourth as broad and high, with an entrance that an ordinary sized man could pass through by slightly stooping. the floor, walls and ceiling were of solid rock, but an opening must have existed in the rear, for a fire was smouldering in that portion of the cavern, with some sort of food cooking above it in a huge iron pot, and the smoke was curling up and vanishing through some unseen aperture. into this curious home, the men whom the boys had encountered had moved their belongings. these consisted of the most primitive and barely necessary sort, a cooking-kit, extra clothing and provisions such as a gun cannot procure. in one corner was a pile of blankets, and a sort of burlap curtain had been fitted over the opening which could presumably be drawn in severe weather, making the place snug and weather proof. "do you know anything about the gold mining business?" was almost the first thing jim stapleton said as he ushered the boys into this cave home. "well, we've never looked for it except in the shape of coined money," said tom with a smile. "i never knew that there was much to be found in this part of the country," added jack. "then that's just where you're wrong," said jim, who, despite his taciturn comrade's frowns and winks, seemed bound to talk. "there's gold in plenty here. it's no guesswork on our part. _we know it!_" again into his eyes came the odd gleam that tom had noticed. it never appeared there but when he talked of gold. then his optics danced and glittered like living coals. seth ingalls had gone outside on some errand connected with the business of the men's retreat. rufus was chopping wood. the boys were alone in the cave with jim stapleton. he leaned forward suddenly and whispered in tom's ear. [illustration: he unfolded it and showed it to the youths.--_page 257._] "we have the secret. we'll have gold enough for all. you shall share it. the treasures of ophir never for an instant compared with what lies in dead man's mine." "dead man's mine!" echoed tom. the name carried a sinister suggestion. "that's its name. see here." jim stapleton arose and tip-toed to the wall. from behind a recess he drew out a rolled up bit of paper, stained and dirty. he unfolded it and showed it to the youths. all the markings were in lead pencil, blurred and indistinct. but one thing about the plan, which was entitled in bold letters "plan of dead man's mine," attracted tom's keen attention. upon the map was marked prominently amidst a maze of marks "the lone pine," and under it was drawn a crude representation of a blasted, leafless tree of seemingly great size. now tom was certain that he had seen no such tree in the vicinity of the cavern. the map, however, did show a canyon similar to the one where the cave was, and also indicated a cave at about the same location. not far from it a red star showed where the gold was supposed to lie. tom glanced up at stapleton from a scrutiny of the map. as he did so, the suspicion that had flashed across him at their first meeting revisited him. but this time it was a stronger and more sinister impression. he looked at jack, but apparently he had noticed nothing amiss. chapter xxvi. the dead man's mine. "how did you come into possession of this paper?" asked tom, feeling an irresistible curiosity concerning the matter. a look of cunning crept into stapleton's eyes. his tone grew confidential. "it's as odd a story as ever you heard," he said. "do you want to hear it?" "by all means." "well then, it all happened some years back when i befriended an old fellow in the greenhorn mountains in californy. he was a prospector an' had got himself chawed up by a bar. i came across him on the trail an' took him to my cabin and nursed him as well as i could. but i seen frum the first that the old fellow was too far gone to get over his injuries. "to begin with, he was too old and feeble anyhow, an' then again that bar had clawed and chawed him till he was a mass of wounds. well, i neglected my work on the claim i had located there, and spent the best part of my time smoothing out the last hours of that old chap's life. i never knew where he came from or how he came to be a prospector, but before he crossed the great divide he gave me the astonisher of my life. by his directions i took a package wrapped in oiled paper from his old ragged coat and laid it on the bed afore him. "finally frum some old letters and such truck he produces that there plan i just showed you. he said i'd been so kind to him and cheered his last moments, so that having neither chick nor child he wanted to make me a legacy. he said he'd make me the richest man in the world for what i'd done for him. "well, he explained before he passed away what all them marks and lines on the plan meant, and made it all as clear as print. then he told me the story of dead man's mine. "about thirty years ago a band of trappers found a rich deposit of gold in these hills. but on their way to civilization with it, they were drowned on the yukon and only one escaped to tell the tale. he was crazy from his sufferings in gettin' back to civilization, and when he stumbled across a camp of aleuts they took care of him, having a sort of religious reverence for crazy people. he died among those natives." "it's a gruesome story," remarked tom, "but how, then, did the facts become known?" "hold on. i'm gettin' to that. years later an aleut told the story to a white hunter who had been good to him, and gave him the plan which the crazy man had drawn on a bit of whalebone in lucid intervals. as you may suppose, the white hunter was all worked up over it, as a scratched message on the whalebone said there was more gold left in dead man's mine, that's what the crazy man called it, than had been taken out. "well, an expedition was made up by the white hunter to go after the gold, but the natives got wind of it and wiped 'em all out, only one escaping to civilization, and that was the old man who died in my hut back there in the sierras. he tried twice to get back to the mine by the plan he had copied on to paper from the whalebone. but each time disaster overtook him. once his men deserted him, declaring he was insane. another time, winter caught him napping and he got out to the coast more dead than alive. "he drifted down to the pacific coast and tried to get capital to back another expedition, or somebody to grubstake him, but he couldn't do it, and at last he gave up in disgust. he was all alone in the world anyhow, he said, and was too old to enjoy the money if he had got it. then he wandered off alone, and the bear got him, as i said afore. soon after he had told me this story and made me promise to try to find the gold, he passed out, and i buried him back there on a hillside under a big pine above the stanislaus." "a remarkable story," commented tom. "and you think that you have located the dead man's mine at last?" "not a doubt of it. seth and i have spent ten years looking for it, and _this is the spot_." "how do you know?" "it tallies with the plan in every particular. the gold is here." again came that strange gleam which every mention of the yellow metal evoked in stapleton's wild eyes. "but where's the lone pine that is pictured on the plan?" objected tom. "oh, that. probably some storm blew it down or it rotted away. you must remember thirty years have passed since that crazy man drew the plan." "hasn't it occurred to you that relying on a plan drawn by a man whose sufferings had turned his brain is a rather uncertain business?" "see here, partner,----" began stapleton, but at this instant the silent, sullen-faced seth entered the cavern, and stapleton, who appeared to stand rather in awe of him, subsided into silence. there was something on the mind of tom dacre which stapleton's story had almost clinched into a certainty. circumstances forbade his making his suspicions known to jack, but he resolved to do so at the first opportunity. it was a communication that must be made when they were alone. it would never do for the two men to hear it. tom had noticed that when seth left the cavern he had carried a rifle and supposed it was for game. now, however, he began to suspect another reason when he saw for the first time that the man also had a spyglass with him. the boy decided to put a leading question to stapleton. "are you not afraid of anyone else coming to know your secret and following you here?" stapleton's eyes flashed. then he spoke in low, impressive tones. "if we caught anyone doing that, we'd shoot him down like a mad dog!" tom's heart sank. the inference was only too plain. he was glad that jack, who had gone to the mouth of the cave, had not heard stapleton's emphatic remark. if the men felt like that, it was unlikely that the boys would be allowed to go, and this, with the other suspicion mentioned, had been gnawing at tom's mind ever since they had entered the cavern. so sure was he that they were virtually prisoners, that he did not ask any more questions. he dared not confirm his suspicions in so many words. he joined jack at the door of the cavern. it afforded an extensive view. below it, and to the left at the foot of a high conical peak, were plain traces of the miners' labors. much of the work looked fresh, and they noticed that numerous workings had been started and apparently abandoned. the work must have been going on for quite a considerable period, judging from the look of things, which indicated, also, that so far the searchers had not been successful in their quest. tom glanced back into the cave over his shoulder. rufus was busy stirring the big stew pot. the two men were conversing with occasional glances at the boys. tom drew jack a little aside and gave a swift whisper in his ear. "do you know that we are prisoners?" "what!" "hush, not so loud. those men are both as crazy as loons. i suspected it some time ago. now i am sure of it. it's a thousand chances to one that this isn't the location of dead man's mine, even if there is such a place." "good gracious!" "even going by the plan, they are way off. but it would be likely to throw them into a terrible rage even to hint such a thing." "it looks as if we are in a mighty bad fix!" "we are. you can be sure from what was said that they don't mean to let us leave here till gold is found, which will never occur." "you are sure of what you say?" jack looked sick and pale. tom's face was grave and sober-looking. "i'm not an alarmist. we are in the hands of a pair of maniacs. we and that negro are the only sane persons in this camp. we must be very careful or we may arouse them to violence." "then we are virtually _prisoners_?" "i'm afraid there is no other way of putting it, old fellow. we must be careful and keep our eyes open night and day, for we are in just about as bad a dilemma as we ever have experienced." chapter xxvii. in need of a friend. tom's guess had hit the nail on the head. it was all true. jim stapleton and seth ingalls were not the first men to have their brains turned by an insatiable lust for gold. on every other subject perfectly normal, they were insane on this one topic. it was the peculiar light that shone in stapleton's eyes when he spoke of the yellow metal that had first excited tom's doubts. seth ingalls' sullen, taciturn manner had shown that he was afflicted with a different form of the same mania. in jim stapleton's case it took the twist of a desire to confide in the boys his glorious prospects. in seth ingalls the same malady induced a dark, secretive manner and a suspicion that everybody was in search of their secret. the alarming situation of our two young friends may be thus summed up. they were in the hands of two desperate and powerful lunatics, who almost assuredly would not let them depart until the fabulous deposit of gold was discovered. the boys did not dare even to mention the subject of leaving the cavern or the camp, for fear of arousing the men's suspicions, in which case it appeared almost certain that the two crazed miners would unhesitatingly forcibly restrain them or kill them. both of the lads recalled reading of such cases, but jim stapleton and seth ingalls were the first living examples of the gold seeking form of insanity with which they had come in contact. there had not been a word of fiction in jim stapleton's account of how he came by the chart, by means of which he and his friend ingalls had joined forces and started on their insane quest. it was all as true as gospel. the ten years of search in the wild solitudes of the north, their hopes, their disappointments, their privations had turned their brains. lured on by their dazzling vision of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, they had kept up, with an insane persistence, their search, till at last they had stumbled across this spot back of the frying pan range which did, in very fact, look like the site of the new golconda as described on the old, time-yellowed map. the main defect of the whole scheme had been detected by tom. the original plan had been the work of a man whose brain was admittedly turned by sufferings and hardships. it possessed, moreover, one inherent flaw, and that was that while the frying pan range was indicated in a general manner on the map, the precise spot in which the gold lay was not set forth. it might have been anywhere along the four hundred miles of solitary, unexplored country the range traversed. it was apparent to tom that the two men, driven half insane by their long hunt, had taken for granted when they came across the spot in which they were now encamped, that they had at last struck el dorado. whether the objections that had at once flashed into his mind had ever occurred to them, or whether they had willfully ignored them, tempted beyond their judgment by the _ignis fatuus_ of the gold hunters' lust, mattered little. tom was certain that they had made a woeful mistake and were miles from the hiding place of the fabled gold, even if such a place had ever existed. granting that the gold mine described on the chart did exist, only chance could have given them success. but accompanied by their faithful black, whose brain alone had not given way under the continued strain, they had stuck to the quest till their judgment was warped and they were ready to accept almost any site that bore even a fancied resemblance to the blurred outlines of the dead miner's map. in nothing, in fact, was their mental unsoundness more startlingly indicated as in their determination that this was the right place on which they had stumbled, despite the almost self-evident proofs that it was not. they had been established in the cavern for some three months when tom and jack had so unfortunately stumbled upon them. when they encountered the boys and held that whispered consultation, the lives of our two young friends had literally hung in the balance. for the object of that talk was whether they should despatch the boys forthwith and thus render them incapable of spreading the secret (for they were convinced they were spies sent out by fancied enemies), or whether they should take them into their confidence and hold them prisoners till they reached the gold. this latter event they fancied was not far distant, and they finally decided to hasten its coming by holding the lads captives and making them do their share of the work. in their warped minds this course was quite justifiable, as they intended, when they struck the vast wealth they imagined awaited them, to reimburse the lads a thousandfold for their labors. this was the main cause of their sparing the boys' lives. they needed extra help to enable them to reach their fancied gold quickly and therefore they decided not to slay them outright. the boys knew that this success would, in all human probability, never be attained, while the men were equally certain that the achievement of their golden hopes was but a few days or weeks distant at most. their only course, they decided, after a necessarily hasty whispered consultation, was to pretend to fall in with whatever plan the crazy gold hunters might propose to them, and work or do whatever might be required with all the cheerfulness they could muster. in this way, and in this way alone, could they hope to lull the suspicions of the two men who held them in their power. it was the only course that promised hope. to attempt to escape would be rash in the extreme, and might have fatal results. they had about reached this conclusion when stapleton strolled out. "my partner and i have been talking," he said, "and we have decided to give you youngsters a chance to share in our fortunes. of course you won't get an equal share, but since you have found us out, we mean to make you work and will reward you well for it. we'll make you wealthy for the rest of your lives." "you mean that you want us to help you in your gold hunt?" asked tom. "that's it exactly. we can't be far from the gold now. a few more days will bring us to it. the more hands the lighter work, so you may consider yourselves elected members of the firm." "it's very kind of you," said tom gravely. jack was beyond speech. "that's all right, we like you. if you will be useful to us, we'll make you rich. rufus might have had the same chance, but he doesn't appear to want to take it. he just keeps on cooking and keeping things to rights in the cave." tom was weighing every word carefully before he answered. "i suppose rufus is just lazy and doesn't like to work," he hazarded. "oh, no; it isn't that. he's energetic enough when he wants to be. but it's something quite different." "indeed?" "yes; sometimes we think he's a little cracked. what do you suppose he says?" "i've no idea." "why, that we have made a mistake, and that this isn't dead man's mine at all, and that there is no such place." tom nudged jack and broke into a laugh as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. jack gave a ghastly echo of his companion's cleverly assumed mirth. "what can have given him such an idea as that?" asked tom. "well, we've shown him the chart once or twice, but he's so thick he can't make head or tail of it. why, the poor, benighted idiot asked us once if this was the place where was that dead tree that shows on the chart." "and what did you say?" "just what i told you. the tree had either blown down, rotted away or been struck by lightning." the earnestness with which the unfortunate victim of an hallucination sought to explain away everything was pitiable. "that stopped his objections, i suppose," said tom. "oh, yes. he said nothing more. seth said that if he heard any more rubbish from him, he'd shut him up effectually and we have heard no more from him on the subject. that's the reason we think that rufus is a little off. he gets such queer ideas in his head." "oh, well, we are all liable to get our ideas mixed up a bit sometimes," was tom's diplomatic reply. but as stapleton turned back into the case, his heart sank. the man was even crazier than he had thought. he actually thought that by detaining the boys he was doing them a good turn. through the gloom that obsessed his spirits, only one ray of light shone and that was this: from what stapleton had said the boy had deduced one clear fact. rufus the negro was, apparently, the only one of the trio in the full possession of his senses. in an emergency they would have to trust to the black man to help them. would he do it? it was a question upon which much depended at the crisis the boys' affairs had reached. chapter xxviii. --and a friend in need. there were several reasons that inclined tom to look for aid from this quarter. in the first place rufus, although seemingly bound to his masters by bonds of affection, had no direct interest in their crazy schemes. in the second place, he had distinctly shown a friendly interest in the boys as had been evidenced when he winked his eye enjoining silence on them. and in the third place, persons of african descent are notoriously less liable, on account of their lower intelligence, to seizures of insanity than persons gifted with higher intellect. but whether they could count upon the black to aid them was quite another matter. they did not for some time find an opportunity to put the matter to a test. supper was eaten and the boys, despite their anxiety, made a hearty meal. during its progress they conversed with their hosts, who talked quite rationally on all subjects but their fabulous gold mine. anyone coming across the party and not knowing the facts of the case would have taken them to be a jolly band of explorers or miners rather than what they were, two lunatics and two boys who were in their power. when he got an opportunity to do so, tom stole a look at rufus' face. it was a round, good-natured countenance, but for any expression that would give him a clew as to how rufus was inclined toward them, the boy might as well have regarded a graven image of ebony. after supper the two miners got out their pipes, but seth had not puffed his long when he suddenly sprang to his feet, dashed the pipe to the ground and burst out in an irritated tone: "here we are losing time that ought to be spent in work. this may cause us serious delay in getting the gold out; it may cost us billions of dollars before we get through." his companion's face lighted up with its odd, gleaming-eyed expression at the mention of the topic. "that's right, seth," he assented, "we ought to be at work. we may be keeping the youngsters here out of a fortune as well as ourselves." tom caught rufus' eye at this juncture and thought that he detected a friendly gleam in it, but he gave no sign and soon averted his gaze for fear it might attract the men's attention. it cannot be said that tom and jack felt much enthusiasm, but they made a good assumption of it and seized upon picks and shovels as if they were going to make their fortunes the next minute. the "mine," as has been said, was at the foot of the tall, conical peak. on close inspection, tom and jack were amazed at the amount of work the two fanatics had done on it. tons of dirt and gravel had been excavated. a deep hole ran right into the ground under the sharp pointed peak. "quite a hole, eh, boys?" asked stapleton in a satisfied tone. "indeed it is," assented tom. "why, you have done more work than i should have thought possible for two men to accomplish." "ah, we'll get along twice as fast now with four pairs of arms," chuckled poor, crazed stapleton gleefully. "the gold can't be far off, either." "but if we keep on," objected jack, hoping it would have some weight, "we shall undermine the whole of that conical mountain above there." the same crafty glitter that tom had been the first of the boys to note in stapleton's eyes now shone in those of his taciturn companion. "that's the scheme," explained seth, hastily but enthusiastically. "you and your friend will dig from this side. jim and i will start work on the other. in that way we'll meet halfway and we're bound to find the gold. we can't miss it." "good gracious," thought tom, "he's crazier than jim, and that's saying a whole lot. what a pickle we are in!" "come, let's go to work!" cried jim eagerly. it was easy to be seen that with their golden dream before their eyes, mere physical labor had no terrors for these men. they would work till they dropped before they abandoned their task. there was no help for it, and with the best grace they could tom and jack picked up their tools, jumped into the hole and began to work. the men watched them for a while. "that's fine," applauded jim; "that's the way to make the dirt fly. keep that up and we shan't grudge you your share of the gold. there's enough under here to make a hundred people millionaires." with that, jim and the other man set off to the other side of the conical peak. as this was quite some distance off, it will be seen that they planned to dig a subway on quite an extensive plan. in fact, the idea would have never entered into the head of a normal being. as they vanished tom quit work and leaned on his shovel. "well, i'll be jiggered! this is a fine go, isn't it, jack?" jack flung down his pick with a snort "those fellows belong in an asylum, that's where they ought to be. what are you grinning at? i don't see anything funny in all this." "i was just thinking that we came up here for a holiday, and it looks very much as if we were going to share the fate of those convicts who are condemned to the mines." "well, if you can see a joke in that, you've got a fine sense of humor, that's all i can say. condemned to the mines, eh? yes, and it looks uncommonly as if we'd get a life sentence, too." "come, don't be downcast, jack. after all, it might have been worse. they might have shot us." "humph! that's so, too; but i don't know that it would have been much worse than this. tunnel under this mountain, indeed! why it would take a hundred men a hundred years to do it!" "yes, and then it would fall on the top of them. but don't let's discuss that phase of the matter. this mountain will never be tunneled under." "how do you know?" "at any rate, not without assistance. but we can only make one attempt to get away." "why is that?" "for the simple reason that if one fails we'll never get another. we are dealing with lunatics, remember that, jack." "as if i could forget it! they're the worst pair of looneys i ever saw." "that being so, it won't do to take any chances. we must work and quiet their suspicions. then when the chance comes we must take it; but we must be sure it is the right chance." "in the meantime, what of the folks on the _yukon rover_?" "they will have to form the best theory they can to account for our absence; but i'm afraid that they will be worrying themselves to death." "that can't be helped. i'll bet they're not worrying any more than we are." "there's just one hopeful feature about this whole business," resumed tom, ignoring jack's irritable remark. "what's that?" "rufus, the negro. how can we utilize him?" "you think he is friendly?" "i can't be sure. at any rate, he's not crazy, and certain things made me think he might be disposed to aid us. but if he should, he'd be in danger, too, and----" "hey, you white folks down dar! how you lak shovelin' dirt, huh? das a po'ful big mountain you alls has got ter underminerate." they looked up. over the top of the excavation the round, black face of the negro who had been the topic of their talk and thoughts, was looking down at them with a broad grin that exposed a double row of gleaming white teeth. chapter xxix. condemned to the mines. "i should say it is," rejoined tom heartily, returning the fellow's good natured smile, "the new york subway was a child's game to it." "das right. dis gwine ter be reg'lar scrubway ef it don' turn out ter be a graveyard." "where are mr. stapleton and ingalls?" "roun' t'other side ob dis hill. i seen 'em frum up above. what' you all figger de matter wid dem?" "why, i think that their minds have been turned by this gold hunt, rufus. they're crazy." the negro laughed aloud. "das jus whar you all is puffickly right. dey's as crazy as two pertater bugs wid de prickly heat. but lawd bress you, you can't tell dem so. no sah! dey thinks dat ebberybody else am nutty but themselves. dat's dere collusion." "so we discovered." "wa'al, dey ain't no manner on ob use argyfyin' wid such folks." "no. the only thing is to agree with them," said tom with a sigh, but he was glad to see that the black appeared to be friendly. "ah specs dat work agrees with dem better dan it does wid you alls, howsomever," said the grinning negro, showing all his teeth in appreciation of his own joke. "naturally," said jack, "it's not what we'd choose, you can be sure, even were there gold down here, which i'm quite sure there isn't." "don' you go fo' to tell eiber ob dem dat," cried the negro. "dey liable as not to rile up an' polish you off. dey tink dat befo' long we all gwine ter be millionaires." "i'd hate to have to wait till that event comes off," said tom with feeling. "rufus," burst out jack, "we'll die if we have to stay here. we know, too, that they don't mean to let us leave." "dem's de truest words you ebber spoke," said rufus with conviction. "dey's so crazy dat dey tinks dat eberybody dat comes near dem is tryin' ter steal dere secret. as sho' as dey catch you tryin' to sneak off, dey plug you sho' as shootin'." "do they keep watch all night?" asked tom. "dey neber misses. yo' see, dey tink dat maybe in de night time somebody come sneakin' up here from nome or dawson maybe, and steal de gold what ain't dar." "are you ever on watch?" "ebery night. here's de rule. marse stapleton he watches till 'bout midnight. den he 'waken marse ingalls. he watch few hours. den dey kick me on de cocoanut an' ah watches till it am time to git de breakfuss. yes, sah, dat am de style each night." "rufus, are you our friend?" asked tom bluntly. "ah sho' am. yo' all am po'ful nice young gemmen an' ah hates ter see you in dis yar fixadicament." "then you are willing to help us escape?" "h-e-e-e-e-e-m, dat am a po'ful dangerous obfustertakin'." "we know it, but we count on your cleverness and good will." rufus grinned. "oh, ah's a clebber niggah, all right, ah is." "we know it. that's why we determined to throw ourselves on your good nature and friendliness." "ye-e-e-ah! ah spec's ah kin help you all, too. but see hyah, 'twont no ways do fer yo' and me ter seem too chummy. ef we do, dey spec's right off dat dar am a pusson ob cullah in de woodpile. ah'll act ugly toward you and spress de idee dat yo am no bettah dan po' low-down white trash. den dey neber tink what big idee circumambulate our mind." "that's a good plan," cried tom heartily to their dusky ally. "why not put it into execution to-night? my brother and i are in a hurry to get back to our friends. two of them are sick." "ah dat so? well, what you alls gib me if ah helps yo' in dis breakin' ob de jail?" "i have ten dollars in my pocket. how much have you, jack?" "i have five-fifty," responded jack. "golly gumption! das mo' real money dan ah've seen fo' many a moon," grinned the negro. "dey all de time talk ob millions an' plum fo'git ter pay me any wages." "well, that fifteen-fifty is yours if you aid us, rufus. will you do it?" "will ah do it? kin a duck swim?" inquired rufus with scorn. "now when ah'm on duty as sentinel to-night," went on the negro, delighted to have an opportunity to show his skill in strategy, "yo' alls jes' sneak up behin' me and knock mah head in." "hold on! not quite as bad as that!" exclaimed jack. "well, ah don' mean ter knock all mah head in," modified rufus, "jes a part ob it. den yo' tie mah han's, shove yo rifles down mah throat, and leab me dah. das a fine plan!" "it certainly is. we'll put it into execution to-night," declared tom delightedly. rufus' eyes shone with excitement. "an'-an' ah tell you' what ah do," he cried. "ah persuade dem two crazy loons dat de right ting to do wid yo' am to shoot yo' on de spot; dat'll show 'em dat i ain't got no use fo' you." "wait a minute," cried jack. "don't do that, they might take you at your word and----" "das so--das so. well, den ah persuade dem dat de right ting ter do am ter bang you ober de head wid a shobel." "no, that would be just as bad," laughed tom. "i tell you, rufus, when you come on watch we'll just sneak out, tie and gag you, and then you leave the rest to us." "das all right," grinned the negro. "yo' smart pair ob boys an' kin fix tings all right. in de meantime, ah acts fearful mean to yo' all. guess ah better be goin' now. dey might come snoopin' round', and it wouldn't do fer ter catch us in confabulation. no sah!" he shuffled hastily off and the boys exchanged delighted glances. just when things looked blackest, it began to appear as if there were a chance, and a good one, too, of their escaping from the grip of the two lunatics. "well, it all goes to show that one never knows from what quarter aid is going to come," said tom as he and jack fell to on their work. "that black negro, ugly as he is, appears more beautiful to me right now than an angel." "hush! here come those two crazy gold diggers back again," interrupted jack, as footsteps crunched over the gravel above the excavation. chapter xxx. the grasp of circumstance. "hard at work, eh?" asked stapleton, as he looked over the edge of the hole. "yes, we're in a hurry to get to that gold," rejoined tom cheerfully. "that's right. that's the spirit to show," exclaimed ingalls in a way that for him was quite hearty. "how soon do you think we'll strike it?" asked jack. "in a few days sure. you're not getting impatient?" "no, but when a fellow feels he's right close to a fortune, he can't help being anxious to close his fists on it as quickly as possible," said tom. "well, you might as well knock off now," said stapleton. "we'll have a bite of lunch and then turn in." the boys came out of the pit, and you may be sure that they did not display much reluctance in doing so. they followed stapleton and his partner up to the cave, where rufus had some hot tea brewed and the remains of the supper to furnish them with a snack. as the boys drank their tea, the negro looked at them scowlingly. his every action showed dislike and hatred of the boys. he played his part to perfection, yet never made the mistake of overacting it. after their lunch the boys declared that they felt so sleepy that they could slumber like logs till morning. they were shown a place to lay their blankets by rufus, who grumbled at having to wait on them, to the huge delight of stapleton and his partner. "but we must be up early," said stapleton, "the rising sun must find us out with our picks and shovels." "oh, we'll be on the job," declared tom heartily. "with that gold so near to hand it'll be all we can do to keep from dreaming about it all night." "well, you did a hard day's work to-day," observed ingalls; "if you keep that up we'll have no cause for complaint." the boys noticed that the sleeping place assigned to them was in the rear of the cavern. the significance of this did not escape them. the men were seemingly no longer suspicious of them, but they were taking no chances. before they retired, stapleton and ingalls took a survey from the door of the cave with their spyglass. while they were doing this, rufus passed swiftly by the boys and dropped a whispered message. "yo' mus' try it to-night when i am in de watch. ah'll be lookin' for yo'." as he spoke the two men came back into the cavern and began to dispose their sleeping things. while stapleton took his place on watch, ingalls and rufus laid down and were soon off into slumberland. strange to say the boys, too, slept although their feelings were wrought up almost to the snapping point. they did not wake till they heard ingalls arousing rufus with a kick. "get up you lazy, black roustabout. it's time to go on watch." "wha's de mattah?" yawned out rufus sleepily. "hush! don't make so much noise. you'll wake the boys." "sho'! who cares fo' dem? why don' dey go watch same as de res' ob us? wha fo' dey lowed ter sleep sixty-leben weeks while we alls don' git no sleep at all?" rufus fairly roared the words out, so anxious was he that the boys should not fail to wake up, although, had he known it, they were wide awake and trembling with the tension of waiting till the decisive moment arrived. rufus grumblingly took up his watch while ingalls rolled himself in his blankets. tom rolled over on his side so that he was facing jack. "all ready, jack?" "sure. are you?" "yes, but we must wait till they are sound asleep. the racket that nigger made may have awakened stapleton." "well, don't go to sleep again while we are waiting." "not likely. i was never more wide awake in my life." "same here. i can hardly wait till the moment comes." although it was early morning after the brief alaskan night, still it was almost quite dark in the cave, which made the boys think that it must be overcast outside. however, this was so much the better for their plans, and they lay without stirring till the regular breathing of ingalls and the steady continued snoring of his partner showed that both men were asleep. but although the time had now arrived for them to make their escape, there was still an obstacle in their path. the cavern was so dark that it was hard to see where the men lay, and both boys knew that one touch of the foot against those sleeping forms and their plan would be doomed to disaster. in the event of awaking them, both men would be upon the two youths like tigers, and they might expect just as much mercy from the two crazed gold-diggers, who would surely think that the boys were sneaking off to carry their secret to the outside world. cautiously they arose from their blankets, and recollecting where they had left their rifles they reached out for them, for without these weapons it would be impossible for them to make the long journey back to the yukon and provide themselves with food. this done, they began stepping out with the utmost delicacy. they did not dare to light a match, as this would have undoubtedly awakened the men who appeared to be restless sleepers. so they had to proceed in the dark. it was ticklish work. one false step and the men would be upon them. they stepped out like cats on ice, raising each foot high in the air as it was advanced. tom reached the entrance of the cavern in safety without having aroused either of the sleepers. jack was not so lucky. his foot encountered ingalls's body and the man muttered something in his sleep. for one dreadful instant jack thought that the man was awake. his heart stood still and he fingered his rifle nervously. but a minute later he knew that it had been a false alarm and speedily thereafter he joined his brother at the cave mouth. silhouetted against the dark sky was the form of rufus. both boys' hearts gave a glad bound at the sight of him. the negro said nothing, but wiggled his hand in front of his face as though to signify that he was glad to see them. then beckoning to them mysteriously, he asked the entirely superfluous question: "am yo' hyah?" equally unnecessarily tom made his response. "we are both here, as you can see, rufus." "gollyumption, ain't it as dark as de ten plagues ob egyup? but dat am a good ting fo' yo' alls. de darker de better till yo' gits clar away." "that's so. well, here's your money, rufus, and thank you. but how about tying you?" "gracious, ah plum forgot dat part ob de business! hyah! take dis rope and lace me up good an' tight. don' min' mah feelin's. ah'm durable." the negro was trussed up hand and foot by the boys, who then pressed his hand, and with more murmured thanks to him they slipped away into the darkness. they had a general idea of the lay of the land and made off as fast as they could in the direction that tom judged was the correct one. as they went, their hearts were filled with genuine thankfulness toward the black-skinned friend who had helped them out of a bad dilemma. and now, as we shall not see rufus or his masters again, we may as well take this opportunity of detailing their future careers. following the discovery that the boys had gone, leaving rufus tied and gagged, the fury of the two men knew no bounds. had they discovered the boys then, there is no question but they would have killed them. but although they ranged the woods they did not discover any trace of the two lads, and being eager to get back to their crazy task of undermining the mountain, they soon gave up the search. they were hastened in this by their insane fears that the boys would communicate the secret of their camp to outsiders, and that a horde of gold-seekers would swoop down on dead man's mine and rob them of their so-called rightful gains. rufus had acted his part perfectly, and not for an instant did they suspect him. his groans and moans and imprecations upon the heads of the runaways left no room to doubt that he was even more affected by their escape than his masters. "de scan'lous willians des crep' up behin' me and caught me de worses' wallop ober de ear dat you eber felt," he said. "den dey knock me down an' tie me up de way yo' fin' me. which way did dey go? why, dat 'a way." and rufus pointed in exactly the contrary direction to that in which the young runaways had gone. deeming it a useless task to carry the pursuit any further, the two men, as has been said, resumed their disordered operations on the mine. day by day their insanity became more and more marked, till finally they hardly gave themselves time to eat or sleep in the belief that the boys would soon be back with a party of men to steal the mine. they worked all day and finally all night, sleeping a few winks in the mine itself and having rufus bring them scanty mouthfuls of food. it was a true tragedy of the far north that now began to draw toward a close. rufus pleaded with the two men, for whom he really cherished an affection, to listen to reason, but they were too far gone for that. their every thought now was centered on the gold, which they were certain was close at hand. in the strength of their delirium they actually undermined a great part of the conical hill, a task that would have been thought almost impossible. then one morning the end came. rufus went to the pit to beg the men, who had been working for twenty hours on a stretch, to leave off for a time and get a little rest. he found them lying in the excavation side by side, each with a shovel in his hand, just as he had dropped. rufus gave them as fitting a burial as he could, and then, as many a man has done before, he uttered a deep curse against gold, the love of which was the infernal cause of all the trouble. then making up his few possessions into a bundle, he made his way out to the settlements with his strange story. and so ended two careers which might have been useful and dignified had it not been for the lure of gold that ensnares so many men and breaks so many promising lives. jim stapleton and seth ingalls were not the first men to yield up their lives at the behest of the demon of gold-seeking, and the most pathetic part of their story is that it is exactly true as related in this volume. the author heard it while in the yukon some years ago, along with many other tales of the same sort. as for the boys, they endured many hardships and not a few perils on their way back to the _yukon rover_. but in due course, thin, half-famished and footsore they reached the craft. with what a warm welcome they were received may be readily imagined. they found mr. dacre quite recovered and sandy as chipper as ever. the days that ensued were filled with hunting, fishing and long tramps along the trap-line, till every one of the lads was muscled like an athlete and brown as a berry. one late august morning the first breath of the northern winter came down upon them. the boys hailed it with delight, for they knew then that the real business of their strange voyage on the yukon was about to begin. with winter would come the trapping season and the long-awaited silver foxes. the boys looked forward eagerly to the time when they could glide with snowshoes through the frozen woods on their visits to the traps. but they little knew what the winter held in store for them. it was not to be all sport and jollity. when the iron hand of the frost king closes on the far northland, the time has arrived when men and boys are tried on no common anvil to see of what metal they be. ahead of the lads lay many strange experiences and perils in the frozen wilds. those who care to read of their adventurous winter in the yukon country may do so in the next volume of this series, entitled the bungalow boys "north of fifty-three." the end. oakdale academy series stories of modern school sports by morgan scott. cloth bound. illustrated. price, 60c. per vol., postpaid ben stone at oakdale. under peculiarly trying circumstances ben stone wins his way at oakdale academy, and at the same time enlists our sympathy, interest and respect. through the enmity of bern hayden, the loyalty of roger eliot and the clever work of the "sleuth," ben is falsely accused, championed and vindicated. boys of oakdale academy. "one thing i will claim, and that is that all grants fight open and square and there never was a sneak among them." it was rodney grant, of texas, who made the claim to his friend, ben stone, and this story shows how he proved the truth of this statement in the face of apparent evidence to the contrary. rival pitchers of oakdale. baseball is the main theme of this interesting narrative, and that means not only clear and clever descriptions of thrilling games, but an intimate acquaintance with the members of the teams who played them. the oakdale boys were ambitious and loyal, and some were even disgruntled and jealous, but earnest, persistent work won out. oakdale boys in camp. the typical vacation is the one that means much freedom, little restriction, and immediate contact with "all outdoors." these conditions prevailed in the summer camp of the oakdale boys and made it a scene of lively interest. the great oakdale mystery. the "sleuth" scents a mystery! he "follows his nose." the plot thickens! he makes deductions. there are surprises for the reader--and for the "sleuth," as well. new boys at oakdale. a new element creeps into oakdale with another year's registration of students. the old and the new standards of conduct in and out of school meet, battle, and cause sweeping changes in the lives of several of the boys. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york boy inventors series stories of skill and ingenuity by richard bonner cloth bound. illustrated. price, 50c. per vol., postpaid the boy inventors' wireless telegraph. blest with natural curiosity,--sometimes called the instinct of investigation,--favored with golden opportunity, and gifted with creative ability, the boy inventors meet emergencies and contrive mechanical wonders that interest and convince the reader because they always "work" when put to the test. the boy inventors' vanishing gun. a thought, a belief, an experiment; discouragement, hope, effort and final success--this is the history of many an invention; a history in which excitement, competition, danger, despair and persistence figure. this merely suggests the circumstances which draw the daring boy inventors into strange experiences and startling adventures, and which demonstrate the practical use of their vanishing gun. the boy inventors' diving torpedo boat. as in the previous stories of the boy inventors, new and interesting triumphs of mechanism are produced which become immediately valuable, and the stage for their proving and testing is again the water. on the surface and below it, the boys have jolly, contagious fun, and the story of their serious, purposeful inventions challenge the reader's deepest attention. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york border boys series mexican and canadian frontier series by fremont b. deering. cloth bound. illustrated. price, 50c. per vol., postpaid the border boys on the trail. what it meant to make an enemy of black ramon de barios--that is the problem that jack merrill and his friends, including coyote pete, face in this exciting tale. the border boys across the frontier. read of the haunted mesa and its mysteries, of the subterranean river and its strange uses, of the value of gasolene and steam "in running the gauntlet," and you will feel that not even the ancient splendors of the old world can furnish a better setting for romantic action than the border of the new. the border boys with the mexican rangers. as every day is making history--faster, it is said, than ever before--so books that keep pace with the changes are full of rapid action and accurate facts. this book deals with lively times on the mexican border. the border boys with the texas rangers. the border boys have already had much excitement and adventure in their lives, but all this has served to prepare them for the experiences related in this volume. they are stronger, braver and more resourceful than ever, and the exigencies of their life in connection with the texas rangers demand all their trained ability. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york dreadnought boys series tales of the new navy by capt. wilbur lawton author of "boy aviators series." cloth bound. illustrated. price, 50c. per vol., postpaid the dreadnought boys on battle practice. especially interesting and timely is this book which introduces the reader with its heroes, ned and herc, to the great ships of modern warfare and to the intimate life and surprising adventures of uncle sam's sailors. the dreadnought boys aboard a destroyer. in this story real dangers threaten and the boys' patriotism is tested in a peculiar international tangle. the scene is laid on the south american coast. the dreadnought boys on a submarine. to the inventive genius--trade-school boy or mechanic--this story has special charm, perhaps, but to every reader its mystery and clever action are fascinating. the dreadnought boys on aero service. among the volunteers accepted for areo service are ned and herc. their perilous adventures are not confined to the air, however, although they make daring and notable flights in the name of the government; nor are they always able to fly beyond the reach of their old "enemies," who are also airmen. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york bungalow boys series live stories of outdoor life by dexter j. forrester. cloth bound. illustrated. price, 50c. per vol., postpaid the bungalow boys. how the bungalow boys received their title and how they retained the right to it in spite of much opposition makes a lively narrative for lively boys. the bungalow boys marooned in the tropics. a real treasure hunt of the most thrilling kind, with a sunken spanish galleon as its object, makes a subject of intense interest at any time, but add to that a band of desperate men, a dark plot and a devil fish, and you have the combination that brings strange adventures into the lives of the bungalow boys. the bungalow boys in the great north west. the clever assistance of a young detective saves the boys from the clutches of chinese smugglers, of whose nefarious trade they know too much. how the professor's invention relieves a critical situation is also an exciting incident of this book. the bungalow boys on the great lakes. the bungalow boys start out for a quiet cruise on the great lakes and a visit to an island. a storm and a band of wreckers interfere with the serenity of their trip, and a submarine adds zest and adventure to it. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york frank armstrong series twentieth century athletic stories by mathew m. colton. cloth bound. illustrated. price, 60c. per vol., postpaid frank armstrong's vacation. how frank's summer experience with his boy friends make him into a sturdy young athlete through swimming, boating, and baseball contests, and a tramp through the everglades, is the subject of this splendid story. frank armstrong at queens. we find among the jolly boys at queen's school, frank, the student-athlete, jimmy, the baseball enthusiast, and lewis, the unconsciously-funny youth who furnishes comedy for every page that bears his name. fall and winter sports between intensely rival school teams are expertly described. frank armstrong's second term. the gymnasium, the track and the field make the background for the stirring events of this volume, in which david, jimmy, lewis, the "wee one" and the "codfish" figure, while frank "saves the day." frank armstrong, drop kicker. with the same persistent determination that won him success in swimming, running and baseball playing, frank armstrong acquired the art of "drop kicking," and the queen's football team profits thereby. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. hurst & company--publishers--new york * * * * * transcriber's note: archaic and inconsistent punctuation, syntax, and spelling have been retained. version by al haines. the son of the wolf jack london 1900 contains the white silence the son of the wolf the men of forty mile in a far country to the man on the trail the priestly prerogative the wisdom of the trail the wife of a king an odyssey of the north the white silence 'carmen won't last more than a couple of days.' mason spat out a chunk of ice and surveyed the poor animal ruefully, then put her foot in his mouth and proceeded to bite out the ice which clustered cruelly between the toes. 'i never saw a dog with a highfalutin' name that ever was worth a rap,' he said, as he concluded his task and shoved her aside. 'they just fade away and die under the responsibility. did ye ever see one go wrong with a sensible name like cassiar, siwash, or husky? no, sir! take a look at shookum here, he's--' snap! the lean brute flashed up, the white teeth just missing mason's throat. 'ye will, will ye?' a shrewd clout behind the ear with the butt of the dog whip stretched the animal in the snow, quivering softly, a yellow slaver dripping from its fangs. 'as i was saying, just look at shookum here--he's got the spirit. bet ye he eats carmen before the week's out.' 'i'll bank another proposition against that,' replied malemute kid, reversing the frozen bread placed before the fire to thaw. 'we'll eat shookum before the trip is over. what d'ye say, ruth?' the indian woman settled the coffee with a piece of ice, glanced from malemute kid to her husband, then at the dogs, but vouchsafed no reply. it was such a palpable truism that none was necessary. two hundred miles of unbroken trail in prospect, with a scant six days' grub for themselves and none for the dogs, could admit no other alternative. the two men and the woman grouped about the fire and began their meager meal. the dogs lay in their harnesses for it was a midday halt, and watched each mouthful enviously. 'no more lunches after today,' said malemute kid. 'and we've got to keep a close eye on the dogs--they're getting vicious. they'd just as soon pull a fellow down as not, if they get a chance.' 'and i was president of an epworth once, and taught in the sunday school.' having irrelevantly delivered himself of this, mason fell into a dreamy contemplation of his steaming moccasins, but was aroused by ruth filling his cup. 'thank god, we've got slathers of tea! i've seen it growing, down in tennessee. what wouldn't i give for a hot corn pone just now! never mind, ruth; you won't starve much longer, nor wear moccasins either.' the woman threw off her gloom at this, and in her eyes welled up a great love for her white lord--the first white man she had ever seen--the first man whom she had known to treat a woman as something better than a mere animal or beast of burden. 'yes, ruth,' continued her husband, having recourse to the macaronic jargon in which it was alone possible for them to understand each other; 'wait till we clean up and pull for the outside. we'll take the white man's canoe and go to the salt water. yes, bad water, rough water--great mountains dance up and down all the time. and so big, so far, so far away--you travel ten sleep, twenty sleep, forty sleep'--he graphically enumerated the days on his fingers--'all the time water, bad water. then you come to great village, plenty people, just the same mosquitoes next summer. wigwams oh, so high--ten, twenty pines. 'hi-yu skookum!' he paused impotently, cast an appealing glance at malemute kid, then laboriously placed the twenty pines, end on end, by sign language. malemute kid smiled with cheery cynicism; but ruth's eyes were wide with wonder, and with pleasure; for she half believed he was joking, and such condescension pleased her poor woman's heart. 'and then you step into a--a box, and pouf! up you go.' he tossed his empty cup in the air by way of illustration and, as he deftly caught it, cried: 'and biff! down you come. oh, great medicine men! you go fort yukon. i go arctic city--twenty-five sleep--big string, all the time--i catch him string--i say, "hello, ruth! how are ye?"--and you say, "is that my good husband?"--and i say, "yes"--and you say, "no can bake good bread, no more soda"--then i say, "look in cache, under flour; good-by." you look and catch plenty soda. all the time you fort yukon, me arctic city. hi-yu medicine man!' ruth smiled so ingenuously at the fairy story that both men burst into laughter. a row among the dogs cut short the wonders of the outside, and by the time the snarling combatants were separated, she had lashed the sleds and all was ready for the trail.--'mush! baldy! hi! mush on!' mason worked his whip smartly and, as the dogs whined low in the traces, broke out the sled with the gee pole. ruth followed with the second team, leaving malemute kid, who had helped her start, to bring up the rear. strong man, brute that he was, capable of felling an ox at a blow, he could not bear to beat the poor animals, but humored them as a dog driver rarely does--nay, almost wept with them in their misery. 'come, mush on there, you poor sore-footed brutes!' he murmured, after several ineffectual attempts to start the load. but his patience was at last rewarded, and though whimpering with pain, they hastened to join their fellows. no more conversation; the toil of the trail will not permit such extravagance. and of all deadening labors, that of the northland trail is the worst. happy is the man who can weather a day's travel at the price of silence, and that on a beaten track. and of all heartbreaking labors, that of breaking trail is the worst. at every step the great webbed shoe sinks till the snow is level with the knee. then up, straight up, the deviation of a fraction of an inch being a certain precursor of disaster, the snowshoe must be lifted till the surface is cleared; then forward, down, and the other foot is raised perpendicularly for the matter of half a yard. he who tries this for the first time, if haply he avoids bringing his shoes in dangerous propinquity and measures not his length on the treacherous footing, will give up exhausted at the end of a hundred yards; he who can keep out of the way of the dogs for a whole day may well crawl into his sleeping bag with a clear conscience and a pride which passeth all understanding; and he who travels twenty sleeps on the long trail is a man whom the gods may envy. the afternoon wore on, and with the awe, born of the white silence, the voiceless travelers bent to their work. nature has many tricks wherewith she convinces man of his finity--the ceaseless flow of the tides, the fury of the storm, the shock of the earthquake, the long roll of heaven's artillery--but the most tremendous, the most stupefying of all, is the passive phase of the white silence. all movement ceases, the sky clears, the heavens are as brass; the slightest whisper seems sacrilege, and man becomes timid, affrighted at the sound of his own voice. sole speck of life journeying across the ghostly wastes of a dead world, he trembles at his audacity, realizes that his is a maggot's life, nothing more. strange thoughts arise unsummoned, and the mystery of all things strives for utterance. and the fear of death, of god, of the universe, comes over him--the hope of the resurrection and the life, the yearning for immortality, the vain striving of the imprisoned essence--it is then, if ever, man walks alone with god. so wore the day away. the river took a great bend, and mason headed his team for the cutoff across the narrow neck of land. but the dogs balked at the high bank. again and again, though ruth and malemute kid were shoving on the sled, they slipped back. then came the concerted effort. the miserable creatures, weak from hunger, exerted their last strength. up--up--the sled poised on the top of the bank; but the leader swung the string of dogs behind him to the right, fouling mason's snowshoes. the result was grievous. mason was whipped off his feet; one of the dogs fell in the traces; and the sled toppled back, dragging everything to the bottom again. slash! the whip fell among the dogs savagely, especially upon the one which had fallen. 'don't,--mason,' entreated malemute kid; 'the poor devil's on its last legs. wait and we'll put my team on.' mason deliberately withheld the whip till the last word had fallen, then out flashed the long lash, completely curling about the offending creature's body. carmen--for it was carmen--cowered in the snow, cried piteously, then rolled over on her side. it was a tragic moment, a pitiful incident of the trail--a dying dog, two comrades in anger. ruth glanced solicitously from man to man. but malemute kid restrained himself, though there was a world of reproach in his eyes, and, bending over the dog, cut the traces. no word was spoken. the teams were doublespanned and the difficulty overcome; the sleds were under way again, the dying dog dragging herself along in the rear. as long as an animal can travel, it is not shot, and this last chance is accorded it--the crawling into camp, if it can, in the hope of a moose being killed. already penitent for his angry action, but too stubborn to make amends, mason toiled on at the head of the cavalcade, little dreaming that danger hovered in the air. the timber clustered thick in the sheltered bottom, and through this they threaded their way. fifty feet or more from the trail towered a lofty pine. for generations it had stood there, and for generations destiny had had this one end in view--perhaps the same had been decreed of mason. he stooped to fasten the loosened thong of his moccasin. the sleds came to a halt, and the dogs lay down in the snow without a whimper. the stillness was weird; not a breath rustled the frost-encrusted forest; the cold and silence of outer space had chilled the heart and smote the trembling lips of nature. a sigh pulsed through the air--they did not seem to actually hear it, but rather felt it, like the premonition of movement in a motionless void. then the great tree, burdened with its weight of years and snow, played its last part in the tragedy of life. he heard the warning crash and attempted to spring up but, almost erect, caught the blow squarely on the shoulder. the sudden danger, the quick death--how often had malemute kid faced it! the pine needles were still quivering as he gave his commands and sprang into action. nor did the indian girl faint or raise her voice in idle wailing, as might many of her white sisters. at his order, she threw her weight on the end of a quickly extemporized handspike, easing the pressure and listening to her husband's groans, while malemute kid attacked the tree with his ax. the steel rang merrily as it bit into the frozen trunk, each stroke being accompanied by a forced, audible respiration, the 'huh!' 'huh!' of the woodsman. at last the kid laid the pitiable thing that was once a man in the snow. but worse than his comrade's pain was the dumb anguish in the woman's face, the blended look of hopeful, hopeless query. little was said; those of the northland are early taught the futility of words and the inestimable value of deeds. with the temperature at sixty-five below zero, a man cannot lie many minutes in the snow and live. so the sled lashings were cut, and the sufferer, rolled in furs, laid on a couch of boughs. before him roared a fire, built of the very wood which wrought the mishap. behind and partially over him was stretched the primitive fly--a piece of canvas, which caught the radiating heat and threw it back and down upon him--a trick which men may know who study physics at the fount. and men who have shared their bed with death know when the call is sounded. mason was terribly crushed. the most cursory examination revealed it. his right arm, leg, and back were broken; his limbs were paralyzed from the hips; and the likelihood of internal injuries was large. an occasional moan was his only sign of life. no hope; nothing to be done. the pitiless night crept slowly by--ruth's portion, the despairing stoicism of her race, and malemute kid adding new lines to his face of bronze. in fact, mason suffered least of all, for he spent his time in eastern tennessee, in the great smoky mountains, living over the scenes of his childhood. and most pathetic was the melody of his long-forgotten southern vernacular, as he raved of swimming holes and coon hunts and watermelon raids. it was as greek to ruth, but the kid understood and felt--felt as only one can feel who has been shut out for years from all that civilization means. morning brought consciousness to the stricken man, and malemute kid bent closer to catch his whispers. 'you remember when we foregathered on the tanana, four years come next ice run? i didn't care so much for her then. it was more like she was pretty, and there was a smack of excitement about it, i think. but d'ye know, i've come to think a heap of her. she's been a good wife to me, always at my shoulder in the pinch. and when it comes to trading, you know there isn't her equal. d'ye recollect the time she shot the moosehorn rapids to pull you and me off that rock, the bullets whipping the water like hailstones?--and the time of the famine at nuklukyeto?--when she raced the ice run to bring the news? 'yes, she's been a good wife to me, better'n that other one. didn't know i'd been there? 'never told you, eh? well, i tried it once, down in the states. that's why i'm here. been raised together, too. i came away to give her a chance for divorce. she got it. 'but that's got nothing to do with ruth. i had thought of cleaning up and pulling for the outside next year--her and i--but it's too late. don't send her back to her people, kid. it's beastly hard for a woman to go back. think of it!--nearly four years on our bacon and beans and flour and dried fruit, and then to go back to her fish and caribou. it's not good for her to have tried our ways, to come to know they're better'n her people's, and then return to them. take care of her, kid, why don't you--but no, you always fought shy of them--and you never told me why you came to this country. be kind to her, and send her back to the states as soon as you can. but fix it so she can come back--liable to get homesick, you know. 'and the youngster--it's drawn us closer, kid. i only hope it is a boy. think of it!--flesh of my flesh, kid. he mustn't stop in this country. and if it's a girl, why, she can't. sell my furs; they'll fetch at least five thousand, and i've got as much more with the company. and handle my interests with yours. i think that bench claim will show up. see that he gets a good schooling; and kid, above all, don't let him come back. this country was not made for white men. 'i'm a gone man, kid. three or four sleeps at the best. you've got to go on. you must go on! remember, it's my wife, it's my boy--o god! i hope it's a boy! you can't stay by me--and i charge you, a dying man, to pull on.' 'give me three days,' pleaded malemute kid. 'you may change for the better; something may turn up.' 'no.' 'just three days.' 'you must pull on.' 'two days.' 'it's my wife and my boy, kid. you would not ask it.' 'one day.' 'no, no! i charge--' 'only one day. we can shave it through on the grub, and i might knock over a moose.' 'no--all right; one day, but not a minute more. and, kid, don't--don't leave me to face it alone. just a shot, one pull on the trigger. you understand. think of it! think of it! flesh of my flesh, and i'll never live to see him! 'send ruth here. i want to say good-by and tell her that she must think of the boy and not wait till i'm dead. she might refuse to go with you if i didn't. goodby, old man; good-by. 'kid! i say--a--sink a hole above the pup, next to the slide. i panned out forty cents on my shovel there. 'and, kid!' he stooped lower to catch the last faint words, the dying man's surrender of his pride. 'i'm sorry--for--you know--carmen.' leaving the girl crying softly over her man, malemute kid slipped into his parka and snowshoes, tucked his rifle under his arm, and crept away into the forest. he was no tyro in the stern sorrows of the northland, but never had he faced so stiff a problem as this. in the abstract, it was a plain, mathematical proposition--three possible lives as against one doomed one. but now he hesitated. for five years, shoulder to shoulder, on the rivers and trails, in the camps and mines, facing death by field and flood and famine, had they knitted the bonds of their comradeship. so close was the tie that he had often been conscious of a vague jealousy of ruth, from the first time she had come between. and now it must be severed by his own hand. though he prayed for a moose, just one moose, all game seemed to have deserted the land, and nightfall found the exhausted man crawling into camp, lighthanded, heavyhearted. an uproar from the dogs and shrill cries from ruth hastened him. bursting into the camp, he saw the girl in the midst of the snarling pack, laying about her with an ax. the dogs had broken the iron rule of their masters and were rushing the grub. he joined the issue with his rifle reversed, and the hoary game of natural selection was played out with all the ruthlessness of its primeval environment. rifle and ax went up and down, hit or missed with monotonous regularity; lithe bodies flashed, with wild eyes and dripping fangs; and man and beast fought for supremacy to the bitterest conclusion. then the beaten brutes crept to the edge of the firelight, licking their wounds, voicing their misery to the stars. the whole stock of dried salmon had been devoured, and perhaps five pounds of flour remained to tide them over two hundred miles of wilderness. ruth returned to her husband, while malemute kid cut up the warm body of one of the dogs, the skull of which had been crushed by the ax. every portion was carefully put away, save the hide and offal, which were cast to his fellows of the moment before. morning brought fresh trouble. the animals were turning on each other. carmen, who still clung to her slender thread of life, was downed by the pack. the lash fell among them unheeded. they cringed and cried under the blows, but refused to scatter till the last wretched bit had disappeared--bones, hide, hair, everything. malemute kid went about his work, listening to mason, who was back in tennessee, delivering tangled discourses and wild exhortations to his brethren of other days. taking advantage of neighboring pines, he worked rapidly, and ruth watched him make a cache similar to those sometimes used by hunters to preserve their meat from the wolverines and dogs. one after the other, he bent the tops of two small pines toward each other and nearly to the ground, making them fast with thongs of moosehide. then he beat the dogs into submission and harnessed them to two of the sleds, loading the same with everything but the furs which enveloped mason. these he wrapped and lashed tightly about him, fastening either end of the robes to the bent pines. a single stroke of his hunting knife would release them and send the body high in the air. ruth had received her husband's last wishes and made no struggle. poor girl, she had learned the lesson of obedience well. from a child, she had bowed, and seen all women bow, to the lords of creation, and it did not seem in the nature of things for woman to resist. the kid permitted her one outburst of grief, as she kissed her husband--her own people had no such custom--then led her to the foremost sled and helped her into her snowshoes. blindly, instinctively, she took the gee pole and whip, and 'mushed' the dogs out on the trail. then he returned to mason, who had fallen into a coma, and long after she was out of sight crouched by the fire, waiting, hoping, praying for his comrade to die. it is not pleasant to be alone with painful thoughts in the white silence. the silence of gloom is merciful, shrouding one as with protection and breathing a thousand intangible sympathies; but the bright white silence, clear and cold, under steely skies, is pitiless. an hour passed--two hours--but the man would not die. at high noon the sun, without raising its rim above the southern horizon, threw a suggestion of fire athwart the heavens, then quickly drew it back. malemute kid roused and dragged himself to his comrade's side. he cast one glance about him. the white silence seemed to sneer, and a great fear came upon him. there was a sharp report; mason swung into his aerial sepulcher, and malemute kid lashed the dogs into a wild gallop as he fled across the snow. the son of the wolf man rarely places a proper valuation upon his womankind, at least not until deprived of them. he has no conception of the subtle atmosphere exhaled by the sex feminine, so long as he bathes in it; but let it be withdrawn, and an ever-growing void begins to manifest itself in his existence, and he becomes hungry, in a vague sort of way, for a something so indefinite that he cannot characterize it. if his comrades have no more experience than himself, they will shake their heads dubiously and dose him with strong physic. but the hunger will continue and become stronger; he will lose interest in the things of his everyday life and wax morbid; and one day, when the emptiness has become unbearable, a revelation will dawn upon him. in the yukon country, when this comes to pass, the man usually provisions a poling boat, if it is summer, and if winter, harnesses his dogs, and heads for the southland. a few months later, supposing him to be possessed of a faith in the country, he returns with a wife to share with him in that faith, and incidentally in his hardships. this but serves to show the innate selfishness of man. it also brings us to the trouble of 'scruff' mackenzie, which occurred in the old days, before the country was stampeded and staked by a tidal-wave of the che-cha-quas, and when the klondike's only claim to notice was its salmon fisheries. 'scruff' mackenzie bore the earmarks of a frontier birth and a frontier life. his face was stamped with twenty-five years of incessant struggle with nature in her wildest moods,--the last two, the wildest and hardest of all, having been spent in groping for the gold which lies in the shadow of the arctic circle. when the yearning sickness came upon him, he was not surprised, for he was a practical man and had seen other men thus stricken. but he showed no sign of his malady, save that he worked harder. all summer he fought mosquitoes and washed the sure-thing bars of the stuart river for a double grubstake. then he floated a raft of houselogs down the yukon to forty mile, and put together as comfortable a cabin as any the camp could boast of. in fact, it showed such cozy promise that many men elected to be his partner and to come and live with him. but he crushed their aspirations with rough speech, peculiar for its strength and brevity, and bought a double supply of grub from the trading-post. as has been noted, 'scruff' mackenzie was a practical man. if he wanted a thing he usually got it, but in doing so, went no farther out of his way than was necessary. though a son of toil and hardship, he was averse to a journey of six hundred miles on the ice, a second of two thousand miles on the ocean, and still a third thousand miles or so to his last stamping-grounds,--all in the mere quest of a wife. life was too short. so he rounded up his dogs, lashed a curious freight to his sled, and faced across the divide whose westward slopes were drained by the head-reaches of the tanana. he was a sturdy traveler, and his wolf-dogs could work harder and travel farther on less grub than any other team in the yukon. three weeks later he strode into a hunting-camp of the upper tanana sticks. they marveled at his temerity; for they had a bad name and had been known to kill white men for as trifling a thing as a sharp ax or a broken rifle. but he went among them single-handed, his bearing being a delicious composite of humility, familiarity, sang-froid, and insolence. it required a deft hand and deep knowledge of the barbaric mind effectually to handle such diverse weapons; but he was a past-master in the art, knowing when to conciliate and when to threaten with jove-like wrath. he first made obeisance to the chief thling-tinneh, presenting him with a couple of pounds of black tea and tobacco, and thereby winning his most cordial regard. then he mingled with the men and maidens, and that night gave a potlach. the snow was beaten down in the form of an oblong, perhaps a hundred feet in length and quarter as many across. down the center a long fire was built, while either side was carpeted with spruce boughs. the lodges were forsaken, and the fivescore or so members of the tribe gave tongue to their folk-chants in honor of their guest. 'scruff' mackenzie's two years had taught him the not many hundred words of their vocabulary, and he had likewise conquered their deep gutturals, their japanese idioms, constructions, and honorific and agglutinative particles. so he made oration after their manner, satisfying their instinctive poetry-love with crude flights of eloquence and metaphorical contortions. after thling-tinneh and the shaman had responded in kind, he made trifling presents to the menfolk, joined in their singing, and proved an expert in their fifty-two-stick gambling game. and they smoked his tobacco and were pleased. but among the younger men there was a defiant attitude, a spirit of braggadocio, easily understood by the raw insinuations of the toothless squaws and the giggling of the maidens. they had known few white men, 'sons of the wolf,' but from those few they had learned strange lessons. nor had 'scruff' mackenzie, for all his seeming carelessness, failed to note these phenomena. in truth, rolled in his sleeping-furs, he thought it all over, thought seriously, and emptied many pipes in mapping out a campaign. one maiden only had caught his fancy,--none other than zarinska, daughter to the chief. in features, form, and poise, answering more nearly to the white man's type of beauty, she was almost an anomaly among her tribal sisters. he would possess her, make her his wife, and name her--ah, he would name her gertrude! having thus decided, he rolled over on his side and dropped off to sleep, a true son of his all-conquering race, a samson among the philistines. it was slow work and a stiff game; but 'scruff' mackenzie maneuvered cunningly, with an unconcern which served to puzzle the sticks. he took great care to impress the men that he was a sure shot and a mighty hunter, and the camp rang with his plaudits when he brought down a moose at six hundred yards. of a night he visited in chief thling-tinneh's lodge of moose and cariboo skins, talking big and dispensing tobacco with a lavish hand. nor did he fail to likewise honor the shaman; for he realized the medicine-man's influence with his people, and was anxious to make of him an ally. but that worthy was high and mighty, refused to be propitiated, and was unerringly marked down as a prospective enemy. though no opening presented for an interview with zarinska, mackenzie stole many a glance to her, giving fair warning of his intent. and well she knew, yet coquettishly surrounded herself with a ring of women whenever the men were away and he had a chance. but he was in no hurry; besides, he knew she could not help but think of him, and a few days of such thought would only better his suit. at last, one night, when he deemed the time to be ripe, he abruptly left the chief's smoky dwelling and hastened to a neighboring lodge. as usual, she sat with squaws and maidens about her, all engaged in sewing moccasins and beadwork. they laughed at his entrance, and badinage, which linked zarinska to him, ran high. but one after the other they were unceremoniously bundled into the outer snow, whence they hurried to spread the tale through all the camp. his cause was well pleaded, in her tongue, for she did not know his, and at the end of two hours he rose to go. 'so zarinska will come to the white man's lodge? good! i go now to have talk with thy father, for he may not be so minded. and i will give him many tokens; but he must not ask too much. if he say no? good! zarinska shall yet come to the white man's lodge.' he had already lifted the skin flap to depart, when a low exclamation brought him back to the girl's side. she brought herself to her knees on the bearskin mat, her face aglow with true eve-light, and shyly unbuckled his heavy belt. he looked down, perplexed, suspicious, his ears alert for the slightest sound without. but her next move disarmed his doubt, and he smiled with pleasure. she took from her sewing bag a moosehide sheath, brave with bright beadwork, fantastically designed. she drew his great hunting-knife, gazed reverently along the keen edge, half tempted to try it with her thumb, and shot it into place in its new home. then she slipped the sheath along the belt to its customary resting-place, just above the hip. for all the world, it was like a scene of olden time,--a lady and her knight. mackenzie drew her up full height and swept her red lips with his moustache, the, to her, foreign caress of the wolf. it was a meeting of the stone age and the steel; but she was none the less a woman, as her crimson cheeks and the luminous softness of her eyes attested. there was a thrill of excitement in the air as 'scruff' mackenzie, a bulky bundle under his arm, threw open the flap of thling-tinneh's tent. children were running about in the open, dragging dry wood to the scene of the potlach, a babble of women's voices was growing in intensity, the young men were consulting in sullen groups, while from the shaman's lodge rose the eerie sounds of an incantation. the chief was alone with his blear-eyed wife, but a glance sufficed to tell mackenzie that the news was already told. so he plunged at once into the business, shifting the beaded sheath prominently to the fore as advertisement of the betrothal. 'o thling-tinneh, mighty chief of the sticks and the land of the tanana, ruler of the salmon and the bear, the moose and the cariboo! the white man is before thee with a great purpose. many moons has his lodge been empty, and he is lonely. and his heart has eaten itself in silence, and grown hungry for a woman to sit beside him in his lodge, to meet him from the hunt with warm fire and good food. he has heard strange things, the patter of baby moccasins and the sound of children's voices. and one night a vision came upon him, and he beheld the raven, who is thy father, the great raven, who is the father of all the sticks. and the raven spake to the lonely white man, saying: "bind thou thy moccasins upon thee, and gird thy snow-shoes on, and lash thy sled with food for many sleeps and fine tokens for the chief thling-tinneh. for thou shalt turn thy face to where the mid-spring sun is wont to sink below the land and journey to this great chief's hunting-grounds. there thou shalt make big presents, and thling-tinneh, who is my son, shall become to thee as a father. in his lodge there is a maiden into whom i breathed the breath of life for thee. this maiden shalt thou take to wife." 'o chief, thus spake the great raven; thus do i lay many presents at thy feet; thus am i come to take thy daughter!' the old man drew his furs about him with crude consciousness of royalty, but delayed reply while a youngster crept in, delivered a quick message to appear before the council, and was gone. 'o white man, whom we have named moose-killer, also known as the wolf, and the son of the wolf! we know thou comest of a mighty race; we are proud to have thee our potlach-guest; but the king-salmon does not mate with the dogsalmon, nor the raven with the wolf.' 'not so!' cried mackenzie. 'the daughters of the raven have i met in the camps of the wolf,--the squaw of mortimer, the squaw of tregidgo, the squaw of barnaby, who came two ice-runs back, and i have heard of other squaws, though my eyes beheld them not.' 'son, your words are true; but it were evil mating, like the water with the sand, like the snow-flake with the sun. but met you one mason and his squaw' no? he came ten ice-runs ago,--the first of all the wolves. and with him there was a mighty man, straight as a willow-shoot, and tall; strong as the bald-faced grizzly, with a heart like the full summer moon; his-' 'oh!' interrupted mackenzie, recognizing the well-known northland figure, 'malemute kid!' 'the same,--a mighty man. but saw you aught of the squaw? she was full sister to zarinska.' 'nay, chief; but i have heard. mason--far, far to the north, a spruce-tree, heavy with years, crushed out his life beneath. but his love was great, and he had much gold. with this, and her boy, she journeyed countless sleeps toward the winter's noonday sun, and there she yet lives,--no biting frost, no snow, no summer's midnight sun, no winter's noonday night.' a second messenger interrupted with imperative summons from the council. as mackenzie threw him into the snow, he caught a glimpse of the swaying forms before the council-fire, heard the deep basses of the men in rhythmic chant, and knew the shaman was fanning the anger of his people. time pressed. he turned upon the chief. 'come! i wish thy child. and now, see! here are tobacco, tea, many cups of sugar, warm blankets, handkerchiefs, both good and large; and here, a true rifle, with many bullets and much powder.' 'nay,' replied the old man, struggling against the great wealth spread before him. 'even now are my people come together. they will not have this marriage.' 'but thou art chief.' 'yet do my young men rage because the wolves have taken their maidens so that they may not marry.' 'listen, o thling-tinneh! ere the night has passed into the day, the wolf shall face his dogs to the mountains of the east and fare forth to the country of the yukon. and zarinska shall break trail for his dogs.' 'and ere the night has gained its middle, my young men may fling to the dogs the flesh of the wolf, and his bones be scattered in the snow till the springtime lay them bare.' it was threat and counter-threat. mackenzie's bronzed face flushed darkly. he raised his voice. the old squaw, who till now had sat an impassive spectator, made to creep by him for the door. the song of the men broke suddenly and there was a hubbub of many voices as he whirled the old woman roughly to her couch of skins. 'again i cry--listen, o thling-tinneh! the wolf dies with teeth fast-locked, and with him there shall sleep ten of thy strongest men,--men who are needed, for the hunting is not begun, and the fishing is not many moons away. and again, of what profit should i die? i know the custom of thy people; thy share of my wealth shall be very small. grant me thy child, and it shall all be thine. and yet again, my brothers will come, and they are many, and their maws are never filled; and the daughters of the raven shall bear children in the lodges of the wolf. my people are greater than thy people. it is destiny. grant, and all this wealth is thine.' moccasins were crunching the snow without. mackenzie threw his rifle to cock, and loosened the twin colts in his belt. 'grant, o chief!' 'and yet will my people say no.' 'grant, and the wealth is thine. then shall i deal with thy people after.' 'the wolf will have it so. i will take his tokens,--but i would warn him.' mackenzie passed over the goods, taking care to clog the rifle's ejector, and capping the bargain with a kaleidoscopic silk kerchief. the shaman and half a dozen young braves entered, but he shouldered boldly among them and passed out. 'pack!' was his laconic greeting to zarinska as he passed her lodge and hurried to harness his dogs. a few minutes later he swept into the council at the head of the team, the woman by his side. he took his place at the upper end of the oblong, by the side of the chief. to his left, a step to the rear, he stationed zarinska, her proper place. besides, the time was ripe for mischief, and there was need to guard his back. on either side, the men crouched to the fire, their voices lifted in a folk-chant out of the forgotten past. full of strange, halting cadences and haunting recurrences, it was not beautiful. 'fearful' may inadequately express it. at the lower end, under the eye of the shaman, danced half a score of women. stern were his reproofs of those who did not wholly abandon themselves to the ecstasy of the rite. half hidden in their heavy masses of raven hair, all dishevelled and falling to their waists, they slowly swayed to and fro, their forms rippling to an ever-changing rhythm. it was a weird scene; an anachronism. to the south, the nineteenth century was reeling off the few years of its last decade; here flourished man primeval, a shade removed from the prehistoric cave-dweller, forgotten fragment of the elder world. the tawny wolf-dogs sat between their skin-clad masters or fought for room, the firelight cast backward from their red eyes and dripping fangs. the woods, in ghostly shroud, slept on unheeding. the white silence, for the moment driven to the rimming forest, seemed ever crushing inward; the stars danced with great leaps, as is their wont in the time of the great cold; while the spirits of the pole trailed their robes of glory athwart the heavens. 'scruff' mackenzie dimly realized the wild grandeur of the setting as his eyes ranged down the fur-fringed sides in quest of missing faces. they rested for a moment on a newborn babe, suckling at its mother's naked breast. it was forty below,--seven and odd degrees of frost. he thought of the tender women of his own race and smiled grimly. yet from the loins of some such tender woman had he sprung with a kingly inheritance,--an inheritance which gave to him and his dominance over the land and sea, over the animals and the peoples of all the zones. single-handed against fivescore, girt by the arctic winter, far from his own, he felt the prompting of his heritage, the desire to possess, the wild danger--love, the thrill of battle, the power to conquer or to die. the singing and the dancing ceased, and the shaman flared up in rude eloquence. through the sinuosities of their vast mythology, he worked cunningly upon the credulity of his people. the case was strong. opposing the creative principles as embodied in the crow and the raven, he stigmatized mackenzie as the wolf, the fighting and the destructive principle. not only was the combat of these forces spiritual, but men fought, each to his totem. they were the children of jelchs, the raven, the promethean fire-bringer; mackenzie was the child of the wolf, or in other words, the devil. for them to bring a truce to this perpetual warfare, to marry their daughters to the arch-enemy, were treason and blasphemy of the highest order. no phrase was harsh nor figure vile enough in branding mackenzie as a sneaking interloper and emissary of satan. there was a subdued, savage roar in the deep chests of his listeners as he took the swing of his peroration. 'aye, my brothers, jelchs is all-powerful! did he not bring heaven-borne fire that we might be warm? did he not draw the sun, moon, and stars, from their holes that we might see? did he not teach us that we might fight the spirits of famine and of frost? but now jelchs is angry with his children, and they are grown to a handful, and he will not help. 'for they have forgotten him, and done evil things, and trod bad trails, and taken his enemies into their lodges to sit by their fires. and the raven is sorrowful at the wickedness of his children; but when they shall rise up and show they have come back, he will come out of the darkness to aid them. o brothers! the fire-bringer has whispered messages to thy shaman; the same shall ye hear. let the young men take the young women to their lodges; let them fly at the throat of the wolf; let them be undying in their enmity! then shall their women become fruitful and they shall multiply into a mighty people! and the raven shall lead great tribes of their fathers and their fathers' fathers from out of the north; and they shall beat back the wolves till they are as last year's campfires; and they shall again come to rule over all the land! 'tis the message of jelchs, the raven.' this foreshadowing of the messiah's coming brought a hoarse howl from the sticks as they leaped to their feet. mackenzie slipped the thumbs of his mittens and waited. there was a clamor for the 'fox,' not to be stilled till one of the young men stepped forward to speak. 'brothers! the shaman has spoken wisely. the wolves have taken our women, and our men are childless. we are grown to a handful. the wolves have taken our warm furs and given for them evil spirits which dwell in bottles, and clothes which come not from the beaver or the lynx, but are made from the grass. and they are not warm, and our men die of strange sicknesses. i, the fox, have taken no woman to wife; and why? twice have the maidens which pleased me gone to the camps of the wolf. even now have i laid by skins of the beaver, of the moose, of the cariboo, that i might win favor in the eyes of thling-tinneh, that i might marry zarinska, his daughter. even now are her snow-shoes bound to her feet, ready to break trail for the dogs of the wolf. nor do i speak for myself alone. as i have done, so has the bear. he, too, had fain been the father of her children, and many skins has he cured thereto. i speak for all the young men who know not wives. the wolves are ever hungry. always do they take the choice meat at the killing. to the ravens are left the leavings. 'there is gugkla,' he cried, brutally pointing out one of the women, who was a cripple. 'her legs are bent like the ribs of a birch canoe. she cannot gather wood nor carry the meat of the hunters. did the wolves choose her?' 'ai! ai!' vociferated his tribesmen. 'there is moyri, whose eyes are crossed by the evil spirit. even the babes are affrighted when they gaze upon her, and it is said the bald-face gives her the trail. 'was she chosen?' again the cruel applause rang out. 'and there sits pischet. she does not hearken to my words. never has she heard the cry of the chit-chat, the voice of her husband, the babble of her child. 'she lives in the white silence. cared the wolves aught for her? no! theirs is the choice of the kill; ours is the leavings. 'brothers, it shall not be! no more shall the wolves slink among our campfires. the time is come.' a great streamer of fire, the aurora borealis, purple, green, and yellow, shot across the zenith, bridging horizon to horizon. with head thrown back and arms extended, he swayed to his climax. 'behold! the spirits of our fathers have arisen and great deeds are afoot this night!' he stepped back, and another young man somewhat diffidently came forward, pushed on by his comrades. he towered a full head above them, his broad chest defiantly bared to the frost. he swung tentatively from one foot to the other. words halted upon his tongue, and he was ill at ease. his face was horrible to look upon, for it had at one time been half torn away by some terrific blow. at last he struck his breast with his clenched fist, drawing sound as from a drum, and his voice rumbled forth as does the surf from an ocean cavern. 'i am the bear,--the silver-tip and the son of the silver-tip! when my voice was yet as a girl's, i slew the lynx, the moose, and the cariboo; when it whistled like the wolverines from under a cache, i crossed the mountains of the south and slew three of the white rivers; when it became as the roar of the chinook, i met the bald-faced grizzly, but gave no trail.' at this he paused, his hand significantly sweeping across his hideous scars. 'i am not as the fox. my tongue is frozen like the river. i cannot make great talk. my words are few. the fox says great deeds are afoot this night. good! talk flows from his tongue like the freshets of the spring, but he is chary of deeds. 'this night shall i do battle with the wolf. i shall slay him, and zarinska shall sit by my fire. the bear has spoken.' though pandemonium raged about him, 'scruff' mackenzie held his ground. aware how useless was the rifle at close quarters, he slipped both holsters to the fore, ready for action, and drew his mittens till his hands were barely shielded by the elbow gauntlets. he knew there was no hope in attack en masse, but true to his boast, was prepared to die with teeth fast-locked. but the bear restrained his comrades, beating back the more impetuous with his terrible fist. as the tumult began to die away, mackenzie shot a glance in the direction of zarinska. it was a superb picture. she was leaning forward on her snow-shoes, lips apart and nostrils quivering, like a tigress about to spring. her great black eyes were fixed upon her tribesmen, in fear and defiance. so extreme the tension, she had forgotten to breathe. with one hand pressed spasmodically against her breast and the other as tightly gripped about the dog-whip, she was as turned to stone. even as he looked, relief came to her. her muscles loosened; with a heavy sigh she settled back, giving him a look of more than love--of worship. thling-tinneh was trying to speak, but his people drowned his voice. then mackenzie strode forward. the fox opened his mouth to a piercing yell, but so savagely did mackenzie whirl upon him that he shrank back, his larynx all agurgle with suppressed sound. his discomfiture was greeted with roars of laughter, and served to soothe his fellows to a listening mood. 'brothers! the white man, whom ye have chosen to call the wolf, came among you with fair words. he was not like the innuit; he spoke not lies. he came as a friend, as one who would be a brother. but your men have had their say, and the time for soft words is past. 'first, i will tell you that the shaman has an evil tongue and is a false prophet, that the messages he spake are not those of the fire-bringer. his ears are locked to the voice of the raven, and out of his own head he weaves cunning fancies, and he has made fools of you. he has no power. 'when the dogs were killed and eaten, and your stomachs were heavy with untanned hide and strips of moccasins; when the old men died, and the old women died, and the babes at the dry dugs of the mothers died; when the land was dark, and ye perished as do the salmon in the fall; aye, when the famine was upon you, did the shaman bring reward to your hunters? did the shaman put meat in your bellies? again i say, the shaman is without power. thus i spit upon his face!' though taken aback by the sacrilege, there was no uproar. some of the women were even frightened, but among the men there was an uplifting, as though in preparation or anticipation of the miracle. all eyes were turned upon the two central figures. the priest realized the crucial moment, felt his power tottering, opened his mouth in denunciation, but fled backward before the truculent advance, upraised fist, and flashing eyes, of mackenzie. he sneered and resumed. 'was i stricken dead? did the lightning burn me? did the stars fall from the sky and crush me? pish! i have done with the dog. now will i tell you of my people, who are the mightiest of all the peoples, who rule in all the lands. at first we hunt as i hunt, alone. 'after that we hunt in packs; and at last, like the cariboo-run, we sweep across all the land. 'those whom we take into our lodges live; those who will not come die. zarinska is a comely maiden, full and strong, fit to become the mother of wolves. though i die, such shall she become; for my brothers are many, and they will follow the scent of my dogs. 'listen to the law of the wolf: whoso taketh the life of one wolf, the forfeit shall ten of his people pay. in many lands has the price been paid; in many lands shall it yet be paid. 'now will i deal with the fox and the bear. it seems they have cast eyes upon the maiden. so? behold, i have bought her! thling-tinneh leans upon the rifle; the goods of purchase are by his fire. yet will i be fair to the young men. to the fox, whose tongue is dry with many words, will i give of tobacco five long plugs. 'thus will his mouth be wetted that he may make much noise in the council. but to the bear, of whom i am well proud, will i give of blankets two; of flour, twenty cups; of tobacco, double that of the fox; and if he fare with me over the mountains of the east, then will i give him a rifle, mate to thling-tinneh's. if not? good! the wolf is weary of speech. yet once again will he say the law: whoso taketh the life of one wolf, the forfeit shall ten of his people pay.' mackenzie smiled as he stepped back to his old position, but at heart he was full of trouble. the night was yet dark. the girl came to his side, and he listened closely as she told of the bear's battle-tricks with the knife. the decision was for war. in a trice, scores of moccasins were widening the space of beaten snow by the fire. there was much chatter about the seeming defeat of the shaman; some averred he had but withheld his power, while others conned past events and agreed with the wolf. the bear came to the center of the battle-ground, a long naked hunting-knife of russian make in his hand. the fox called attention to mackenzie's revolvers; so he stripped his belt, buckling it about zarinska, into whose hands he also entrusted his rifle. she shook her head that she could not shoot,--small chance had a woman to handle such precious things. 'then, if danger come by my back, cry aloud, "my husband!" no; thus, "my husband!"' he laughed as she repeated it, pinched her cheek, and reentered the circle. not only in reach and stature had the bear the advantage of him, but his blade was longer by a good two inches. 'scruff' mackenzie had looked into the eyes of men before, and he knew it was a man who stood against him; yet he quickened to the glint of light on the steel, to the dominant pulse of his race. time and again he was forced to the edge of the fire or the deep snow, and time and again, with the foot tactics of the pugilist, he worked back to the center. not a voice was lifted in encouragement, while his antagonist was heartened with applause, suggestions, and warnings. but his teeth only shut the tighter as the knives clashed together, and he thrust or eluded with a coolness born of conscious strength. at first he felt compassion for his enemy; but this fled before the primal instinct of life, which in turn gave way to the lust of slaughter. the ten thousand years of culture fell from him, and he was a cave-dweller, doing battle for his female. twice he pricked the bear, getting away unscathed; but the third time caught, and to save himself, free hands closed on fighting hands, and they came together. then did he realize the tremendous strength of his opponent. his muscles were knotted in painful lumps, and cords and tendons threatened to snap with the strain; yet nearer and nearer came the russian steel. he tried to break away, but only weakened himself. the fur-clad circle closed in, certain of and anxious to see the final stroke. but with wrestler's trick, swinging partly to the side, he struck at his adversary with his head. involuntarily the bear leaned back, disturbing his center of gravity. simultaneous with this, mackenzie tripped properly and threw his whole weight forward, hurling him clear through the circle into the deep snow. the bear floundered out and came back full tilt. 'o my husband!' zarinska's voice rang out, vibrant with danger. to the twang of a bow-string, mackenzie swept low to the ground, and a bonebarbed arrow passed over him into the breast of the bear, whose momentum carried him over his crouching foe. the next instant mackenzie was up and about. the bear lay motionless, but across the fire was the shaman, drawing a second arrow. mackenzie's knife leaped short in the air. he caught the heavy blade by the point. there was a flash of light as it spanned the fire. then the shaman, the hilt alone appearing without his throat, swayed and pitched forward into the glowing embers. click! click!--the fox had possessed himself of thling-tinneh's rifle and was vainly trying to throw a shell into place. but he dropped it at the sound of mackenzie's laughter. 'so the fox has not learned the way of the plaything? he is yet a woman. 'come! bring it, that i may show thee!' the fox hesitated. 'come, i say!' he slouched forward like a beaten cur. 'thus, and thus; so the thing is done.' a shell flew into place and the trigger was at cock as mackenzie brought it to shoulder. 'the fox has said great deeds were afoot this night, and he spoke true. there have been great deeds, yet least among them were those of the fox. is he still intent to take zarinska to his lodge? is he minded to tread the trail already broken by the shaman and the bear? 'no? good!' mackenzie turned contemptuously and drew his knife from the priest's throat. 'are any of the young men so minded? if so, the wolf will take them by two and three till none are left. no? good! thling-tinneh, i now give thee this rifle a second time. if, in the days to come, thou shouldst journey to the country of the yukon, know thou that there shall always be a place and much food by the fire of the wolf. the night is now passing into the day. i go, but i may come again. and for the last time, remember the law of the wolf!' he was supernatural in their sight as he rejoined zarinska. she took her place at the head of the team, and the dogs swung into motion. a few moments later they were swallowed up by the ghostly forest. till now mackenzie had waited; he slipped into his snow-shoes to follow. 'has the wolf forgotten the five long plugs?' mackenzie turned upon the fox angrily; then the humor of it struck him. 'i will give thee one short plug.' 'as the wolf sees fit,' meekly responded the fox, stretching out his hand. the men of forty mile when big jim belden ventured the apparently innocuous proposition that mush-ice was 'rather pecooliar,' he little dreamed of what it would lead to. neither did lon mcfane, when he affirmed that anchor-ice was even more so; nor did bettles, as he instantly disagreed, declaring the very existence of such a form to be a bugaboo. 'an' ye'd be tellin' me this,' cried lon, 'after the years ye've spint in the land! an' we atin' out the same pot this many's the day!' 'but the thing's agin reasin,' insisted bettles. 'look you, water's warmer than ice--' 'an' little the difference, once ye break through.' 'still it's warmer, because it ain't froze. an' you say it freezes on the bottom?' 'only the anchor-ice, david, only the anchor-ice. an' have ye niver drifted along, the water clear as glass, whin suddin, belike a cloud over the sun, the mushy-ice comes bubblin' up an' up till from bank to bank an' bind to bind it's drapin' the river like a first snowfall?' 'unh, hunh! more'n once when i took a doze at the steering-oar. but it allus come out the nighest side-channel, an' not bubblin' up an' up.' 'but with niver a wink at the helm?' 'no; nor you. it's agin reason. i'll leave it to any man!' bettles appealed to the circle about the stove, but the fight was on between himself and lon mcfane. 'reason or no reason, it's the truth i'm tellin' ye. last fall, a year gone, 'twas sitka charley and meself saw the sight, droppin' down the riffle ye'll remember below fort reliance. an' regular fall weather it was--the glint o' the sun on the golden larch an' the quakin' aspens; an' the glister of light on ivery ripple; an' beyand, the winter an' the blue haze of the north comin' down hand in hand. it's well ye know the same, with a fringe to the river an' the ice formin' thick in the eddies--an' a snap an' sparkle to the air, an' ye a-feelin' it through all yer blood, a-takin' new lease of life with ivery suck of it. 'tis then, me boy, the world grows small an' the wandtherlust lays ye by the heels. 'but it's meself as wandthers. as i was sayin', we a-paddlin', with niver a sign of ice, barrin' that by the eddies, when the injun lifts his paddle an' sings out, "lon mcfane! look ye below!" so have i heard, but niver thought to see! as ye know, sitka charley, like meself, niver drew first breath in the land; so the sight was new. then we drifted, with a head over ayther side, peerin' down through the sparkly water. for the world like the days i spint with the pearlers, watchin' the coral banks a-growin' the same as so many gardens under the sea. there it was, the anchor-ice, clingin' an' clusterin' to ivery rock, after the manner of the white coral. 'but the best of the sight was to come. just after clearin' the tail of the riffle, the water turns quick the color of milk, an' the top of it in wee circles, as when the graylin' rise in the spring, or there's a splatter of wet from the sky. 'twas the anchor-ice comin' up. to the right, to the lift, as far as iver a man cud see, the water was covered with the same. an' like so much porridge it was, slickin' along the bark of the canoe, stickin' like glue to the paddles. it's many's the time i shot the self-same riffle before, and it's many's the time after, but niver a wink of the same have i seen. 'twas the sight of a lifetime.' 'do tell!' dryly commented bettles. 'd'ye think i'd b'lieve such a yarn? i'd ruther say the glister of light'd gone to your eyes, and the snap of the air to your tongue.' ''twas me own eyes that beheld it, an' if sitka charley was here, he'd be the lad to back me.' 'but facts is facts, an' they ain't no gettin' round 'em. it ain't in the nature of things for the water furtherest away from the air to freeze first.' 'but me own eyes-' 'don't git het up over it,' admonished bettles, as the quick celtic anger began to mount. 'then yer not after belavin' me?' 'sence you're so blamed forehanded about it, no; i'd b'lieve nature first, and facts.' 'is it the lie ye'd be givin' me?' threatened lon. 'ye'd better be askin' that siwash wife of yours. i'll lave it to her, for the truth i spake.' bettles flared up in sudden wrath. the irishman had unwittingly wounded him; for his wife was the half-breed daughter of a russian fur-trader, married to him in the greek mission of nulato, a thousand miles or so down the yukon, thus being of much higher caste than the common siwash, or native, wife. it was a mere northland nuance, which none but the northland adventurer may understand. 'i reckon you kin take it that way,' was his deliberate affirmation. the next instant lon mcfane had stretched him on the floor, the circle was broken up, and half a dozen men had stepped between. bettles came to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth. 'it hain't new, this takin' and payin' of blows, and don't you never think but that this will be squared.' 'an' niver in me life did i take the lie from mortal man,' was the retort courteous. 'an' it's an avil day i'll not be to hand, waitin' an' willin' to help ye lift yer debts, barrin' no manner of way.' 'still got that 38-55?' lon nodded. 'but you'd better git a more likely caliber. mine'll rip holes through you the size of walnuts.' 'niver fear; it's me own slugs smell their way with soft noses, an' they'll spread like flapjacks against the coming out beyand. an' when'll i have the pleasure of waitin' on ye? the waterhole's a strikin' locality.' ''tain't bad. jest be there in an hour, and you won't set long on my coming.' both men mittened and left the post, their ears closed to the remonstrances of their comrades. it was such a little thing; yet with such men, little things, nourished by quick tempers and stubborn natures, soon blossomed into big things. besides, the art of burning to bedrock still lay in the womb of the future, and the men of forty-mile, shut in by the long arctic winter, grew high-stomached with overeating and enforced idleness, and became as irritable as do the bees in the fall of the year when the hives are overstocked with honey. there was no law in the land. the mounted police was also a thing of the future. each man measured an offense, and meted out the punishment inasmuch as it affected himself. rarely had combined action been necessary, and never in all the dreary history of the camp had the eighth article of the decalogue been violated. big jim belden called an impromptu meeting. scruff mackenzie was placed as temporary chairman, and a messenger dispatched to solicit father roubeau's good offices. their position was paradoxical, and they knew it. by the right of might could they interfere to prevent the duel; yet such action, while in direct line with their wishes, went counter to their opinions. while their rough-hewn, obsolete ethics recognized the individual prerogative of wiping out blow with blow, they could not bear to think of two good comrades, such as bettles and mcfane, meeting in deadly battle. deeming the man who would not fight on provocation a dastard, when brought to the test it seemed wrong that he should fight. but a scurry of moccasins and loud cries, rounded off with a pistol-shot, interrupted the discussion. then the storm-doors opened and malemute kid entered, a smoking colt's in his hand, and a merry light in his eye. 'i got him.' he replaced the empty shell, and added, 'your dog, scruff.' 'yellow fang?' mackenzie asked. 'no; the lop-eared one.' 'the devil! nothing the matter with him.' 'come out and take a look.' 'that's all right after all. buess he's got 'em, too. yellow fang came back this morning and took a chunk out of him, and came near to making a widower of me. made a rush for zarinska, but she whisked her skirts in his face and escaped with the loss of the same and a good roll in the snow. then he took to the woods again. hope he don't come back. lost any yourself?' 'one--the best one of the pack--shookum. started amuck this morning, but didn't get very far. ran foul of sitka charley's team, and they scattered him all over the street. and now two of them are loose, and raging mad; so you see he got his work in. the dog census will be small in the spring if we don't do something.' 'and the man census, too.' 'how's that? who's in trouble now?' 'oh, bettles and lon mcfane had an argument, and they'll be down by the waterhole in a few minutes to settle it.' the incident was repeated for his benefit, and malemute kid, accustomed to an obedience which his fellow men never failed to render, took charge of the affair. his quickly formulated plan was explained, and they promised to follow his lead implicitly. 'so you see,' he concluded, 'we do not actually take away their privilege of fighting; and yet i don't believe they'll fight when they see the beauty of the scheme. life's a game and men the gamblers. they'll stake their whole pile on the one chance in a thousand. 'take away that one chance, and--they won't play.' he turned to the man in charge of the post. 'storekeeper, weight out three fathoms of your best half-inch manila. 'we'll establish a precedent which will last the men of forty-mile to the end of time,' he prophesied. then he coiled the rope about his arm and led his followers out of doors, just in time to meet the principals. 'what danged right'd he to fetch my wife in?' thundered bettles to the soothing overtures of a friend. ''twa'n't called for,' he concluded decisively. ''twa'n't called for,' he reiterated again and again, pacing up and down and waiting for lon mcfane. and lon mcfane--his face was hot and tongue rapid as he flaunted insurrection in the face of the church. 'then, father,' he cried, 'it's with an aisy heart i'll roll in me flamy blankets, the broad of me back on a bed of coals. niver shall it be said that lon mcfane took a lie 'twixt the teeth without iver liftin' a hand! an' i'll not ask a blessin'. the years have been wild, but it's the heart was in the right place.' 'but it's not the heart, lon,' interposed father roubeau; 'it's pride that bids you forth to slay your fellow man.' 'yer frinch,' lon replied. and then, turning to leave him, 'an' will ye say a mass if the luck is against me?' but the priest smiled, thrust his moccasined feet to the fore, and went out upon the white breast of the silent river. a packed trail, the width of a sixteen-inch sled, led out to the waterhole. on either side lay the deep, soft snow. the men trod in single file, without conversation; and the black-stoled priest in their midst gave to the function the solemn aspect of a funeral. it was a warm winter's day for forty-mile--a day in which the sky, filled with heaviness, drew closer to the earth, and the mercury sought the unwonted level of twenty below. but there was no cheer in the warmth. there was little air in the upper strata, and the clouds hung motionless, giving sullen promise of an early snowfall. and the earth, unresponsive, made no preparation, content in its hibernation. when the waterhole was reached, bettles, having evidently reviewed the quarrel during the silent walk, burst out in a final ''twa'n't called for,' while lon mcfane kept grim silence. indignation so choked him that he could not speak. yet deep down, whenever their own wrongs were not uppermost, both men wondered at their comrades. they had expected opposition, and this tacit acquiescence hurt them. it seemed more was due them from the men they had been so close with, and they felt a vague sense of wrong, rebelling at the thought of so many of their brothers coming out, as on a gala occasion, without one word of protest, to see them shoot each other down. it appeared their worth had diminished in the eyes of the community. the proceedings puzzled them. 'back to back, david. an' will it be fifty paces to the man, or double the quantity?' 'fifty,' was the sanguinary reply, grunted out, yet sharply cut. but the new manila, not prominently displayed, but casually coiled about malemute kid's arm, caught the quick eye of the irishman, and thrilled him with a suspicious fear. 'an' what are ye doin' with the rope?' 'hurry up!' malemute kid glanced at his watch. 'i've a batch of bread in the cabin, and i don't want it to fall. besides, my feet are getting cold.' the rest of the men manifested their impatience in various suggestive ways. 'but the rope, kid' it's bran' new, an' sure yer bread's not that heavy it needs raisin' with the like of that?' bettles by this time had faced around. father roubeau, the humor of the situation just dawning on him, hid a smile behind his mittened hand. 'no, lon; this rope was made for a man.' malemute kid could be very impressive on occasion. 'what man?' bettles was becoming aware of a personal interest. 'the other man.' 'an' which is the one ye'd mane by that?' 'listen, lon--and you, too, bettles! we've been talking this little trouble of yours over, and we've come to one conclusion. we know we have no right to stop your fighting-' 'true for ye, me lad!' 'and we're not going to. but this much we can do, and shall do--make this the only duel in the history of forty-mile, set an example for every che-cha-qua that comes up or down the yukon. the man who escapes killing shall be hanged to the nearest tree. now, go ahead!' lon smiled dubiously, then his face lighted up. 'pace her off, david--fifty paces, wheel, an' niver a cease firin' till a lad's down for good. 'tis their hearts'll niver let them do the deed, an' it's well ye should know it for a true yankee bluff.' he started off with a pleased grin on his face, but malemute kid halted him. 'lon! it's a long while since you first knew me?' 'many's the day.' 'and you, bettles?' 'five year next june high water.' 'and have you once, in all that time, known me to break my word' or heard of me breaking it?' both men shook their heads, striving to fathom what lay beyond. 'well, then, what do you think of a promise made by me?' 'as good as your bond,' from bettles. 'the thing to safely sling yer hopes of heaven by,' promptly endorsed lon mcfane. 'listen! i, malemute kid, give you my word--and you know what that means that the man who is not shot stretches rope within ten minutes after the shooting.' he stepped back as pilate might have done after washing his hands. a pause and a silence came over the men of forty-mile. the sky drew still closer, sending down a crystal flight of frost--little geometric designs, perfect, evanescent as a breath, yet destined to exist till the returning sun had covered half its northern journey. both men had led forlorn hopes in their time--led with a curse or a jest on their tongues, and in their souls an unswerving faith in the god of chance. but that merciful deity had been shut out from the present deal. they studied the face of malemute kid, but they studied as one might the sphinx. as the quiet minutes passed, a feeling that speech was incumbent on them began to grow. at last the howl of a wolf-dog cracked the silence from the direction of forty-mile. the weird sound swelled with all the pathos of a breaking heart, then died away in a long-drawn sob. 'well i be danged!' bettles turned up the collar of his mackinaw jacket and stared about him helplessly. 'it's a gloryus game yer runnin', kid,' cried lon mcfane. 'all the percentage of the house an' niver a bit to the man that's buckin'. the devil himself'd niver tackle such a cinch--and damned if i do.' there were chuckles, throttled in gurgling throats, and winks brushed away with the frost which rimed the eyelashes, as the men climbed the ice-notched bank and started across the street to the post. but the long howl had drawn nearer, invested with a new note of menace. a woman screamed round the corner. there was a cry of, 'here he comes!' then an indian boy, at the head of half a dozen frightened dogs, racing with death, dashed into the crowd. and behind came yellow fang, a bristle of hair and a flash of gray. everybody but the yankee fled. the indian boy had tripped and fallen. bettles stopped long enough to grip him by the slack of his furs, then headed for a pile of cordwood already occupied by a number of his comrades. yellow fang, doubling after one of the dogs, came leaping back. the fleeing animal, free of the rabies, but crazed with fright, whipped bettles off his feet and flashed on up the street. malemute kid took a flying shot at yellow fang. the mad dog whirled a half airspring, came down on his back, then, with a single leap, covered half the distance between himself and bettles. but the fatal spring was intercepted. lon mcfane leaped from the woodpile, countering him in midair. over they rolled, lon holding him by the throat at arm's length, blinking under the fetid slaver which sprayed his face. then bettles, revolver in hand and coolly waiting a chance, settled the combat. ''twas a square game, kid,' lon remarked, rising to his feet and shaking the snow from out his sleeves; 'with a fair percentage to meself that bucked it.' that night, while lon mcfane sought the forgiving arms of the church in the direction of father roubeau's cabin, malemute kid talked long to little purpose. 'but would you,' persisted mackenzie, 'supposing they had fought?' 'have i ever broken my word?' 'no; but that isn't the point. answer the question. would you?' malemute kid straightened up. 'scruff, i've been asking myself that question ever since, and--' 'well?' 'well, as yet, i haven't found the answer.' in a far country when a man journeys into a far country, he must be prepared to forget many of the things he has learned, and to acquire such customs as are inherent with existence in the new land; he must abandon the old ideals and the old gods, and oftentimes he must reverse the very codes by which his conduct has hitherto been shaped. to those who have the protean faculty of adaptability, the novelty of such change may even be a source of pleasure; but to those who happen to be hardened to the ruts in which they were created, the pressure of the altered environment is unbearable, and they chafe in body and in spirit under the new restrictions which they do not understand. this chafing is bound to act and react, producing divers evils and leading to various misfortunes. it were better for the man who cannot fit himself to the new groove to return to his own country; if he delay too long, he will surely die. the man who turns his back upon the comforts of an elder civilization, to face the savage youth, the primordial simplicity of the north, may estimate success at an inverse ratio to the quantity and quality of his hopelessly fixed habits. he will soon discover, if he be a fit candidate, that the material habits are the less important. the exchange of such things as a dainty menu for rough fare, of the stiff leather shoe for the soft, shapeless moccasin, of the feather bed for a couch in the snow, is after all a very easy matter. but his pinch will come in learning properly to shape his mind's attitude toward all things, and especially toward his fellow man. for the courtesies of ordinary life, he must substitute unselfishness, forbearance, and tolerance. thus, and thus only, can he gain that pearl of great price--true comradeship. he must not say 'thank you'; he must mean it without opening his mouth, and prove it by responding in kind. in short, he must substitute the deed for the word, the spirit for the letter. when the world rang with the tale of arctic gold, and the lure of the north gripped the heartstrings of men, carter weatherbee threw up his snug clerkship, turned the half of his savings over to his wife, and with the remainder bought an outfit. there was no romance in his nature--the bondage of commerce had crushed all that; he was simply tired of the ceaseless grind, and wished to risk great hazards in view of corresponding returns. like many another fool, disdaining the old trails used by the northland pioneers for a score of years, he hurried to edmonton in the spring of the year; and there, unluckily for his soul's welfare, he allied himself with a party of men. there was nothing unusual about this party, except its plans. even its goal, like that of all the other parties, was the klondike. but the route it had mapped out to attain that goal took away the breath of the hardiest native, born and bred to the vicissitudes of the northwest. even jacques baptiste, born of a chippewa woman and a renegade voyageur (having raised his first whimpers in a deerskin lodge north of the sixty-fifth parallel, and had the same hushed by blissful sucks of raw tallow), was surprised. though he sold his services to them and agreed to travel even to the never-opening ice, he shook his head ominously whenever his advice was asked. percy cuthfert's evil star must have been in the ascendant, for he, too, joined this company of argonauts. he was an ordinary man, with a bank account as deep as his culture, which is saying a good deal. he had no reason to embark on such a venture--no reason in the world save that he suffered from an abnormal development of sentimentality. he mistook this for the true spirit of romance and adventure. many another man has done the like, and made as fatal a mistake. the first break-up of spring found the party following the ice-run of elk river. it was an imposing fleet, for the outfit was large, and they were accompanied by a disreputable contingent of half-breed voyageurs with their women and children. day in and day out, they labored with the bateaux and canoes, fought mosquitoes and other kindred pests, or sweated and swore at the portages. severe toil like this lays a man naked to the very roots of his soul, and ere lake athabasca was lost in the south, each member of the party had hoisted his true colors. the two shirks and chronic grumblers were carter weatherbee and percy cuthfert. the whole party complained less of its aches and pains than did either of them. not once did they volunteer for the thousand and one petty duties of the camp. a bucket of water to be brought, an extra armful of wood to be chopped, the dishes to be washed and wiped, a search to be made through the outfit for some suddenly indispensable article--and these two effete scions of civilization discovered sprains or blisters requiring instant attention. they were the first to turn in at night, with score of tasks yet undone; the last to turn out in the morning, when the start should be in readiness before the breakfast was begun. they were the first to fall to at mealtime, the last to have a hand in the cooking; the first to dive for a slim delicacy, the last to discover they had added to their own another man's share. if they toiled at the oars, they slyly cut the water at each stroke and allowed the boat's momentum to float up the blade. they thought nobody noticed; but their comrades swore under their breaths and grew to hate them, while jacques baptiste sneered openly and damned them from morning till night. but jacques baptiste was no gentleman. at the great slave, hudson bay dogs were purchased, and the fleet sank to the guards with its added burden of dried fish and pemican. then canoe and bateau answered to the swift current of the mackenzie, and they plunged into the great barren ground. every likely-looking 'feeder' was prospected, but the elusive 'pay-dirt' danced ever to the north. at the great bear, overcome by the common dread of the unknown lands, their voyageurs began to desert, and fort of good hope saw the last and bravest bending to the towlines as they bucked the current down which they had so treacherously glided. jacques baptiste alone remained. had he not sworn to travel even to the never-opening ice? the lying charts, compiled in main from hearsay, were now constantly consulted. and they felt the need of hurry, for the sun had already passed its northern solstice and was leading the winter south again. skirting the shores of the bay, where the mackenzie disembogues into the arctic ocean, they entered the mouth of the little peel river. then began the arduous up-stream toil, and the two incapables fared worse than ever. towline and pole, paddle and tumpline, rapids and portages--such tortures served to give the one a deep disgust for great hazards, and printed for the other a fiery text on the true romance of adventure. one day they waxed mutinous, and being vilely cursed by jacques baptiste, turned, as worms sometimes will. but the half-breed thrashed the twain, and sent them, bruised and bleeding, about their work. it was the first time either had been manhandled. abandoning their river craft at the headwaters of the little peel, they consumed the rest of the summer in the great portage over the mackenzie watershed to the west rat. this little stream fed the porcupine, which in turn joined the yukon where that mighty highway of the north countermarches on the arctic circle. but they had lost in the race with winter, and one day they tied their rafts to the thick eddy-ice and hurried their goods ashore. that night the river jammed and broke several times; the following morning it had fallen asleep for good. 'we can't be more'n four hundred miles from the yukon,' concluded sloper, multiplying his thumb nails by the scale of the map. the council, in which the two incapables had whined to excellent disadvantage, was drawing to a close. 'hudson bay post, long time ago. no use um now.' jacques baptiste's father had made the trip for the fur company in the old days, incidentally marking the trail with a couple of frozen toes. sufferin' cracky!' cried another of the party. 'no whites?' 'nary white,' sloper sententiously affirmed; 'but it's only five hundred more up the yukon to dawson. call it a rough thousand from here.' weatherbee and cuthfert groaned in chorus. 'how long'll that take, baptiste?' the half-breed figured for a moment. 'workum like hell, no man play out, ten--twenty--forty--fifty days. um babies come' (designating the incapables), 'no can tell. mebbe when hell freeze over; mebbe not then.' the manufacture of snowshoes and moccasins ceased. somebody called the name of an absent member, who came out of an ancient cabin at the edge of the campfire and joined them. the cabin was one of the many mysteries which lurk in the vast recesses of the north. built when and by whom, no man could tell. two graves in the open, piled high with stones, perhaps contained the secret of those early wanderers. but whose hand had piled the stones? the moment had come. jacques baptiste paused in the fitting of a harness and pinned the struggling dog in the snow. the cook made mute protest for delay, threw a handful of bacon into a noisy pot of beans, then came to attention. sloper rose to his feet. his body was a ludicrous contrast to the healthy physiques of the incapables. yellow and weak, fleeing from a south american fever-hole, he had not broken his flight across the zones, and was still able to toil with men. his weight was probably ninety pounds, with the heavy hunting knife thrown in, and his grizzled hair told of a prime which had ceased to be. the fresh young muscles of either weatherbee or cuthfert were equal to ten times the endeavor of his; yet he could walk them into the earth in a day's journey. and all this day he had whipped his stronger comrades into venturing a thousand miles of the stiffest hardship man can conceive. he was the incarnation of the unrest of his race, and the old teutonic stubbornness, dashed with the quick grasp and action of the yankee, held the flesh in the bondage of the spirit. 'all those in favor of going on with the dogs as soon as the ice sets, say ay.' 'ay!' rang out eight voices--voices destined to string a trail of oaths along many a hundred miles of pain. 'contrary minded?' 'no!' for the first time the incapables were united without some compromise of personal interests. 'and what are you going to do about it?' weatherbee added belligerently. 'majority rule! majority rule!' clamored the rest of the party. 'i know the expedition is liable to fall through if you don't come,' sloper replied sweetly; 'but i guess, if we try real hard, we can manage to do without you. what do you say, boys?' the sentiment was cheered to the echo. 'but i say, you know,' cuthfert ventured apprehensively; 'what's a chap like me to do?' 'ain't you coming with us.' 'no--o.' 'then do as you damn well please. we won't have nothing to say.' 'kind o' calkilate yuh might settle it with that canoodlin' pardner of yourn,' suggested a heavy-going westerner from the dakotas, at the same time pointing out weatherbee. 'he'll be shore to ask yuh what yur a-goin' to do when it comes to cookin' an' gatherin' the wood.' 'then we'll consider it all arranged,' concluded sloper. 'we'll pull out tomorrow, if we camp within five miles--just to get everything in running order and remember if we've forgotten anything.' the sleds groaned by on their steel-shod runners, and the dogs strained low in the harnesses in which they were born to die. jacques baptiste paused by the side of sloper to get a last glimpse of the cabin. the smoke curled up pathetically from the yukon stovepipe. the two incapables were watching them from the doorway. sloper laid his hand on the other's shoulder. 'jacques baptiste, did you ever hear of the kilkenny cats?' the half-breed shook his head. 'well, my friend and good comrade, the kilkenny cats fought till neither hide, nor hair, nor yowl, was left. you understand?--till nothing was left. very good. now, these two men don't like work. they'll be all alone in that cabin all winter--a mighty long, dark winter. kilkenny cats--well?' the frenchman in baptiste shrugged his shoulders, but the indian in him was silent. nevertheless, it was an eloquent shrug, pregnant with prophecy. things prospered in the little cabin at first. the rough badinage of their comrades had made weatherbee and cuthfert conscious of the mutual responsibility which had devolved upon them; besides, there was not so much work after all for two healthy men. and the removal of the cruel whiphand, or in other words the bulldozing half-breed, had brought with it a joyous reaction. at first, each strove to outdo the other, and they performed petty tasks with an unction which would have opened the eyes of their comrades who were now wearing out bodies and souls on the long trail. all care was banished. the forest, which shouldered in upon them from three sides, was an inexhaustible woodyard. a few yards from their door slept the porcupine, and a hole through its winter robe formed a bubbling spring of water, crystal clear and painfully cold. but they soon grew to find fault with even that. the hole would persist in freezing up, and thus gave them many a miserable hour of ice-chopping. the unknown builders of the cabin had extended the sidelogs so as to support a cache at the rear. in this was stored the bulk of the party's provisions. food there was, without stint, for three times the men who were fated to live upon it. but the most of it was the kind which built up brawn and sinew, but did not tickle the palate. true, there was sugar in plenty for two ordinary men; but these two were little else than children. they early discovered the virtues of hot water judiciously saturated with sugar, and they prodigally swam their flapjacks and soaked their crusts in the rich, white syrup. then coffee and tea, and especially the dried fruits, made disastrous inroads upon it. the first words they had were over the sugar question. and it is a really serious thing when two men, wholly dependent upon each other for company, begin to quarrel. weatherbee loved to discourse blatantly on politics, while cuthfert, who had been prone to clip his coupons and let the commonwealth jog on as best it might, either ignored the subject or delivered himself of startling epigrams. but the clerk was too obtuse to appreciate the clever shaping of thought, and this waste of ammunition irritated cuthfert. he had been used to blinding people by his brilliancy, and it worked him quite a hardship, this loss of an audience. he felt personally aggrieved and unconsciously held his muttonhead companion responsible for it. save existence, they had nothing in common--came in touch on no single point. weatherbee was a clerk who had known naught but clerking all his life; cuthfert was a master of arts, a dabbler in oils, and had written not a little. the one was a lower-class man who considered himself a gentleman, and the other was a gentleman who knew himself to be such. from this it may be remarked that a man can be a gentleman without possessing the first instinct of true comradeship. the clerk was as sensuous as the other was aesthetic, and his love adventures, told at great length and chiefly coined from his imagination, affected the supersensitive master of arts in the same way as so many whiffs of sewer gas. he deemed the clerk a filthy, uncultured brute, whose place was in the muck with the swine, and told him so; and he was reciprocally informed that he was a milk-and-water sissy and a cad. weatherbee could not have defined 'cad' for his life; but it satisfied its purpose, which after all seems the main point in life. weatherbee flatted every third note and sang such songs as 'the boston burglar' and 'the handsome cabin boy,' for hours at a time, while cuthfert wept with rage, till he could stand it no longer and fled into the outer cold. but there was no escape. the intense frost could not be endured for long at a time, and the little cabin crowded them--beds, stove, table, and all--into a space of ten by twelve. the very presence of either became a personal affront to the other, and they lapsed into sullen silences which increased in length and strength as the days went by. occasionally, the flash of an eye or the curl of a lip got the better of them, though they strove to wholly ignore each other during these mute periods. and a great wonder sprang up in the breast of each, as to how god had ever come to create the other. with little to do, time became an intolerable burden to them. this naturally made them still lazier. they sank into a physical lethargy which there was no escaping, and which made them rebel at the performance of the smallest chore. one morning when it was his turn to cook the common breakfast, weatherbee rolled out of his blankets, and to the snoring of his companion, lighted first the slush lamp and then the fire. the kettles were frozen hard, and there was no water in the cabin with which to wash. but he did not mind that. waiting for it to thaw, he sliced the bacon and plunged into the hateful task of bread-making. cuthfert had been slyly watching through his half-closed lids. consequently there was a scene, in which they fervently blessed each other, and agreed, henceforth, that each do his own cooking. a week later, cuthfert neglected his morning ablutions, but none the less complacently ate the meal which he had cooked. weatherbee grinned. after that the foolish custom of washing passed out of their lives. as the sugar-pile and other little luxuries dwindled, they began to be afraid they were not getting their proper shares, and in order that they might not be robbed, they fell to gorging themselves. the luxuries suffered in this gluttonous contest, as did also the men. in the absence of fresh vegetables and exercise, their blood became impoverished, and a loathsome, purplish rash crept over their bodies. yet they refused to heed the warning. next, their muscles and joints began to swell, the flesh turning black, while their mouths, gums, and lips took on the color of rich cream. instead of being drawn together by their misery, each gloated over the other's symptoms as the scurvy took its course. they lost all regard for personal appearance, and for that matter, common decency. the cabin became a pigpen, and never once were the beds made or fresh pine boughs laid underneath. yet they could not keep to their blankets, as they would have wished; for the frost was inexorable, and the fire box consumed much fuel. the hair of their heads and faces grew long and shaggy, while their garments would have disgusted a ragpicker. but they did not care. they were sick, and there was no one to see; besides, it was very painful to move about. to all this was added a new trouble--the fear of the north. this fear was the joint child of the great cold and the great silence, and was born in the darkness of december, when the sun dipped below the horizon for good. it affected them according to their natures. weatherbee fell prey to the grosser superstitions, and did his best to resurrect the spirits which slept in the forgotten graves. it was a fascinating thing, and in his dreams they came to him from out of the cold, and snuggled into his blankets, and told him of their toils and troubles ere they died. he shrank away from the clammy contact as they drew closer and twined their frozen limbs about him, and when they whispered in his ear of things to come, the cabin rang with his frightened shrieks. cuthfert did not understand--for they no longer spoke--and when thus awakened he invariably grabbed for his revolver. then he would sit up in bed, shivering nervously, with the weapon trained on the unconscious dreamer. cuthfert deemed the man going mad, and so came to fear for his life. his own malady assumed a less concrete form. the mysterious artisan who had laid the cabin, log by log, had pegged a wind-vane to the ridgepole. cuthfert noticed it always pointed south, and one day, irritated by its steadfastness of purpose, he turned it toward the east. he watched eagerly, but never a breath came by to disturb it. then he turned the vane to the north, swearing never again to touch it till the wind did blow. but the air frightened him with its unearthly calm, and he often rose in the middle of the night to see if the vane had veered--ten degrees would have satisfied him. but no, it poised above him as unchangeable as fate. his imagination ran riot, till it became to him a fetish. sometimes he followed the path it pointed across the dismal dominions, and allowed his soul to become saturated with the fear. he dwelt upon the unseen and the unknown till the burden of eternity appeared to be crushing him. everything in the northland had that crushing effect--the absence of life and motion; the darkness; the infinite peace of the brooding land; the ghastly silence, which made the echo of each heartbeat a sacrilege; the solemn forest which seemed to guard an awful, inexpressible something, which neither word nor thought could compass. the world he had so recently left, with its busy nations and great enterprises, seemed very far away. recollections occasionally obtruded--recollections of marts and galleries and crowded thoroughfares, of evening dress and social functions, of good men and dear women he had known--but they were dim memories of a life he had lived long centuries agone, on some other planet. this phantasm was the reality. standing beneath the wind-vane, his eyes fixed on the polar skies, he could not bring himself to realize that the southland really existed, that at that very moment it was a-roar with life and action. there was no southland, no men being born of women, no giving and taking in marriage. beyond his bleak skyline there stretched vast solitudes, and beyond these still vaster solitudes. there were no lands of sunshine, heavy with the perfume of flowers. such things were only old dreams of paradise. the sunlands of the west and the spicelands of the east, the smiling arcadias and blissful islands of the blest--ha! ha! his laughter split the void and shocked him with its unwonted sound. there was no sun. this was the universe, dead and cold and dark, and he its only citizen. weatherbee? at such moments weatherbee did not count. he was a caliban, a monstrous phantom, fettered to him for untold ages, the penalty of some forgotten crime. he lived with death among the dead, emasculated by the sense of his own insignificance, crushed by the passive mastery of the slumbering ages. the magnitude of all things appalled him. everything partook of the superlative save himself--the perfect cessation of wind and motion, the immensity of the snow-covered wildness, the height of the sky and the depth of the silence. that wind-vane--if it would only move. if a thunderbolt would fall, or the forest flare up in flame. the rolling up of the heavens as a scroll, the crash of doom--anything, anything! but no, nothing moved; the silence crowded in, and the fear of the north laid icy fingers on his heart. once, like another crusoe, by the edge of the river he came upon a track--the faint tracery of a snowshoe rabbit on the delicate snow-crust. it was a revelation. there was life in the northland. he would follow it, look upon it, gloat over it. he forgot his swollen muscles, plunging through the deep snow in an ecstasy of anticipation. the forest swallowed him up, and the brief midday twilight vanished; but he pursued his quest till exhausted nature asserted itself and laid him helpless in the snow. there he groaned and cursed his folly, and knew the track to be the fancy of his brain; and late that night he dragged himself into the cabin on hands and knees, his cheeks frozen and a strange numbness about his feet. weatherbee grinned malevolently, but made no offer to help him. he thrust needles into his toes and thawed them out by the stove. a week later mortification set in. but the clerk had his own troubles. the dead men came out of their graves more frequently now, and rarely left him, waking or sleeping. he grew to wait and dread their coming, never passing the twin cairns without a shudder. one night they came to him in his sleep and led him forth to an appointed task. frightened into inarticulate horror, he awoke between the heaps of stones and fled wildly to the cabin. but he had lain there for some time, for his feet and cheeks were also frozen. sometimes he became frantic at their insistent presence, and danced about the cabin, cutting the empty air with an axe, and smashing everything within reach. during these ghostly encounters, cuthfert huddled into his blankets and followed the madman about with a cocked revolver, ready to shoot him if he came too near. but, recovering from one of these spells, the clerk noticed the weapon trained upon him. his suspicions were aroused, and thenceforth he, too, lived in fear of his life. they watched each other closely after that, and faced about in startled fright whenever either passed behind the other's back. the apprehensiveness became a mania which controlled them even in their sleep. through mutual fear they tacitly let the slush-lamp burn all night, and saw to a plentiful supply of bacon-grease before retiring. the slightest movement on the part of one was sufficient to arouse the other, and many a still watch their gazes countered as they shook beneath their blankets with fingers on the trigger-guards. what with the fear of the north, the mental strain, and the ravages of the disease, they lost all semblance of humanity, taking on the appearance of wild beasts, hunted and desperate. their cheeks and noses, as an aftermath of the freezing, had turned black. their frozen toes had begun to drop away at the first and second joints. every movement brought pain, but the fire box was insatiable, wringing a ransom of torture from their miserable bodies. day in, day out, it demanded its food--a veritable pound of flesh--and they dragged themselves into the forest to chop wood on their knees. once, crawling thus in search of dry sticks, unknown to each other they entered a thicket from opposite sides. suddenly, without warning, two peering death's-heads confronted each other. suffering had so transformed them that recognition was impossible. they sprang to their feet, shrieking with terror, and dashed away on their mangled stumps; and falling at the cabin's door, they clawed and scratched like demons till they discovered their mistake. occasionally they lapsed normal, and during one of these sane intervals, the chief bone of contention, the sugar, had been divided equally between them. they guarded their separate sacks, stored up in the cache, with jealous eyes; for there were but a few cupfuls left, and they were totally devoid of faith in each other. but one day cuthfert made a mistake. hardly able to move, sick with pain, with his head swimming and eyes blinded, he crept into the cache, sugar canister in hand, and mistook weatherbee's sack for his own. january had been born but a few days when this occurred. the sun had some time since passed its lowest southern declination, and at meridian now threw flaunting streaks of yellow light upon the northern sky. on the day following his mistake with the sugar-bag, cuthfert found himself feeling better, both in body and in spirit. as noontime drew near and the day brightened, he dragged himself outside to feast on the evanescent glow, which was to him an earnest of the sun's future intentions. weatherbee was also feeling somewhat better, and crawled out beside him. they propped themselves in the snow beneath the moveless wind-vane, and waited. the stillness of death was about them. in other climes, when nature falls into such moods, there is a subdued air of expectancy, a waiting for some small voice to take up the broken strain. not so in the north. the two men had lived seeming eons in this ghostly peace. they could remember no song of the past; they could conjure no song of the future. this unearthly calm had always been--the tranquil silence of eternity. their eyes were fixed upon the north. unseen, behind their backs, behind the towering mountains to the south, the sun swept toward the zenith of another sky than theirs. sole spectators of the mighty canvas, they watched the false dawn slowly grow. a faint flame began to glow and smoulder. it deepened in intensity, ringing the changes of reddish-yellow, purple, and saffron. so bright did it become that cuthfert thought the sun must surely be behind it--a miracle, the sun rising in the north! suddenly, without warning and without fading, the canvas was swept clean. there was no color in the sky. the light had gone out of the day. they caught their breaths in half-sobs. but lo! the air was aglint with particles of scintillating frost, and there, to the north, the wind-vane lay in vague outline of the snow. a shadow! a shadow! it was exactly midday. they jerked their heads hurriedly to the south. a golden rim peeped over the mountain's snowy shoulder, smiled upon them an instant, then dipped from sight again. there were tears in their eyes as they sought each other. a strange softening came over them. they felt irresistibly drawn toward each other. the sun was coming back again. it would be with them tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. and it would stay longer every visit, and a time would come when it would ride their heaven day and night, never once dropping below the skyline. there would be no night. the ice-locked winter would be broken; the winds would blow and the forests answer; the land would bathe in the blessed sunshine, and life renew. hand in hand, they would quit this horrid dream and journey back to the southland. they lurched blindly forward, and their hands met--their poor maimed hands, swollen and distorted beneath their mittens. but the promise was destined to remain unfulfilled. the northland is the northland, and men work out their souls by strange rules, which other men, who have not journeyed into far countries, cannot come to understand. an hour later, cuthfert put a pan of bread into the oven, and fell to speculating on what the surgeons could do with his feet when he got back. home did not seem so very far away now. weatherbee was rummaging in the cache. of a sudden, he raised a whirlwind of blasphemy, which in turn ceased with startling abruptness. the other man had robbed his sugar-sack. still, things might have happened differently, had not the two dead men come out from under the stones and hushed the hot words in his throat. they led him quite gently from the cache, which he forgot to close. that consummation was reached; that something they had whispered to him in his dreams was about to happen. they guided him gently, very gently, to the woodpile, where they put the axe in his hands. then they helped him shove open the cabin door, and he felt sure they shut it after him--at least he heard it slam and the latch fall sharply into place. and he knew they were waiting just without, waiting for him to do his task. 'carter! i say, carter!' percy cuthfert was frightened at the look on the clerk's face, and he made haste to put the table between them. carter weatherbee followed, without haste and without enthusiasm. there was neither pity nor passion in his face, but rather the patient, stolid look of one who has certain work to do and goes about it methodically. 'i say, what's the matter?' the clerk dodged back, cutting off his retreat to the door, but never opening his mouth. 'i say, carter, i say; let's talk. there's a good chap.' the master of arts was thinking rapidly, now, shaping a skillful flank movement on the bed where his smith & wesson lay. keeping his eyes on the madman, he rolled backward on the bunk, at the same time clutching the pistol. 'carter!' the powder flashed full in weatherbee's face, but he swung his weapon and leaped forward. the axe bit deeply at the base of the spine, and percy cuthfert felt all consciousness of his lower limbs leave him. then the clerk fell heavily upon him, clutching him by the throat with feeble fingers. the sharp bite of the axe had caused cuthfert to drop the pistol, and as his lungs panted for release, he fumbled aimlessly for it among the blankets. then he remembered. he slid a hand up the clerk's belt to the sheath-knife; and they drew very close to each other in that last clinch. percy cuthfert felt his strength leave him. the lower portion of his body was useless, the inert weight of weatherbee crushed him--crushed him and pinned him there like a bear under a trap. the cabin became filled with a familiar odor, and he knew the bread to be burning. yet what did it matter? he would never need it. and there were all of six cupfuls of sugar in the cache--if he had foreseen this he would not have been so saving the last several days. would the wind-vane ever move? why not' had he not seen the sun today? he would go and see. no; it was impossible to move. he had not thought the clerk so heavy a man. how quickly the cabin cooled! the fire must be out. the cold was forcing in. it must be below zero already, and the ice creeping up the inside of the door. he could not see it, but his past experience enabled him to gauge its progress by the cabin's temperature. the lower hinge must be white ere now. would the tale of this ever reach the world? how would his friends take it? they would read it over their coffee, most likely, and talk it over at the clubs. he could see them very clearly, 'poor old cuthfert,' they murmured; 'not such a bad sort of a chap, after all.' he smiled at their eulogies, and passed on in search of a turkish bath. it was the same old crowd upon the streets. strange, they did not notice his moosehide moccasins and tattered german socks! he would take a cab. and after the bath a shave would not be bad. no; he would eat first. steak, and potatoes, and green things how fresh it all was! and what was that? squares of honey, streaming liquid amber! but why did they bring so much? ha! ha! he could never eat it all. shine! why certainly. he put his foot on the box. the bootblack looked curiously up at him, and he remembered his moosehide moccasins and went away hastily. hark! the wind-vane must be surely spinning. no; a mere singing in his ears. that was all--a mere singing. the ice must have passed the latch by now. more likely the upper hinge was covered. between the moss-chinked roof-poles, little points of frost began to appear. how slowly they grew! no; not so slowly. there was a new one, and there another. two--three--four; they were coming too fast to count. there were two growing together. and there, a third had joined them. why, there were no more spots. they had run together and formed a sheet. well, he would have company. if gabriel ever broke the silence of the north, they would stand together, hand in hand, before the great white throne. and god would judge them, god would judge them! then percy cuthfert closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep. to the man on the trail 'dump it in!.' 'but i say, kid, isn't that going it a little too strong? whisky and alcohol's bad enough; but when it comes to brandy and pepper sauce and-' 'dump it in. who's making this punch, anyway?' and malemute kid smiled benignantly through the clouds of steam. 'by the time you've been in this country as long as i have, my son, and lived on rabbit tracks and salmon belly, you'll learn that christmas comes only once per annum. and a christmas without punch is sinking a hole to bedrock with nary a pay streak.' 'stack up on that fer a high cyard,' approved big jim belden, who had come down from his claim on mazy may to spend christmas, and who, as everyone knew, had been living the two months past on straight moose meat. 'hain't fergot the hooch we-uns made on the tanana, hey yeh?' 'well, i guess yes. boys, it would have done your hearts good to see that whole tribe fighting drunk--and all because of a glorious ferment of sugar and sour dough. that was before your time,' malemute kid said as he turned to stanley prince, a young mining expert who had been in two years. 'no white women in the country then, and mason wanted to get married. ruth's father was chief of the tananas, and objected, like the rest of the tribe. stiff? why, i used my last pound of sugar; finest work in that line i ever did in my life. you should have seen the chase, down the river and across the portage.' 'but the squaw?' asked louis savoy, the tall french canadian, becoming interested; for he had heard of this wild deed when at forty mile the preceding winter. then malemute kid, who was a born raconteur, told the unvarnished tale of the northland lochinvar. more than one rough adventurer of the north felt his heartstrings draw closer and experienced vague yearnings for the sunnier pastures of the southland, where life promised something more than a barren struggle with cold and death. 'we struck the yukon just behind the first ice run,' he concluded, 'and the tribe only a quarter of an hour behind. but that saved us; for the second run broke the jam above and shut them out. when they finally got into nuklukyeto, the whole post was ready for them. 'and as to the forgathering, ask father roubeau here: he performed the ceremony.' the jesuit took the pipe from his lips but could only express his gratification with patriarchal smiles, while protestant and catholic vigorously applauded. 'by gar!' ejaculated louis savoy, who seemed overcome by the romance of it. 'la petite squaw: mon mason brav. by gar!' then, as the first tin cups of punch went round, bettles the unquenchable sprang to his feet and struck up his favorite drinking song: 'there's henry ward beecher and sunday-school teachers, all drink of the sassafras root; but you bet all the same, if it had its right name, it's the juice of the forbidden fruit.' 'oh, the juice of the forbidden fruit,' roared out the bacchanalian chorus, 'oh, the juice of the forbidden fruit; but you bet all the same, if it had its right name, it's the juice of the forbidden fruit.' malemute kid's frightful concoction did its work; the men of the camps and trails unbent in its genial glow, and jest and song and tales of past adventure went round the board. aliens from a dozen lands, they toasted each and all. it was the englishman, prince, who pledged 'uncle sam, the precocious infant of the new world'; the yankee, bettles, who drank to 'the queen, god bless her'; and together, savoy and meyers, the german trader, clanged their cups to alsace and lorraine. then malemute kid arose, cup in hand, and glanced at the greased-paper window, where the frost stood full three inches thick. 'a health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire.' crack! crack! heard the familiar music of the dog whip, the whining howl of the malemutes, and the crunch of a sled as it drew up to the cabin. conversation languished while they waited the issue. 'an old-timer; cares for his dogs and then himself,' whispered malemute kid to prince as they listened to the snapping jaws and the wolfish snarls and yelps of pain which proclaimed to their practiced ears that the stranger was beating back their dogs while he fed his own. then came the expected knock, sharp and confident, and the stranger entered. dazzled by the light, he hesitated a moment at the door, giving to all a chance for scrutiny. he was a striking personage, and a most picturesque one, in his arctic dress of wool and fur. standing six foot two or three, with proportionate breadth of shoulders and depth of chest, his smooth-shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink, his long lashes and eyebrows white with ice, and the ear and neck flaps of his great wolfskin cap loosely raised, he seemed, of a verity, the frost king, just stepped in out of the night. clasped outside his mackinaw jacket, a beaded belt held two large colt's revolvers and a hunting knife, while he carried, in addition to the inevitable dog whip, a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and latest pattern. as he came forward, for all his step was firm and elastic, they could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him. an awkward silence had fallen, but his hearty 'what cheer, my lads?' put them quickly at ease, and the next instant malemute kid and he had gripped hands. though they had never met, each had heard of the other, and the recognition was mutual. a sweeping introduction and a mug of punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand. how long since that basket sled, with three men and eight dogs, passed?' he asked. 'an even two days ahead. are you after them?' 'yes; my team. run them off under my very nose, the cusses. i've gained two days on them already--pick them up on the next run.' 'reckon they'll show spunk?' asked belden, in order to keep up the conversation, for malemute kid already had the coffeepot on and was busily frying bacon and moose meat. the stranger significantly tapped his revolvers. 'when'd yeh leave dawson?' 'twelve o'clock.' 'last night?'--as a matter of course. 'today.' a murmur of surprise passed round the circle. and well it might; for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of rough river trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours' run. the talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the trails of childhood. as the young stranger ate of the rude fare malemute kid attentively studied his face. nor was he long in deciding that it was fair, honest, and open, and that he liked it. still youthful, the lines had been firmly traced by toil and hardship. though genial in conversation, and mild when at rest, the blue eyes gave promise of the hard steel-glitter which comes when called into action, especially against odds. the heavy jaw and square-cut chin demonstrated rugged pertinacity and indomitability. nor, though the attributes of the lion were there, was there wanting the certain softness, the hint of womanliness, which bespoke the emotional nature. 'so thet's how me an' the ol' woman got spliced,' said belden, concluding the exciting tale of his courtship. '"here we be, dad," sez she. "an' may yeh be damned," sez he to her, an' then to me, "jim, yeh--yeh git outen them good duds o' yourn; i want a right peart slice o' thet forty acre plowed 'fore dinner." an' then he sort o' sniffled an' kissed her. an' i was thet happy--but he seen me an' roars out, "yeh, jim!" an' yeh bet i dusted fer the barn.' 'any kids waiting for you back in the states?' asked the stranger. 'nope; sal died 'fore any come. thet's why i'm here.' belden abstractedly began to light his pipe, which had failed to go out, and then brightened up with, 'how 'bout yerself, stranger--married man?' for reply, he opened his watch, slipped it from the thong which served for a chain, and passed it over. belden picked up the slush lamp, surveyed the inside of the case critically, and, swearing admiringly to himself, handed it over to louis savoy. with numerous 'by gars!' he finally surrendered it to prince, and they noticed that his hands trembled and his eyes took on a peculiar softness. and so it passed from horny hand to horny hand--the pasted photograph of a woman, the clinging kind that such men fancy, with a babe at the breast. those who had not yet seen the wonder were keen with curiosity; those who had became silent and retrospective. they could face the pinch of famine, the grip of scurvy, or the quick death by field or flood; but the pictured semblance of a stranger woman and child made women and children of them all. 'never have seen the youngster yet--he's a boy, she says, and two years old,' said the stranger as he received the treasure back. a lingering moment he gazed upon it, then snapped the case and turned away, but not quick enough to hide the restrained rush of tears. malemute kid led him to a bunk and bade him turn in. 'call me at four sharp. don't fail me,' were his last words, and a moment later he was breathing in the heaviness of exhausted sleep. 'by jove! he's a plucky chap,' commented prince. 'three hours' sleep after seventy-five miles with the dogs, and then the trail again. who is he, kid?' 'jack westondale. been in going on three years, with nothing but the name of working like a horse, and any amount of bad luck to his credit. i never knew him, but sitka charley told me about him.' 'it seems hard that a man with a sweet young wife like his should be putting in his years in this godforsaken hole, where every year counts two on the outside.' 'the trouble with him is clean grit and stubbornness. he's cleaned up twice with a stake, but lost it both times.' here the conversation was broken off by an uproar from bettles, for the effect had begun to wear away. and soon the bleak years of monotonous grub and deadening toil were being forgotten in rough merriment. malemute kid alone seemed unable to lose himself, and cast many an anxious look at his watch. once he put on his mittens and beaver-skin cap, and, leaving the cabin, fell to rummaging about in the cache. nor could he wait the hour designated; for he was fifteen minutes ahead of time in rousing his guest. the young giant had stiffened badly, and brisk rubbing was necessary to bring him to his feet. he tottered painfully out of the cabin, to find his dogs harnessed and everything ready for the start. the company wished him good luck and a short chase, while father roubeau, hurriedly blessing him, led the stampede for the cabin; and small wonder, for it is not good to face seventy-four degrees below zero with naked ears and hands. malemute kid saw him to the main trail, and there, gripping his hand heartily, gave him advice. 'you'll find a hundred pounds of salmon eggs on the sled,' he said. 'the dogs will go as far on that as with one hundred and fifty of fish, and you can't get dog food at pelly, as you probably expected.' the stranger started, and his eyes flashed, but he did not interrupt. 'you can't get an ounce of food for dog or man till you reach five fingers, and that's a stiff two hundred miles. watch out for open water on the thirty mile river, and be sure you take the big cutoff above le barge.' 'how did you know it? surely the news can't be ahead of me already?' 'i don't know it; and what's more, i don't want to know it. but you never owned that team you're chasing. sitka charley sold it to them last spring. but he sized you up to me as square once, and i believe him. i've seen your face; i like it. and i've seen--why, damn you, hit the high places for salt water and that wife of yours, and--' here the kid unmittened and jerked out his sack. 'no; i don't need it,' and the tears froze on his cheeks as he convulsively gripped malemute kid's hand. 'then don't spare the dogs; cut them out of the traces as fast as they drop; buy them, and think they're cheap at ten dollars a pound. you can get them at five fingers, little salmon, and hootalinqua. and watch out for wet feet,' was his parting advice. 'keep a-traveling up to twenty-five, but if it gets below that, build a fire and change your socks.' fifteen minutes had barely elapsed when the jingle of bells announced new arrivals. the door opened, and a mounted policeman of the northwest territory entered, followed by two half-breed dog drivers. like westondale, they were heavily armed and showed signs of fatigue. the half-breeds had been born to the trail and bore it easily; but the young policeman was badly exhausted. still, the dogged obstinacy of his race held him to the pace he had set, and would hold him till he dropped in his tracks. 'when did westondale pull out?' he asked. 'he stopped here, didn't he?' this was supererogatory, for the tracks told their own tale too well. malemute kid had caught belden's eye, and he, scenting the wind, replied evasively, 'a right peart while back.' 'come, my man; speak up,' the policeman admonished. 'yeh seem to want him right smart. hez he ben gittin' cantankerous down dawson way?' 'held up harry mcfarland's for forty thousand; exchanged it at the p.c. store for a check on seattle; and who's to stop the cashing of it if we don't overtake him? when did he pull out?' every eye suppressed its excitement, for malemute kid had given the cue, and the young officer encountered wooden faces on every hand. striding over to prince, he put the question to him. though it hurt him, gazing into the frank, earnest face of his fellow countryman, he replied inconsequentially on the state of the trail. then he espied father roubeau, who could not lie. 'a quarter of an hour ago,' the priest answered; 'but he had four hours' rest for himself and dogs.' 'fifteen minutes' start, and he's fresh! my god!' the poor fellow staggered back, half fainting from exhaustion and disappointment, murmuring something about the run from dawson in ten hours and the dogs being played out. malemute kid forced a mug of punch upon him; then he turned for the door, ordering the dog drivers to follow. but the warmth and promise of rest were too tempting, and they objected strenuously. the kid was conversant with their french patois, and followed it anxiously. they swore that the dogs were gone up; that siwash and babette would have to be shot before the first mile was covered; that the rest were almost as bad; and that it would be better for all hands to rest up. 'lend me five dogs?' he asked, turning to malemute kid. but the kid shook his head. 'i'll sign a check on captain constantine for five thousand--here's my papers--i'm authorized to draw at my own discretion.' again the silent refusal. 'then i'll requisition them in the name of the queen.' smiling incredulously, the kid glanced at his well-stocked arsenal, and the englishman, realizing his impotency, turned for the door. but the dog drivers still objecting, he whirled upon them fiercely, calling them women and curs. the swart face of the older half-breed flushed angrily as he drew himself up and promised in good, round terms that he would travel his leader off his legs, and would then be delighted to plant him in the snow. the young officer--and it required his whole will--walked steadily to the door, exhibiting a freshness he did not possess. but they all knew and appreciated his proud effort; nor could he veil the twinges of agony that shot across his face. covered with frost, the dogs were curled up in the snow, and it was almost impossible to get them to their feet. the poor brutes whined under the stinging lash, for the dog drivers were angry and cruel; nor till babette, the leader, was cut from the traces, could they break out the sled and get under way. 'a dirty scoundrel and a liar!' 'by gar! him no good!' 'a thief!' 'worse than an indian!' it was evident that they were angry--first at the way they had been deceived; and second at the outraged ethics of the northland, where honesty, above all, was man's prime jewel. 'an' we gave the cuss a hand, after knowin' what he'd did.' all eyes turned accusingly upon malemute kid, who rose from the corner where he had been making babette comfortable, and silently emptied the bowl for a final round of punch. 'it's a cold night, boys--a bitter cold night,' was the irrelevant commencement of his defense. 'you've all traveled trail, and know what that stands for. don't jump a dog when he's down. you've only heard one side. a whiter man than jack westondale never ate from the same pot nor stretched blanket with you or me. 'last fall he gave his whole clean-up, forty thousand, to joe castrell, to buy in on dominion. today he'd be a millionaire. but, while he stayed behind at circle city, taking care of his partner with the scurvy, what does castell do? goes into mcfarland's, jumps the limit, and drops the whole sack. found him dead in the snow the next day. and poor jack laying his plans to go out this winter to his wife and the boy he's never seen. you'll notice he took exactly what his partner lost--forty thousand. well, he's gone out; and what are you going to do about it?' the kid glanced round the circle of his judges, noted the softening of their faces, then raised his mug aloft. 'so a health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire. 'god prosper him; good luck go with him; and--' 'confusion to the mounted police!' cried bettles, to the crash of the empty cups. the priestly prerogative this is the story of a man who did not appreciate his wife; also, of a woman who did him too great an honor when she gave herself to him. incidentally, it concerns a jesuit priest who had never been known to lie. he was an appurtenance, and a very necessary one, to the yukon country; but the presence of the other two was merely accidental. they were specimens of the many strange waifs which ride the breast of a gold rush or come tailing along behind. edwin bentham and grace bentham were waifs; they were also tailing along behind, for the klondike rush of '97 had long since swept down the great river and subsided into the famine-stricken city of dawson. when the yukon shut up shop and went to sleep under a three-foot ice-sheet, this peripatetic couple found themselves at the five finger rapids, with the city of gold still a journey of many sleeps to the north. many cattle had been butchered at this place in the fall of the year, and the offal made a goodly heap. the three fellow-voyagers of edwin bentham and wife gazed upon this deposit, did a little mental arithmetic, caught a certain glimpse of a bonanza, and decided to remain. and all winter they sold sacks of bones and frozen hides to the famished dog-teams. it was a modest price they asked, a dollar a pound, just as it came. six months later, when the sun came back and the yukon awoke, they buckled on their heavy moneybelts and journeyed back to the southland, where they yet live and lie mightily about the klondike they never saw. but edwin bentham--he was an indolent fellow, and had he not been possessed of a wife, would have gladly joined issued in the dog-meat speculation. as it was, she played upon his vanity, told him how great and strong he was, how a man such as he certainly was could overcome all obstacles and of a surety obtain the golden fleece. so he squared his jaw, sold his share in the bones and hides for a sled and one dog, and turned his snowshoes to the north. needless to state, grace bentham's snowshoes never allowed his tracks to grow cold. nay, ere their tribulations had seen three days, it was the man who followed in the rear, and the woman who broke trail in advance. of course, if anybody hove in sight, the position was instantly reversed. thus did his manhood remain virgin to the travelers who passed like ghosts on the silent trail. there are such men in this world. how such a man and such a woman came to take each other for better and for worse is unimportant to this narrative. these things are familiar to us all, and those people who do them, or even question them too closely, are apt to lose a beautiful faith which is known as eternal fitness. edwin bentham was a boy, thrust by mischance into a man's body,--a boy who could complacently pluck a butterfly, wing from wing, or cower in abject terror before a lean, nervy fellow, not half his size. he was a selfish cry-baby, hidden behind a man's mustache and stature, and glossed over with a skin-deep veneer of culture and conventionality. yes; he was a clubman and a society man, the sort that grace social functions and utter inanities with a charm and unction which is indescribable; the sort that talk big, and cry over a toothache; the sort that put more hell into a woman's life by marrying her than can the most graceless libertine that ever browsed in forbidden pastures. we meet these men every day, but we rarely know them for what they are. second to marrying them, the best way to get this knowledge is to eat out of the same pot and crawl under the same blanket with them for--well, say a week; no greater margin is necessary. to see grace bentham, was to see a slender, girlish creature; to know her, was to know a soul which dwarfed your own, yet retained all the elements of the eternal feminine. this was the woman who urged and encouraged her husband in his northland quest, who broke trail for him when no one was looking, and cried in secret over her weakling woman's body. so journeyed this strangely assorted couple down to old fort selkirk, then through fivescore miles of dismal wilderness to stuart river. and when the short day left them, and the man lay down in the snow and blubbered, it was the woman who lashed him to the sled, bit her lips with the pain of her aching limbs, and helped the dog haul him to malemute kid's cabin. malemute kid was not at home, but meyers, the german trader, cooked great moose-steaks and shook up a bed of fresh pine boughs. lake, langham, and parker, were excited, and not unduly so when the cause was taken into account. 'oh, sandy! say, can you tell a porterhouse from a round? come out and lend us a hand, anyway!' this appeal emanated from the cache, where langham was vainly struggling with divers quarters of frozen moose. 'don't you budge from those dishes!' commanded parker. 'i say, sandy; there's a good fellow--just run down to the missouri camp and borrow some cinnamon,' begged lake. 'oh! oh! hurry up! why don't--' but the crash of meat and boxes, in the cache, abruptly quenched this peremptory summons. 'come now, sandy; it won't take a minute to go down to the missouri--' 'you leave him alone,' interrupted parker. 'how am i to mix the biscuits if the table isn't cleared off?' sandy paused in indecision, till suddenly the fact that he was langham's 'man' dawned upon him. then he apologetically threw down the greasy dishcloth, and went to his master's rescue. these promising scions of wealthy progenitors had come to the northland in search of laurels, with much money to burn, and a 'man' apiece. luckily for their souls, the other two men were up the white river in search of a mythical quartz-ledge; so sandy had to grin under the responsibility of three healthy masters, each of whom was possessed of peculiar cookery ideas. twice that morning had a disruption of the whole camp been imminent, only averted by immense concessions from one or the other of these knights of the chafing-dish. but at last their mutual creation, a really dainty dinner, was completed. then they sat down to a three-cornered game of 'cut-throat,'--a proceeding which did away with all casus belli for future hostilities, and permitted the victor to depart on a most important mission. this fortune fell to parker, who parted his hair in the middle, put on his mittens and bearskin cap, and stepped over to malemute kid's cabin. and when he returned, it was in the company of grace bentham and malemute kid,--the former very sorry her husband could not share with her their hospitality, for he had gone up to look at the henderson creek mines, and the latter still a trifle stiff from breaking trail down the stuart river. meyers had been asked, but had declined, being deeply engrossed in an experiment of raising bread from hops. well, they could do without the husband; but a woman--why they had not seen one all winter, and the presence of this one promised a new era in their lives. they were college men and gentlemen, these three young fellows, yearning for the flesh-pots they had been so long denied. probably grace bentham suffered from a similar hunger; at least, it meant much to her, the first bright hour in many weeks of darkness. but that wonderful first course, which claimed the versatile lake for its parent, had no sooner been served than there came a loud knock at the door. 'oh! ah! won't you come in, mr. bentham?' said parker, who had stepped to see who the newcomer might be. 'is my wife here?' gruffly responded that worthy. 'why, yes. we left word with mr. meyers.' parker was exerting his most dulcet tones, inwardly wondering what the deuce it all meant. 'won't you come in? expecting you at any moment, we reserved a place. and just in time for the first course, too.' 'come in, edwin, dear,' chirped grace bentham from her seat at the table. parker naturally stood aside. 'i want my wife,' reiterated bentham hoarsely, the intonation savoring disagreeably of ownership. parker gasped, was within an ace of driving his fist into the face of his boorish visitor, but held himself awkwardly in check. everybody rose. lake lost his head and caught himself on the verge of saying, 'must you go?' then began the farrago of leave-taking. 'so nice of you--' 'i am awfully sorry' 'by jove! how things did brighten--' 'really now, you--' 'thank you ever so much--' 'nice trip to dawson--' etc., etc. in this wise the lamb was helped into her jacket and led to the slaughter. then the door slammed, and they gazed woefully upon the deserted table. 'damn!' langham had suffered disadvantages in his early training, and his oaths were weak and monotonous. 'damn!' he repeated, vaguely conscious of the incompleteness and vainly struggling for a more virile term. it is a clever woman who can fill out the many weak places in an inefficient man, by her own indomitability, re-enforce his vacillating nature, infuse her ambitious soul into his, and spur him on to great achievements. and it is indeed a very clever and tactful woman who can do all this, and do it so subtly that the man receives all the credit and believes in his inmost heart that everything is due to him and him alone. this is what grace bentham proceeded to do. arriving in dawson with a few pounds of flour and several letters of introduction, she at once applied herself to the task of pushing her big baby to the fore. it was she who melted the stony heart and wrung credit from the rude barbarian who presided over the destiny of the p. c. company; yet it was edwin bentham to whom the concession was ostensibly granted. it was she who dragged her baby up and down creeks, over benches and divides, and on a dozen wild stampedes; yet everybody remarked what an energetic fellow that bentham was. it was she who studied maps, and catechised miners, and hammered geography and locations into his hollow head, till everybody marveled at his broad grasp of the country and knowledge of its conditions. of course, they said the wife was a brick, and only a few wise ones appreciated and pitied the brave little woman. she did the work; he got the credit and reward. in the northwest territory a married woman cannot stake or record a creek, bench, or quartz claim; so edwin bentham went down to the gold commissioner and filed on bench claim 23, second tier, of french hill. and when april came they were washing out a thousand dollars a day, with many, many such days in prospect. at the base of french hill lay eldorado creek, and on a creek claim stood the cabin of clyde wharton. at present he was not washing out a diurnal thousand dollars; but his dumps grew, shift by shift, and there would come a time when those dumps would pass through his sluice-boxes, depositing in the riffles, in the course of half a dozen days, several hundred thousand dollars. he often sat in that cabin, smoked his pipe, and dreamed beautiful little dreams,--dreams in which neither the dumps nor the half-ton of dust in the p. c. company's big safe, played a part. and grace bentham, as she washed tin dishes in her hillside cabin, often glanced down into eldorado creek, and dreamed,--not of dumps nor dust, however. they met frequently, as the trail to the one claim crossed the other, and there is much to talk about in the northland spring; but never once, by the light of an eye nor the slip of a tongue, did they speak their hearts. this is as it was at first. but one day edwin bentham was brutal. all boys are thus; besides, being a french hill king now, he began to think a great deal of himself and to forget all he owed to his wife. on this day, wharton heard of it, and waylaid grace bentham, and talked wildly. this made her very happy, though she would not listen, and made him promise to not say such things again. her hour had not come. but the sun swept back on its northern journey, the black of midnight changed to the steely color of dawn, the snow slipped away, the water dashed again over the glacial drift, and the wash-up began. day and night the yellow clay and scraped bedrock hurried through the swift sluices, yielding up its ransom to the strong men from the southland. and in that time of tumult came grace bentham's hour. to all of us such hours at some time come,--that is, to us who are not too phlegmatic. some people are good, not from inherent love of virtue, but from sheer laziness. but those of us who know weak moments may understand. edwin bentham was weighing dust over the bar of the saloon at the forks--altogether too much of his dust went over that pine board--when his wife came down the hill and slipped into clyde wharton's cabin. wharton was not expecting her, but that did not alter the case. and much subsequent misery and idle waiting might have been avoided, had not father roubeau seen this and turned aside from the main creek trail. 'my child,--' 'hold on, father roubeau! though i'm not of your faith, i respect you; but you can't come in between this woman and me!' 'you know what you are doing?' 'know! were you god almighty, ready to fling me into eternal fire, i'd bank my will against yours in this matter.' wharton had placed grace on a stool and stood belligerently before her. 'you sit down on that chair and keep quiet,' he continued, addressing the jesuit. 'i'll take my innings now. you can have yours after.' father roubeau bowed courteously and obeyed. he was an easy-going man and had learned to bide his time. wharton pulled a stool alongside the woman's, smothering her hand in his. 'then you do care for me, and will take me away?' her face seemed to reflect the peace of this man, against whom she might draw close for shelter. 'dear, don't you remember what i said before? of course i-' 'but how can you?--the wash-up?' 'do you think that worries? anyway, i'll give the job to father roubeau, here. 'i can trust him to safely bank the dust with the company.' 'to think of it!--i'll never see him again.' 'a blessing!' 'and to go--o, clyde, i can't! i can't!' 'there, there; of course you can, just let me plan it.--you see, as soon as we get a few traps together, we'll start, and-' 'suppose he comes back?' 'i'll break every-' 'no, no! no fighting, clyde! promise me that.' 'all right! i'll just tell the men to throw him off the claim. they've seen how he's treated you, and haven't much love for him.' 'you mustn't do that. you mustn't hurt him.' 'what then? let him come right in here and take you away before my eyes?' 'no-o,' she half whispered, stroking his hand softly. 'then let me run it, and don't worry. i'll see he doesn't get hurt. precious lot he cared whether you got hurt or not! we won't go back to dawson. i'll send word down for a couple of the boys to outfit and pole a boat up the yukon. we'll cross the divide and raft down the indian river to meet them. then--' 'and then?' her head was on his shoulder. their voices sank to softer cadences, each word a caress. the jesuit fidgeted nervously. 'and then?' she repeated. 'why we'll pole up, and up, and up, and portage the white horse rapids and the box canon.' 'yes?' 'and the sixty-mile river; then the lakes, chilcoot, dyea, and salt water.' 'but, dear, i can't pole a boat.' 'you little goose! i'll get sitka charley; he knows all the good water and best camps, and he is the best traveler i ever met, if he is an indian. all you'll have to do, is to sit in the middle of the boat, and sing songs, and play cleopatra, and fight--no, we're in luck; too early for mosquitoes.' 'and then, o my antony?' 'and then a steamer, san francisco, and the world! never to come back to this cursed hole again. think of it! the world, and ours to choose from! i'll sell out. why, we're rich! the waldworth syndicate will give me half a million for what's left in the ground, and i've got twice as much in the dumps and with the p. c. company. we'll go to the fair in paris in 1900. we'll go to jerusalem, if you say so. 'we'll buy an italian palace, and you can play cleopatra to your heart's content. no, you shall be lucretia, acte, or anybody your little heart sees fit to become. but you mustn't, you really mustn't-' 'the wife of caesar shall be above reproach.' 'of course, but--' 'but i won't be your wife, will i, dear?' 'i didn't mean that.' 'but you'll love me just as much, and never even think--oh! i know you'll be like other men; you'll grow tired, and--and-' 'how can you? i--' 'promise me.' 'yes, yes; i do promise.' 'you say it so easily, dear; but how do you know?--or i know? i have so little to give, yet it is so much, and all i have. o, clyde! promise me you won't?' 'there, there! you mustn't begin to doubt already. till death do us part, you know.' 'think! i once said that to--to him, and now?' 'and now, little sweetheart, you're not to bother about such things any more. of course, i never, never will, and--' and for the first time, lips trembled against lips. father roubeau had been watching the main trail through the window, but could stand the strain no longer. he cleared his throat and turned around. 'your turn now, father!' wharton's face was flushed with the fire of his first embrace. there was an exultant ring to his voice as he abdicated in the other's favor. he had no doubt as to the result. neither had grace, for a smile played about her mouth as she faced the priest. 'my child,' he began, 'my heart bleeds for you. it is a pretty dream, but it cannot be.' 'and why, father? i have said yes.' 'you knew not what you did. you did not think of the oath you took, before your god, to that man who is your husband. it remains for me to make you realize the sanctity of such a pledge.' 'and if i do realize, and yet refuse?' 'then god' 'which god? my husband has a god which i care not to worship. there must be many such.' 'child! unsay those words! ah! you do not mean them. i understand. i, too, have had such moments.' for an instant he was back in his native france, and a wistful, sad-eyed face came as a mist between him and the woman before him. 'then, father, has my god forsaken me? i am not wicked above women. my misery with him has been great. why should it be greater? why shall i not grasp at happiness? i cannot, will not, go back to him!' 'rather is your god forsaken. return. throw your burden upon him, and the darkness shall be lifted. o my child,--' 'no; it is useless; i have made my bed and so shall i lie. i will go on. and if god punishes me, i shall bear it somehow. you do not understand. you are not a woman.' 'my mother was a woman.' 'but--' 'and christ was born of a woman.' she did not answer. a silence fell. wharton pulled his mustache impatiently and kept an eye on the trail. grace leaned her elbow on the table, her face set with resolve. the smile had died away. father roubeau shifted his ground. 'you have children?' 'at one time i wished--but now--no. and i am thankful.' 'and a mother?' 'yes.' 'she loves you?' 'yes.' her replies were whispers. 'and a brother?--no matter, he is a man. but a sister?' her head drooped a quavering 'yes.' 'younger? very much?' 'seven years.' 'and you have thought well about this matter? about them? about your mother? and your sister? she stands on the threshold of her woman's life, and this wildness of yours may mean much to her. could you go before her, look upon her fresh young face, hold her hand in yours, or touch your cheek to hers?' to his words, her brain formed vivid images, till she cried out, 'don't! don't!' and shrank away as do the wolf-dogs from the lash. 'but you must face all this; and better it is to do it now.' in his eyes, which she could not see, there was a great compassion, but his face, tense and quivering, showed no relenting. she raised her head from the table, forced back the tears, struggled for control. 'i shall go away. they will never see me, and come to forget me. i shall be to them as dead. and--and i will go with clyde--today.' it seemed final. wharton stepped forward, but the priest waved him back. 'you have wished for children?' a silent 'yes.' 'and prayed for them?' 'often.' 'and have you thought, if you should have children?' father roubeau's eyes rested for a moment on the man by the window. a quick light shot across her face. then the full import dawned upon her. she raised her hand appealingly, but he went on. 'can you picture an innocent babe in your arms? a boy? the world is not so hard upon a girl. why, your very breast would turn to gall! and you could be proud and happy of your boy, as you looked on other children?--' 'o, have pity! hush!' 'a scapegoat--' 'don't! don't! i will go back!' she was at his feet. 'a child to grow up with no thought of evil, and one day the world to fling a tender name in his face. a child to look back and curse you from whose loins he sprang!' 'o my god! my god!' she groveled on the floor. the priest sighed and raised her to her feet. wharton pressed forward, but she motioned him away. 'don't come near me, clyde! i am going back!' the tears were coursing pitifully down her face, but she made no effort to wipe them away. 'after all this? you cannot! i will not let you!' 'don't touch me!' she shivered and drew back. 'i will! you are mine! do you hear? you are mine!' then he whirled upon the priest. 'o what a fool i was to ever let you wag your silly tongue! thank your god you are not a common man, for i'd--but the priestly prerogative must be exercised, eh? well, you have exercised it. now get out of my house, or i'll forget who and what you are!' father roubeau bowed, took her hand, and started for the door. but wharton cut them off. 'grace! you said you loved me?' 'i did.' 'and you do now?' 'i do.' 'say it again.' 'i do love you, clyde; i do.' 'there, you priest!' he cried. 'you have heard it, and with those words on her lips you would send her back to live a lie and a hell with that man?' but father roubeau whisked the woman into the inner room and closed the door. 'no words!' he whispered to wharton, as he struck a casual posture on a stool. 'remember, for her sake,' he added. the room echoed to a rough knock at the door; the latch raised and edwin bentham stepped in. 'seen anything of my wife?' he asked as soon as salutations had been exchanged. two heads nodded negatively. 'i saw her tracks down from the cabin,' he continued tentatively, 'and they broke off, just opposite here, on the main trail.' his listeners looked bored. 'and i--i thought--' 'she was here!' thundered wharton. the priest silenced him with a look. 'did you see her tracks leading up to this cabin, my son?' wily father roubeau--he had taken good care to obliterate them as he came up the same path an hour before. 'i didn't stop to look, i--' his eyes rested suspiciously on the door to the other room, then interrogated the priest. the latter shook his head; but the doubt seemed to linger. father roubeau breathed a swift, silent prayer, and rose to his feet. 'if you doubt me, why--' he made as though to open the door. a priest could not lie. edwin bentham had heard this often, and believed it. 'of course not, father,' he interposed hurriedly. 'i was only wondering where my wife had gone, and thought maybe--i guess she's up at mrs. stanton's on french gulch. nice weather, isn't it? heard the news? flour's gone down to forty dollars a hundred, and they say the che-cha-quas are flocking down the river in droves. 'but i must be going; so good-by.' the door slammed, and from the window they watched him take his guest up french gulch. a few weeks later, just after the june high-water, two men shot a canoe into mid-stream and made fast to a derelict pine. this tightened the painter and jerked the frail craft along as would a tow-boat. father roubeau had been directed to leave the upper country and return to his swarthy children at minook. the white men had come among them, and they were devoting too little time to fishing, and too much to a certain deity whose transient habitat was in countless black bottles. malemute kid also had business in the lower country, so they journeyed together. but one, in all the northland, knew the man paul roubeau, and that man was malemute kid. before him alone did the priest cast off the sacerdotal garb and stand naked. and why not? these two men knew each other. had they not shared the last morsel of fish, the last pinch of tobacco, the last and inmost thought, on the barren stretches of bering sea, in the heartbreaking mazes of the great delta, on the terrible winter journey from point barrow to the porcupine? father roubeau puffed heavily at his trail-worn pipe, and gazed on the reddisked sun, poised somberly on the edge of the northern horizon. malemute kid wound up his watch. it was midnight. 'cheer up, old man!' the kid was evidently gathering up a broken thread. 'god surely will forgive such a lie. let me give you the word of a man who strikes a true note: if she have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed, and the brand of the dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed. if there be trouble to herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear, lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.' father roubeau removed his pipe and reflected. 'the man speaks true, but my soul is not vexed with that. the lie and the penance stand with god; but--but--' 'what then? your hands are clean.' 'not so. kid, i have thought much, and yet the thing remains. i knew, and made her go back.' the clear note of a robin rang out from the wooden bank, a partridge drummed the call in the distance, a moose lunged noisily in the eddy; but the twain smoked on in silence. the wisdom of the trail sitka charley had achieved the impossible. other indians might have known as much of the wisdom of the trail as he did; but he alone knew the white man's wisdom, the honor of the trail, and the law. but these things had not come to him in a day. the aboriginal mind is slow to generalize, and many facts, repeated often, are required to compass an understanding. sitka charley, from boyhood, had been thrown continually with white men, and as a man he had elected to cast his fortunes with them, expatriating himself, once and for all, from his own people. even then, respecting, almost venerating their power, and pondering over it, he had yet to divine its secret essence--the honor and the law. and it was only by the cumulative evidence of years that he had finally come to understand. being an alien, when he did know, he knew it better than the white man himself; being an indian, he had achieved the impossible. and of these things had been bred a certain contempt for his own people--a contempt which he had made it a custom to conceal, but which now burst forth in a polyglot whirlwind of curses upon the heads of kah-chucte and gowhee. they cringed before him like a brace of snarling wolf dogs, too cowardly to spring, too wolfish to cover their fangs. they were not handsome creatures. neither was sitka charley. all three were frightful-looking. there was no flesh to their faces; their cheekbones were massed with hideous scabs which had cracked and frozen alternately under the intense frost; while their eyes burned luridly with the light which is born of desperation and hunger. men so situated, beyond the pale of the honor and the law, are not to be trusted. sitka charley knew this; and this was why he had forced them to abandon their rifles with the rest of the camp outfit ten days before. his rifle and captain eppingwell's were the only ones that remained. 'come, get a fire started,' he commanded, drawing out the precious matchbox with its attendant strips of dry birchbark. the two indians fell sullenly to the task of gathering dead branches and underwood. they were weak and paused often, catching themselves, in the act of stooping, with giddy motions, or staggering to the center of operations with their knees shaking like castanets. after each trip they rested for a moment, as though sick and deadly weary. at times their eyes took on the patient stoicism of dumb suffering; and again the ego seemed almost burst forth with its wild cry, 'i, i, i want to exist!'--the dominant note of the whole living universe. a light breath of air blew from the south, nipping the exposed portions of their bodies and driving the frost, in needles of fire, through fur and flesh to the bones. so, when the fire had grown lusty and thawed a damp circle in the snow about it, sitka charley forced his reluctant comrades to lend a hand in pitching a fly. it was a primitive affair, merely a blanket stretched parallel with the fire and to windward of it, at an angle of perhaps forty-five degrees. this shut out the chill wind and threw the heat backward and down upon those who were to huddle in its shelter. then a layer of green spruce boughs were spread, that their bodies might not come in contact with the snow. when this task was completed, kah-chucte and gowhee proceeded to take care of their feet. their icebound moccasins were sadly worn by much travel, and the sharp ice of the river jams had cut them to rags. their siwash socks were similarly conditioned, and when these had been thawed and removed, the dead-white tips of the toes, in the various stages of mortification, told their simple tale of the trail. leaving the two to the drying of their footgear, sitka charley turned back over the course he had come. he, too, had a mighty longing to sit by the fire and tend his complaining flesh, but the honor and the law forbade. he toiled painfully over the frozen field, each step a protest, every muscle in revolt. several times, where the open water between the jams had recently crusted, he was forced to miserably accelerate his movements as the fragile footing swayed and threatened beneath him. in such places death was quick and easy; but it was not his desire to endure no more. his deepening anxiety vanished as two indians dragged into view round a bend in the river. they staggered and panted like men under heavy burdens; yet the packs on their backs were a matter of but a few pounds. he questioned them eagerly, and their replies seemed to relieve him. he hurried on. next came two white men, supporting between them a woman. they also behaved as though drunken, and their limbs shook with weakness. but the woman leaned lightly upon them, choosing to carry herself forward with her own strength. at the sight of her a flash of joy cast its fleeting light across sitka charley's face. he cherished a very great regard for mrs. eppingwell. he had seen many white women, but this was the first to travel the trail with him. when captain eppingwell proposed the hazardous undertaking and made him an offer for his services, he had shaken his head gravely; for it was an unknown journey through the dismal vastnesses of the northland, and he knew it to be of the kind that try to the uttermost the souls of men. but when he learned that the captain's wife was to accompany them, he had refused flatly to have anything further to do with it. had it been a woman of his own race he would have harbored no objections; but these women of the southland--no, no, they were too soft, too tender, for such enterprises. sitka charley did not know this kind of woman. five minutes before, he did not even dream of taking charge of the expedition; but when she came to him with her wonderful smile and her straight clean english, and talked to the point, without pleading or persuading, he had incontinently yielded. had there been a softness and appeal to mercy in the eyes, a tremble to the voice, a taking advantage of sex, he would have stiffened to steel; instead her clear-searching eyes and clear-ringing voice, her utter frankness and tacit assumption of equality, had robbed him of his reason. he felt, then, that this was a new breed of woman; and ere they had been trail mates for many days he knew why the sons of such women mastered the land and the sea, and why the sons of his own womankind could not prevail against them. tender and soft! day after day he watched her, muscle-weary, exhausted, indomitable, and the words beat in upon him in a perennial refrain. tender and soft! he knew her feet had been born to easy paths and sunny lands, strangers to the moccasined pain of the north, unkissed by the chill lips of the frost, and he watched and marveled at them twinkling ever through the weary day. she had always a smile and a word of cheer, from which not even the meanest packer was excluded. as the way grew darker she seemed to stiffen and gather greater strength, and when kah-chucte and gowhee, who had bragged that they knew every landmark of the way as a child did the skin bails of the tepee, acknowledged that they knew not where they were, it was she who raised a forgiving voice amid the curses of the men. she had sung to them that night till they felt the weariness fall from them and were ready to face the future with fresh hope. and when the food failed and each scant stint was measured jealously, she it was who rebelled against the machinations of her husband and sitka charley, and demanded and received a share neither greater nor less than that of the others. sitka charley was proud to know this woman. a new richness, a greater breadth, had come into his life with her presence. hitherto he had been his own mentor, had turned to right or left at no man's beck; he had moulded himself according to his own dictates, nourished his manhood regardless of all save his own opinion. for the first time he had felt a call from without for the best that was in him, just a glance of appreciation from the clear-searching eyes, a word of thanks from the clear-ringing voice, just a slight wreathing of the lips in the wonderful smile, and he walked with the gods for hours to come. it was a new stimulant to his manhood; for the first time he thrilled with a conscious pride in his wisdom of the trail; and between the twain they ever lifted the sinking hearts of their comrades. the faces of the two men and the woman brightened as they saw him, for after all he was the staff they leaned upon. but sitka charley, rigid as was his wont, concealing pain and pleasure impartially beneath an iron exterior, asked them the welfare of the rest, told the distance to the fire, and continued on the back-trip. next he met a single indian, unburdened, limping, lips compressed, and eyes set with the pain of a foot in which the quick fought a losing battle with the dead. all possible care had been taken of him, but in the last extremity the weak and unfortunate must perish, and sitka charley deemed his days to be few. the man could not keep up for long, so he gave him rough cheering words. after that came two more indians, to whom he had allotted the task of helping along joe, the third white man of the party. they had deserted him. sitka charley saw at a glance the lurking spring in their bodies, and knew they had at last cast off his mastery. so he was not taken unawares when he ordered them back in quest of their abandoned charge, and saw the gleam of the hunting knives that they drew from the sheaths. a pitiful spectacle, three weak men lifting their puny strength in the face of the mighty vastness; but the two recoiled under the fierce rifle blows of the one and returned like beaten dogs to the leash. two hours later, with joe reeling between them and sitka charley bringing up the rear, they came to the fire, where the remainder of the expedition crouched in the shelter of the fly. 'a few words, my comrades, before we sleep,' sitka charley said after they had devoured their slim rations of unleavened bread. he was speaking to the indians in their own tongue, having already given the import to the whites. 'a few words, my comrades, for your own good, that ye may yet perchance live. i shall give you the law; on his own head by the death of him that breaks it. we have passed the hills of silence, and we now travel the head reaches of the stuart. it may be one sleep, it may be several, it may be many sleeps, but in time we shall come among the men of the yukon, who have much grub. it were well that we look to the law. today kah-chucte and gowhee, whom i commanded to break trail, forgot they were men, and like frightened children ran away. 'true, they forgot; so let us forget. but hereafter, let them remember. if it should happen they do not...' he touched his rifle carelessly, grimly. 'tomorrow they shall carry the flour and see that the white man joe lies not down by the trail. the cups of flour are counted; should so much as an ounce be wanting at nightfall... do ye understand? today there were others that forgot. moose head and three salmon left the white man joe to lie in the snow. let them forget no more. with the light of day shall they go forth and break trail. ye have heard the law. look well, lest ye break it.' sitka charley found it beyond him to keep the line close up. from moose head and three salmon, who broke trail in advance, to kah-chucte, gowhee, and joe, it straggled out over a mile. each staggered, fell or rested as he saw fit. the line of march was a progression through a chain of irregular halts. each drew upon the last remnant of his strength and stumbled onward till it was expended, but in some miraculous way there was always another last remnant. each time a man fell it was with the firm belief that he would rise no more; yet he did rise, and again and again. the flesh yielded, the will conquered; but each triumph was a tragedy. the indian with the frozen foot, no longer erect, crawled forward on hand and knee. he rarely rested, for he knew the penalty exacted by the frost. even mrs. eppingwell's lips were at last set in a stony smile, and her eyes, seeing, saw not. often she stopped, pressing a mittened hand to her heart, gasping and dizzy. joe, the white man, had passed beyond the stage of suffering. he no longer begged to be let alone, prayed to die; but was soothed and content under the anodyne of delirium. kah-chucte and gowhee dragged him on roughly, venting upon him many a savage glance or blow. to them it was the acme of injustice. their hearts were bitter with hate, heavy with fear. why should they cumber their strength with his weakness? to do so meant death; not to do so--and they remembered the law of sitka charley, and the rifle. joe fell with greater frequency as the daylight waned, and so hard was he to raise that they dropped farther and farther behind. sometimes all three pitched into the snow, so weak had the indians become. yet on their backs was life, and strength, and warmth. within the flour sacks were all the potentialities of existence. they could not but think of this, and it was not strange, that which came to pass. they had fallen by the side of a great timber jam where a thousand cords of firewood waited the match. near by was an air hole through the ice. kah-chucte looked on the wood and the water, as did gowhee; then they looked at each other. never a word was spoken. gowhee struck a fire; kah-chucte filled a tin cup with water and heated it; joe babbled of things in another land, in a tongue they did not understand. they mixed flour with the warm water till it was a thin paste, and of this they drank many cups. they did not offer any to joe; but he did not mind. he did not mind anything, not even his moccasins, which scorched and smoked among the coals. a crystal mist of snow fell about them, softly, caressingly, wrapping them in clinging robes of white. and their feet would have yet trod many trails had not destiny brushed the clouds aside and cleared the air. nay, ten minutes' delay would have been salvation. sitka charley, looking back, saw the pillared smoke of their fire, and guessed. and he looked ahead at those who were faithful, and at mrs. eppingwell. 'so, my good comrades, ye have again forgotten that you were men? good! very good. there will be fewer bellies to feed.' sitka charley retied the flour as he spoke, strapping the pack to the one on his own back. he kicked joe till the pain broke through the poor devil's bliss and brought him doddering to his feet. then he shoved him out upon the trail and started him on his way. the two indians attempted to slip off. 'hold, gowhee! and thou, too, kah-chucte! hath the flour given such strength to thy legs that they may outrun the swift-winged lead? think not to cheat the law. be men for the last time, and be content that ye die full-stomached. come, step up, back to the timber, shoulder to shoulder. come!' the two men obeyed, quietly, without fear; for it is the future which pressed upon the man, not the present. 'thou, gowhee, hast a wife and children and a deerskin lodge in the chipewyan. what is thy will in the matter?' 'give thou her of the goods which are mine by the word of the captain--the blankets, the beads, the tobacco, the box which makes strange sounds after the manner of the white men. say that i did die on the trail, but say not how.' 'and thou, kah-chucte, who hast nor wife nor child?' 'mine is a sister, the wife of the factor at koshim. he beats her, and she is not happy. give thou her the goods which are mine by the contract, and tell her it were well she go back to her own people. shouldst thou meet the man, and be so minded, it were a good deed that he should die. he beats her, and she is afraid.' 'are ye content to die by the law?' 'we are.' 'then good-bye, my good comrades. may ye sit by the well-filled pot, in warm lodges, ere the day is done.' as he spoke he raised his rifle, and many echoes broke the silence. hardly had they died away when other rifles spoke in the distance. sitka charley started. there had been more than one shot, yet there was but one other rifle in the party. he gave a fleeting glance at the men who lay so quietly, smiled viciously at the wisdom of the trail, and hurried on to meet the men of the yukon. the wife of a king once when the northland was very young, the social and civic virtues were remarkably alike for their paucity and their simplicity. when the burden of domestic duties grew grievous, and the fireside mood expanded to a constant protest against its bleak loneliness, the adventurers from the southland, in lieu of better, paid the stipulated prices and took unto themselves native wives. it was a foretaste of paradise to the women, for it must be confessed that the white rovers gave far better care and treatment of them than did their indian copartners. of course, the white men themselves were satisfied with such deals, as were also the indian men for that matter. having sold their daughters and sisters for cotton blankets and obsolete rifles and traded their warm furs for flimsy calico and bad whisky, the sons of the soil promptly and cheerfully succumbed to quick consumption and other swift diseases correlated with the blessings of a superior civilization. it was in these days of arcadian simplicity that cal galbraith journeyed through the land and fell sick on the lower river. it was a refreshing advent in the lives of the good sisters of the holy cross, who gave him shelter and medicine; though they little dreamed of the hot elixir infused into his veins by the touch of their soft hands and their gentle ministrations. cal galbraith, became troubled with strange thoughts which clamored for attention till he laid eyes on the mission girl, madeline. yet he gave no sign, biding his time patiently. he strengthened with the coming spring, and when the sun rode the heavens in a golden circle, and the joy and throb of life was in all the land, he gathered his still weak body together and departed. now, madeline, the mission girl, was an orphan. her white father had failed to give a bald-faced grizzly the trail one day, and had died quickly. then her indian mother, having no man to fill the winter cache, had tried the hazardous experiment of waiting till the salmon-run on fifty pounds of flour and half as many of bacon. after that, the baby, chook-ra, went to live with the good sisters, and to be thenceforth known by another name. but madeline still had kinsfolk, the nearest being a dissolute uncle who outraged his vitals with inordinate quantities of the white man's whisky. he strove daily to walk with the gods, and incidentally, his feet sought shorter trails to the grave. when sober he suffered exquisite torture. he had no conscience. to this ancient vagabond cal galbraith duly presented himself, and they consumed many words and much tobacco in the conversation that followed. promises were also made; and in the end the old heathen took a few pounds of dried salmon and his birch-bark canoe, and paddled away to the mission of the holy cross. it is not given the world to know what promises he made and what lies he told--the sisters never gossip; but when he returned, upon his swarthy chest there was a brass crucifix, and in his canoe his niece madeline. that night there was a grand wedding and a potlach; so that for two days to follow there was no fishing done by the village. but in the morning madeline shook the dust of the lower river from her moccasins, and with her husband, in a poling-boat, went to live on the upper river in a place known as the lower country. and in the years which followed she was a good wife, sharing her husband's hardships and cooking his food. and she kept him in straight trails, till he learned to save his dust and to work mightily. in the end, he struck it rich and built a cabin in circle city; and his happiness was such that men who came to visit him in his home-circle became restless at the sight of it and envied him greatly. but the northland began to mature and social amenities to make their appearance. hitherto, the southland had sent forth its sons; but it now belched forth a new exodus--this time of its daughters. sisters and wives they were not; but they did not fail to put new ideas in the heads of the men, and to elevate the tone of things in ways peculiarly their own. no more did the squaws gather at the dances, go roaring down the center in the good, old virginia reels, or make merry with jolly 'dan tucker.' they fell back on their natural stoicism and uncomplainingly watched the rule of their white sisters from their cabins. then another exodus came over the mountains from the prolific southland. this time it was of women that became mighty in the land. their word was law; their law was steel. they frowned upon the indian wives, while the other women became mild and walked humbly. there were cowards who became ashamed of their ancient covenants with the daughters of the soil, who looked with a new distaste upon their dark-skinned children; but there were also others--men--who remained true and proud of their aboriginal vows. when it became the fashion to divorce the native wives. cal galbraith retained his manhood, and in so doing felt the heavy hand of the women who had come last, knew least, but who ruled the land. one day, the upper country, which lies far above circle city, was pronounced rich. dog-teams carried the news to salt water; golden argosies freighted the lure across the north pacific; wires and cables sang with the tidings; and the world heard for the first time of the klondike river and the yukon country. cal galbraith had lived the years quietly. he had been a good husband to madeline, and she had blessed him. but somehow discontent fell upon him; he felt vague yearnings for his own kind, for the life he had been shut out from--a general sort of desire, which men sometimes feel, to break out and taste the prime of living. besides, there drifted down the river wild rumors of the wonderful el dorado, glowing descriptions of the city of logs and tents, and ludicrous accounts of the che-cha-quas who had rushed in and were stampeding the whole country. circle city was dead. the world had moved on up river and become a new and most marvelous world. cal galbraith grew restless on the edge of things, and wished to see with his own eyes. so, after the wash-up, he weighed in a couple of hundred pounds of dust on the company's big scales, and took a draft for the same on dawson. then he put tom dixon in charge of his mines, kissed madeline good-by, promised to be back before the first mush-ice ran, and took passage on an up-river steamer. madeline waited, waited through all the three months of daylight. she fed the dogs, gave much of her time to young cal, watched the short summer fade away and the sun begin its long journey to the south. and she prayed much in the manner of the sisters of the holy cross. the fall came, and with it there was mush-ice on the yukon, and circle city kings returning to the winter's work at their mines, but no cal galbraith. tom dixon received a letter, however, for his men sledded up her winter's supply of dry pine. the company received a letter for its dogteams filled her cache with their best provisions, and she was told that her credit was limitless. through all the ages man has been held the chief instigator of the woes of woman; but in this case the men held their tongues and swore harshly at one of their number who was away, while the women failed utterly to emulate them. so, without needless delay, madeline heard strange tales of cal galbraith's doings; also, of a certain greek dancer who played with men as children did with bubbles. now madeline was an indian woman, and further, she had no woman friend to whom to go for wise counsel. she prayed and planned by turns, and that night, being quick of resolve and action, she harnessed the dogs, and with young cal securely lashed to the sled, stole away. though the yukon still ran free, the eddy-ice was growing, and each day saw the river dwindling to a slushy thread. save him who has done the like, no man may know what she endured in traveling a hundred miles on the rim-ice; nor may they understand the toil and hardship of breaking the two hundred miles of packed ice which remained after the river froze for good. but madeline was an indian woman, so she did these things, and one night there came a knock at malemute kid's door. thereat he fed a team of starving dogs, put a healthy youngster to bed, and turned his attention to an exhausted woman. he removed her icebound moccasins while he listened to her tale, and stuck the point of his knife into her feet that he might see how far they were frozen. despite his tremendous virility, malemute kid was possessed of a softer, womanly element, which could win the confidence of a snarling wolf-dog or draw confessions from the most wintry heart. nor did he seek them. hearts opened to him as spontaneously as flowers to the sun. even the priest, father roubeau, had been known to confess to him, while the men and women of the northland were ever knocking at his door--a door from which the latch-string hung always out. to madeline, he could do no wrong, make no mistake. she had known him from the time she first cast her lot among the people of her father's race; and to her half-barbaric mind it seemed that in him was centered the wisdom of the ages, that between his vision and the future there could be no intervening veil. there were false ideals in the land. the social strictures of dawson were not synonymous with those of the previous era, and the swift maturity of the northland involved much wrong. malemute kid was aware of this, and he had cal galbraith's measure accurately. he knew a hasty word was the father of much evil; besides, he was minded to teach a great lesson and bring shame upon the man. so stanley prince, the young mining expert, was called into the conference the following night as was also lucky jack harrington and his violin. that same night, bettles, who owed a great debt to malemute kid, harnessed up cal galbraith's dogs, lashed cal galbraith, junior, to the sled, and slipped away in the dark for stuart river. ii 'so; one--two--three, one--two--three. now reverse! no, no! start up again, jack. see--this way.' prince executed the movement as one should who has led the cotillion. 'now; one--two--three, one--two--three. reverse! ah! that's better. try it again. i say, you know, you mustn't look at your feet. one--two--three, one--two--three. shorter steps! you are not hanging to the gee-pole just now. try it over. 'there! that's the way. one--two--three, one--two--three.' round and round went prince and madeline in an interminable waltz. the table and stools had been shoved over against the wall to increase the room. malemute kid sat on the bunk, chin to knees, greatly interested. jack harrington sat beside him, scraping away on his violin and following the dancers. it was a unique situation, the undertaking of these three men with the woman. the most pathetic part, perhaps, was the businesslike way in which they went about it. no athlete was ever trained more rigidly for a coming contest, nor wolf-dog for the harness, than was she. but they had good material, for madeline, unlike most women of her race, in her childhood had escaped the carrying of heavy burdens and the toil of the trail. besides, she was a clean-limbed, willowy creature, possessed of much grace which had not hitherto been realized. it was this grace which the men strove to bring out and knock into shape. 'trouble with her she learned to dance all wrong,' prince remarked to the bunk after having deposited his breathless pupil on the table. 'she's quick at picking up; yet i could do better had she never danced a step. but say, kid, i can't understand this.' prince imitated a peculiar movement of the shoulders and head--a weakness madeline suffered from in walking. 'lucky for her she was raised in the mission,' malemute kid answered. 'packing, you know,--the head-strap. other indian women have it bad, but she didn't do any packing till after she married, and then only at first. saw hard lines with that husband of hers. they went through the forty-mile famine together.' 'but can we break it?' 'don't know. 'perhaps long walks with her trainers will make the riffle. anyway, they'll take it out some, won't they, madeline?' the girl nodded assent. if malemute kid, who knew all things, said so, why it was so. that was all there was about it. she had come over to them, anxious to begin again. harrington surveyed her in quest of her points much in the same manner men usually do horses. it certainly was not disappointing, for he asked with sudden interest, 'what did that beggarly uncle of yours get anyway?' 'one rifle, one blanket, twenty bottles of hooch. rifle broke.' she said this last scornfully, as though disgusted at how low her maiden-value had been rated. she spoke fair english, with many peculiarities of her husband's speech, but there was still perceptible the indian accent, the traditional groping after strange gutturals. even this her instructors had taken in hand, and with no small success, too. at the next intermission, prince discovered a new predicament. 'i say, kid,' he said, 'we're wrong, all wrong. she can't learn in moccasins. 'put her feet into slippers, and then onto that waxed floor--phew!' madeline raised a foot and regarded her shapeless house-moccasins dubiously. in previous winters, both at circle city and forty-mile, she had danced many a night away with similar footgear, and there had been nothing the matter. but now--well, if there was anything wrong it was for malemute kid to know, not her. but malemute kid did know, and he had a good eye for measures; so he put on his cap and mittens and went down the hill to pay mrs. eppingwell a call. her husband, clove eppingwell, was prominent in the community as one of the great government officials. the kid had noted her slender little foot one night, at the governor's ball. and as he also knew her to be as sensible as she was pretty, it was no task to ask of her a certain small favor. on his return, madeline withdrew for a moment to the inner room. when she reappeared prince was startled. 'by jove!' he gasped. 'who'd a' thought it! the little witch! why my sister--' 'is an english girl,' interrupted malemute kid, 'with an english foot. this girl comes of a small-footed race. moccasins just broadened her feet healthily, while she did not misshape them by running with the dogs in her childhood.' but this explanation failed utterly to allay prince's admiration. harrington's commercial instinct was touched, and as he looked upon the exquisitely turned foot and ankle, there ran through his mind the sordid list--'one rifle, one blanket, twenty bottles of hooch.' madeline was the wife of a king, a king whose yellow treasure could buy outright a score of fashion's puppets; yet in all her life her feet had known no gear save red-tanned moosehide. at first she had looked in awe at the tiny white-satin slippers; but she had quickly understood the admiration which shone, manlike, in the eyes of the men. her face flushed with pride. for the moment she was drunken with her woman's loveliness; then she murmured, with increased scorn, 'and one rifle, broke!' so the training went on. every day malemute kid led the girl out on long walks devoted to the correction of her carriage and the shortening of her stride. there was little likelihood of her identity being discovered, for cal galbraith and the rest of the old-timers were like lost children among the many strangers who had rushed into the land. besides, the frost of the north has a bitter tongue, and the tender women of the south, to shield their cheeks from its biting caresses, were prone to the use of canvas masks. with faces obscured and bodies lost in squirrel-skin parkas, a mother and daughter, meeting on trail, would pass as strangers. the coaching progressed rapidly. at first it had been slow, but later a sudden acceleration had manifested itself. this began from the moment madeline tried on the white-satin slippers, and in so doing found herself. the pride of her renegade father, apart from any natural self-esteem she might possess, at that instant received its birth. hitherto, she had deemed herself a woman of an alien breed, of inferior stock, purchased by her lord's favor. her husband had seemed to her a god, who had lifted her, through no essential virtues on her part, to his own godlike level. but she had never forgotten, even when young cal was born, that she was not of his people. as he had been a god, so had his womenkind been goddesses. she might have contrasted herself with them, but she had never compared. it might have been that familiarity bred contempt; however, be that as it may, she had ultimately come to understand these roving white men, and to weigh them. true, her mind was dark to deliberate analysis, but she yet possessed her woman's clarity of vision in such matters. on the night of the slippers she had measured the bold, open admiration of her three man-friends; and for the first time comparison had suggested itself. it was only a foot and an ankle, but--but comparison could not, in the nature of things, cease at that point. she judged herself by their standards till the divinity of her white sisters was shattered. after all, they were only women, and why should she not exalt herself to their midst? in doing these things she learned where she lacked and with the knowledge of her weakness came her strength. and so mightily did she strive that her three trainers often marveled late into the night over the eternal mystery of woman. in this way thanksgiving night drew near. at irregular intervals bettles sent word down from stuart river regarding the welfare of young cal. the time of their return was approaching. more than once a casual caller, hearing dance-music and the rhythmic pulse of feet, entered, only to find harrington scraping away and the other two beating time or arguing noisily over a mooted step. madeline was never in evidence, having precipitately fled to the inner room. on one of these nights cal galbraith dropped in. encouraging news had just come down from stuart river, and madeline had surpassed herself--not in walk alone, and carriage and grace, but in womanly roguishness. they had indulged in sharp repartee and she had defended herself brilliantly; and then, yielding to the intoxication of the moment, and of her own power, she had bullied, and mastered, and wheedled, and patronized them with most astonishing success. and instinctively, involuntarily, they had bowed, not to her beauty, her wisdom, her wit, but to that indefinable something in woman to which man yields yet cannot name. the room was dizzy with sheer delight as she and prince whirled through the last dance of the evening. harrington was throwing in inconceivable flourishes, while malemute kid, utterly abandoned, had seized the broom and was executing mad gyrations on his own account. at this instant the door shook with a heavy rap-rap, and their quick glances noted the lifting of the latch. but they had survived similar situations before. harrington never broke a note. madeline shot through the waiting door to the inner room. the broom went hurtling under the bunk, and by the time cal galbraith and louis savoy got their heads in, malemute kid and prince were in each other's arms, wildly schottisching down the room. as a rule, indian women do not make a practice of fainting on provocation, but madeline came as near to it as she ever had in her life. for an hour she crouched on the floor, listening to the heavy voices of the men rumbling up and down in mimic thunder. like familiar chords of childhood melodies, every intonation, every trick of her husband's voice swept in upon her, fluttering her heart and weakening her knees till she lay half-fainting against the door. it was well she could neither see nor hear when he took his departure. 'when do you expect to go back to circle city?' malemute kid asked simply. 'haven't thought much about it,' he replied. 'don't think till after the ice breaks.' 'and madeline?' he flushed at the question, and there was a quick droop to his eyes. malemute kid could have despised him for that, had he known men less. as it was, his gorge rose against the wives and daughters who had come into the land, and not satisfied with usurping the place of the native women, had put unclean thoughts in the heads of the men and made them ashamed. 'i guess she's all right,' the circle city king answered hastily, and in an apologetic manner. 'tom dixon's got charge of my interests, you know, and he sees to it that she has everything she wants.' malemute kid laid hand upon his arm and hushed him suddenly. they had stepped without. overhead, the aurora, a gorgeous wanton, flaunted miracles of color; beneath lay the sleeping town. far below, a solitary dog gave tongue. the king again began to speak, but the kid pressed his hand for silence. the sound multiplied. dog after dog took up the strain till the full-throated chorus swayed the night. to him who hears for the first time this weird song, is told the first and greatest secret of the northland; to him who has heard it often, it is the solemn knell of lost endeavor. it is the plaint of tortured souls, for in it is invested the heritage of the north, the suffering of countless generations--the warning and the requiem to the world's estrays. cal galbraith shivered slightly as it died away in half-caught sobs. the kid read his thoughts openly, and wandered back with him through all the weary days of famine and disease; and with him was also the patient madeline, sharing his pains and perils, never doubting, never complaining. his mind's retina vibrated to a score of pictures, stern, clear-cut, and the hand of the past drew back with heavy fingers on his heart. it was the psychological moment. malemute kid was half-tempted to play his reserve card and win the game; but the lesson was too mild as yet, and he let it pass. the next instant they had gripped hands, and the king's beaded moccasins were drawing protests from the outraged snow as he crunched down the hill. madeline in collapse was another woman to the mischievous creature of an hour before, whose laughter had been so infectious and whose heightened color and flashing eyes had made her teachers for the while forget. weak and nerveless, she sat in the chair just as she had been dropped there by prince and harrington. malemute kid frowned. this would never do. when the time of meeting her husband came to hand, she must carry things off with high-handed imperiousness. it was very necessary she should do it after the manner of white women, else the victory would be no victory at all. so he talked to her, sternly, without mincing of words, and initiated her into the weaknesses of his own sex, till she came to understand what simpletons men were after all, and why the word of their women was law. a few days before thanksgiving night, malemute kid made another call on mrs. eppingwell. she promptly overhauled her feminine fripperies, paid a protracted visit to the dry-goods department of the p. c. company, and returned with the kid to make madeline's acquaintance. after that came a period such as the cabin had never seen before, and what with cutting, and fitting, and basting, and stitching, and numerous other wonderful and unknowable things, the male conspirators were more often banished the premises than not. at such times the opera house opened its double storm-doors to them. so often did they put their heads together, and so deeply did they drink to curious toasts, that the loungers scented unknown creeks of incalculable richness, and it is known that several checha-quas and at least one old-timer kept their stampeding packs stored behind the bar, ready to hit the trail at a moment's notice. mrs. eppingwell was a woman of capacity; so, when she turned madeline over to her trainers on thanksgiving night she was so transformed that they were almost afraid of her. prince wrapped a hudson bay blanket about her with a mock reverence more real than feigned, while malemute kid, whose arm she had taken, found it a severe trial to resume his wonted mentorship. harrington, with the list of purchases still running through his head, dragged along in the rear, nor opened his mouth once all the way down into the town. when they came to the back door of the opera house they took the blanket from madeline's shoulders and spread it on the snow. slipping out of prince's moccasins, she stepped upon it in new satin slippers. the masquerade was at its height. she hesitated, but they jerked open the door and shoved her in. then they ran around to come in by the front entrance. iii 'where is freda?' the old-timers questioned, while the che-cha-quas were equally energetic in asking who freda was. the ballroom buzzed with her name. it was on everybody's lips. grizzled 'sour-dough boys,' day-laborers at the mines but proud of their degree, either patronized the spruce-looking tenderfeet and lied eloquently--the 'sour-dough boys' being specially created to toy with truth--or gave them savage looks of indignation because of their ignorance. perhaps forty kings of the upper and lower countries were on the floor, each deeming himself hot on the trail and sturdily backing his judgment with the yellow dust of the realm. an assistant was sent to the man at the scales, upon whom had fallen the burden of weighing up the sacks, while several of the gamblers, with the rules of chance at their finger-ends, made up alluring books on the field and favorites. which was freda? time and again the 'greek dancer' was thought to have been discovered, but each discovery brought panic to the betting ring and a frantic registering of new wagers by those who wished to hedge. malemute kid took an interest in the hunt, his advent being hailed uproariously by the revelers, who knew him to a man. the kid had a good eye for the trick of a step, and ear for the lilt of a voice, and his private choice was a marvelous creature who scintillated as the 'aurora borealis.' but the greek dancer was too subtle for even his penetration. the majority of the gold-hunters seemed to have centered their verdict on the 'russian princess,' who was the most graceful in the room, and hence could be no other than freda moloof. during a quadrille a roar of satisfaction went up. she was discovered. at previous balls, in the figure, 'all hands round,' freda had displayed an inimitable step and variation peculiarly her own. as the figure was called, the 'russian princess' gave the unique rhythm to limb and body. a chorus of i-told-you-so's shook the squared roof-beams, when lo! it was noticed that 'aurora borealis' and another masque, the 'spirit of the pole,' were performing the same trick equally well. and when two twin 'sun-dogs' and a 'frost queen' followed suit, a second assistant was dispatched to the aid of the man at the scales. bettles came off trail in the midst of the excitement, descending upon them in a hurricane of frost. his rimed brows turned to cataracts as he whirled about; his mustache, still frozen, seemed gemmed with diamonds and turned the light in varicolored rays; while the flying feet slipped on the chunks of ice which rattled from his moccasins and german socks. a northland dance is quite an informal affair, the men of the creeks and trails having lost whatever fastidiousness they might have at one time possessed; and only in the high official circles are conventions at all observed. here, caste carried no significance. millionaires and paupers, dog-drivers and mounted policemen joined hands with 'ladies in the center,' and swept around the circle performing most remarkable capers. primitive in their pleasure, boisterous and rough, they displayed no rudeness, but rather a crude chivalry more genuine than the most polished courtesy. in his quest for the 'greek dancer,' cal galbraith managed to get into the same set with the 'russian princess,' toward whom popular suspicion had turned. but by the time he had guided her through one dance, he was willing not only to stake his millions that she was not freda, but that he had had his arm about her waist before. when or where he could not tell, but the puzzling sense of familiarity so wrought upon him that he turned his attention to the discovery of her identity. malemute kid might have aided him instead of occasionally taking the princess for a few turns and talking earnestly to her in low tones. but it was jack harrington who paid the 'russian princess' the most assiduous court. once he drew cal galbraith aside and hazarded wild guesses as to who she was, and explained to him that he was going in to win. that rankled the circle city king, for man is not by nature monogamic, and he forgot both madeline and freda in the new quest. it was soon noised about that the 'russian princess' was not freda moloof. interest deepened. here was a fresh enigma. they knew freda though they could not find her, but here was somebody they had found and did not know. even the women could not place her, and they knew every good dancer in the camp. many took her for one of the official clique, indulging in a silly escapade. not a few asserted she would disappear before the unmasking. others were equally positive that she was the woman-reporter of the kansas city star, come to write them up at ninety dollars per column. and the men at the scales worked busily. at one o'clock every couple took to the floor. the unmasking began amid laughter and delight, like that of carefree children. there was no end of oh's and ah's as mask after mask was lifted. the scintillating 'aurora borealis' became the brawny negress whose income from washing the community's clothes ran at about five hundred a month. the twin 'sun-dogs' discovered mustaches on their upper lips, and were recognized as brother fraction-kings of el dorado. in one of the most prominent sets, and the slowest in uncovering, was cal galbraith with the 'spirit of the pole.' opposite him was jack harrington and the 'russian princess.' the rest had discovered themselves, yet the 'greek dancer' was still missing. all eyes were upon the group. cal galbraith, in response to their cries, lifted his partner's mask. freda's wonderful face and brilliant eyes flashed out upon them. a roar went up, to be squelched suddenly in the new and absorbing mystery of the 'russian princess.' her face was still hidden, and jack harrington was struggling with her. the dancers tittered on the tiptoes of expectancy. he crushed her dainty costume roughly, and then--and then the revelers exploded. the joke was on them. they had danced all night with a tabooed native woman. but those that knew, and they were many, ceased abruptly, and a hush fell upon the room. cal galbraith crossed over with great strides, angrily, and spoke to madeline in polyglot chinook. but she retained her composure, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was the cynosure of all eyes, and answered him in english. she showed neither fright nor anger, and malemute kid chuckled at her well-bred equanimity. the king felt baffled, defeated; his common siwash wife had passed beyond him. 'come!' he said finally. 'come on home.' 'i beg pardon,' she replied; 'i have agreed to go to supper with mr. harrington. besides, there's no end of dances promised.' harrington extended his arm to lead her away. he evinced not the slightest disinclination toward showing his back, but malemute kid had by this time edged in closer. the circle city king was stunned. twice his hand dropped to his belt, and twice the kid gathered himself to spring; but the retreating couple passed through the supper-room door where canned oysters were spread at five dollars the plate. the crowd sighed audibly, broke up into couples, and followed them. freda pouted and went in with cal galbraith; but she had a good heart and a sure tongue, and she spoiled his oysters for him. what she said is of no importance, but his face went red and white at intervals, and he swore repeatedly and savagely at himself. the supper-room was filled with a pandemonium of voices, which ceased suddenly as cal galbraith stepped over to his wife's table. since the unmasking considerable weights of dust had been placed as to the outcome. everybody watched with breathless interest. harrington's blue eyes were steady, but under the overhanging tablecloth a smith & wesson balanced on his knee. madeline looked up, casually, with little interest. 'may--may i have the next round dance with you?' the king stuttered. the wife of the king glanced at her card and inclined her head. an odyssey of the north the sleds were singing their eternal lament to the creaking of the harness and the tinkling bells of the leaders; but the men and dogs were tired and made no sound. the trail was heavy with new-fallen snow, and they had come far, and the runners, burdened with flint-like quarters of frozen moose, clung tenaciously to the unpacked surface and held back with a stubbornness almost human. darkness was coming on, but there was no camp to pitch that night. the snow fell gently through the pulseless air, not in flakes, but in tiny frost crystals of delicate design. it was very warm--barely ten below zero--and the men did not mind. meyers and bettles had raised their ear flaps, while malemute kid had even taken off his mittens. the dogs had been fagged out early in the after noon, but they now began to show new vigor. among the more astute there was a certain restlessness--an impatience at the restraint of the traces, an indecisive quickness of movement, a sniffing of snouts and pricking of ears. these became incensed at their more phlegmatic brothers, urging them on with numerous sly nips on their hinder quarters. those, thus chidden, also contracted and helped spread the contagion. at last the leader of the foremost sled uttered a sharp whine of satisfaction, crouching lower in the snow and throwing himself against the collar. the rest followed suit. there was an ingathering of back hands, a tightening of traces; the sleds leaped forward, and the men clung to the gee poles, violently accelerating the uplift of their feet that they might escape going under the runners. the weariness of the day fell from them, and they whooped encouragement to the dogs. the animals responded with joyous yelps. they were swinging through the gathering darkness at a rattling gallop. 'gee! gee!' the men cried, each in turn, as their sleds abruptly left the main trail, heeling over on single runners like luggers on the wind. then came a hundred yards' dash to the lighted parchment window, which told its own story of the home cabin, the roaring yukon stove, and the steaming pots of tea. but the home cabin had been invaded. threescore huskies chorused defiance, and as many furry forms precipitated themselves upon the dogs which drew the first sled. the door was flung open, and a man, clad in the scarlet tunic of the northwest police, waded knee-deep among the furious brutes, calmly and impartially dispensing soothing justice with the butt end of a dog whip. after that the men shook hands; and in this wise was malemute kid welcomed to his own cabin by a stranger. stanley prince, who should have welcomed him, and who was responsible for the yukon stove and hot tea aforementioned, was busy with his guests. there were a dozen or so of them, as nondescript a crowd as ever served the queen in the enforcement of her laws or the delivery of her mails. they were of many breeds, but their common life had formed of them a certain type--a lean and wiry type, with trail-hardened muscles, and sun-browned faces, and untroubled souls which gazed frankly forth, clear-eyed and steady. they drove the dogs of the queen, wrought fear in the hearts of her enemies, ate of her meager fare, and were happy. they had seen life, and done deeds, and lived romances; but they did not know it. and they were very much at home. two of them were sprawled upon malemute kid's bunk, singing chansons which their french forebears sang in the days when first they entered the northwest land and mated with its indian women. bettles' bunk had suffered a similar invasion, and three or four lusty voyageurs worked their toes among its blankets as they listened to the tale of one who had served on the boat brigade with wolseley when he fought his way to khartoum. and when he tired, a cowboy told of courts and kings and lords and ladies he had seen when buffalo bill toured the capitals of europe. in a corner two half-breeds, ancient comrades in a lost campaign, mended harnesses and talked of the days when the northwest flamed with insurrection and louis riel was king. rough jests and rougher jokes went up and down, and great hazards by trail and river were spoken of in the light of commonplaces, only to be recalled by virtue of some grain of humor or ludicrous happening. prince was led away by these uncrowned heroes who had seen history made, who regarded the great and the romantic as but the ordinary and the incidental in the routine of life. he passed his precious tobacco among them with lavish disregard, and rusty chains of reminiscence were loosened, and forgotten odysseys resurrected for his especial benefit. when conversation dropped and the travelers filled the last pipes and lashed their tight-rolled sleeping furs. prince fell back upon his comrade for further information. 'well, you know what the cowboy is,' malemute kid answered, beginning to unlace his moccasins; 'and it's not hard to guess the british blood in his bed partner. as for the rest, they're all children of the coureurs du bois, mingled with god knows how many other bloods. the two turning in by the door are the regulation 'breeds' or boisbrules. that lad with the worsted breech scarf--notice his eyebrows and the turn of his jaw--shows a scotchman wept in his mother's smoky tepee. and that handsome looking fellow putting the capote under his head is a french half-breed--you heard him talking; he doesn't like the two indians turning in next to him. you see, when the 'breeds' rose under the riel the full-bloods kept the peace, and they've not lost much love for one another since.' 'but i say, what's that glum-looking fellow by the stove? i'll swear he can't talk english. he hasn't opened his mouth all night.' 'you're wrong. he knows english well enough. did you follow his eyes when he listened? i did. but he's neither kith nor kin to the others. when they talked their own patois you could see he didn't understand. i've been wondering myself what he is. let's find out.' 'fire a couple of sticks into the stove!' malemute kid commanded, raising his voice and looking squarely at the man in question. he obeyed at once. 'had discipline knocked into him somewhere.' prince commented in a low tone. malemute kid nodded, took off his socks, and picked his way among recumbent men to the stove. there he hung his damp footgear among a score or so of mates. 'when do you expect to get to dawson?' he asked tentatively. the man studied him a moment before replying. 'they say seventy-five mile. so? maybe two days.' the very slightest accent was perceptible, while there was no awkward hesitancy or groping for words. 'been in the country before?' 'no.' 'northwest territory?' 'yes.' 'born there?' 'no.' 'well, where the devil were you born? you're none of these.' malemute kid swept his hand over the dog drivers, even including the two policemen who had turned into prince's bunk. 'where did you come from? i've seen faces like yours before, though i can't remember just where.' 'i know you,' he irrelevantly replied, at once turning the drift of malemute kid's questions. 'where? ever see me?' 'no; your partner, him priest, pastilik, long time ago. him ask me if i see you, malemute kid. him give me grub. i no stop long. you hear him speak 'bout me?' 'oh! you're the fellow that traded the otter skins for the dogs?' the man nodded, knocked out his pipe, and signified his disinclination for conversation by rolling up in his furs. malemute kid blew out the slush lamp and crawled under the blankets with prince. 'well, what is he?' 'don't know--turned me off, somehow, and then shut up like a clam. 'but he's a fellow to whet your curiosity. i've heard of him. all the coast wondered about him eight years ago. sort of mysterious, you know. he came down out of the north in the dead of winter, many a thousand miles from here, skirting bering sea and traveling as though the devil were after him. no one ever learned where he came from, but he must have come far. he was badly travel-worn when he got food from the swedish missionary on golovin bay and asked the way south. we heard of all this afterward. then he abandoned the shore line, heading right across norton sound. terrible weather, snowstorms and high winds, but he pulled through where a thousand other men would have died, missing st. michaels and making the land at pastilik. he'd lost all but two dogs, and was nearly gone with starvation. 'he was so anxious to go on that father roubeau fitted him out with grub; but he couldn't let him have any dogs, for he was only waiting my arrival, to go on a trip himself. mr. ulysses knew too much to start on without animals, and fretted around for several days. he had on his sled a bunch of beautifully cured otter skins, sea otters, you know, worth their weight in gold. there was also at pastilik an old shylock of a russian trader, who had dogs to kill. well, they didn't dicker very long, but when the strange one headed south again, it was in the rear of a spanking dog team. mr. shylock, by the way, had the otter skins. i saw them, and they were magnificent. we figured it up and found the dogs brought him at least five hundred apiece. and it wasn't as if the strange one didn't know the value of sea otter; he was an indian of some sort, and what little he talked showed he'd been among white men. 'after the ice passed out of the sea, word came up from nunivak island that he'd gone in there for grub. then he dropped from sight, and this is the first heard of him in eight years. now where did he come from? and what was he doing there? and why did he come from there? he's indian, he's been nobody knows where, and he's had discipline, which is unusual for an indian. another mystery of the north for you to solve, prince.' 'thanks awfully, but i've got too many on hand as it is,' he replied. malemute kid was already breathing heavily; but the young mining engineer gazed straight up through the thick darkness, waiting for the strange orgasm which stirred his blood to die away. and when he did sleep, his brain worked on, and for the nonce he, too, wandered through the white unknown, struggled with the dogs on endless trails, and saw men live, and toil, and die like men. the next morning, hours before daylight, the dog drivers and policemen pulled out for dawson. but the powers that saw to her majesty's interests and ruled the destinies of her lesser creatures gave the mailmen little rest, for a week later they appeared at stuart river, heavily burdened with letters for salt water. however, their dogs had been replaced by fresh ones; but, then, they were dogs. the men had expected some sort of a layover in which to rest up; besides, this klondike was a new section of the northland, and they had wished to see a little something of the golden city where dust flowed like water and dance halls rang with never-ending revelry. but they dried their socks and smoked their evening pipes with much the same gusto as on their former visit, though one or two bold spirits speculated on desertion and the possibility of crossing the unexplored rockies to the east, and thence, by the mackenzie valley, of gaining their old stamping grounds in the chippewyan country. two or three even decided to return to their homes by that route when their terms of service had expired, and they began to lay plans forthwith, looking forward to the hazardous undertaking in much the same way a city-bred man would to a day's holiday in the woods. he of the otter skins seemed very restless, though he took little interest in the discussion, and at last he drew malemute kid to one side and talked for some time in low tones. prince cast curious eyes in their direction, and the mystery deepened when they put on caps and mittens and went outside. when they returned, malemute kid placed his gold scales on the table, weighed out the matter of sixty ounces, and transferred them to the strange one's sack. then the chief of the dog drivers joined the conclave, and certain business was transacted with him. the next day the gang went on upriver, but he of the otter skins took several pounds of grub and turned his steps back toward dawson. 'didn't know what to make of it,' said malemute kid in response to prince's queries; 'but the poor beggar wanted to be quit of the service for some reason or other--at least it seemed a most important one to him, though he wouldn't let on what. you see, it's just like the army: he signed for two years, and the only way to get free was to buy himself out. he couldn't desert and then stay here, and he was just wild to remain in the country. 'made up his mind when he got to dawson, he said; but no one knew him, hadn't a cent, and i was the only one he'd spoken two words with. so he talked it over with the lieutenant-governor, and made arrangements in case he could get the money from me--loan, you know. said he'd pay back in the year, and, if i wanted, would put me onto something rich. never'd seen it, but he knew it was rich. 'and talk! why, when he got me outside he was ready to weep. begged and pleaded; got down in the snow to me till i hauled him out of it. palavered around like a crazy man. 'swore he's worked to this very end for years and years, and couldn't bear to be disappointed now. asked him what end, but he wouldn't say. 'said they might keep him on the other half of the trail and he wouldn't get to dawson in two years, and then it would be too late. never saw a man take on so in my life. and when i said i'd let him have it, had to yank him out of the snow again. told him to consider it in the light of a grubstake. think he'd have it? no sir! swore he'd give me all he found, make me rich beyond the dreams of avarice, and all such stuff. now a man who puts his life and time against a grubstake ordinarily finds it hard enough to turn over half of what he finds. something behind all this, prince; just you make a note of it. we'll hear of him if he stays in the country--' 'and if he doesn't?' 'then my good nature gets a shock, and i'm sixty some odd ounces out.' the cold weather had come on with the long nights, and the sun had begun to play his ancient game of peekaboo along the southern snow line ere aught was heard of malemute kid's grubstake. and then, one bleak morning in early january, a heavily laden dog train pulled into his cabin below stuart river. he of the otter skins was there, and with him walked a man such as the gods have almost forgotten how to fashion. men never talked of luck and pluck and five-hundred-dollar dirt without bringing in the name of axel gunderson; nor could tales of nerve or strength or daring pass up and down the campfire without the summoning of his presence. and when the conversation flagged, it blazed anew at mention of the woman who shared his fortunes. as has been noted, in the making of axel gunderson the gods had remembered their old-time cunning and cast him after the manner of men who were born when the world was young. full seven feet he towered in his picturesque costume which marked a king of eldorado. his chest, neck, and limbs were those of a giant. to bear his three hundred pounds of bone and muscle, his snowshoes were greater by a generous yard than those of other men. rough-hewn, with rugged brow and massive jaw and unflinching eyes of palest blue, his face told the tale of one who knew but the law of might. of the yellow of ripe corn silk, his frost-incrusted hair swept like day across the night and fell far down his coat of bearskin. a vague tradition of the sea seemed to cling about him as he swung down the narrow trail in advance of the dogs; and he brought the butt of his dog whip against malemute kid's door as a norse sea rover, on southern foray, might thunder for admittance at the castle gate. prince bared his womanly arms and kneaded sour-dough bread, casting, as he did so, many a glance at the three guests--three guests the like of which might never come under a man's roof in a lifetime. the strange one, whom malemute kid had surnamed ulysses, still fascinated him; but his interest chiefly gravitated between axel gunderson and axel gunderson's wife. she felt the day's journey, for she had softened in comfortable cabins during the many days since her husband mastered the wealth of frozen pay streaks, and she was tired. she rested against his great breast like a slender flower against a wall, replying lazily to malemute kid's good-natured banter, and stirring prince's blood strangely with an occasional sweep of her deep, dark eyes. for prince was a man, and healthy, and had seen few women in many months. and she was older than he, and an indian besides. but she was different from all native wives he had met: she had traveled--had been in his country among others, he gathered from the conversation; and she knew most of the things the women of his own race knew, and much more that it was not in the nature of things for them to know. she could make a meal of sun-dried fish or a bed in the snow; yet she teased them with tantalizing details of many-course dinners, and caused strange internal dissensions to arise at the mention of various quondam dishes which they had well-nigh forgotten. she knew the ways of the moose, the bear, and the little blue fox, and of the wild amphibians of the northern seas; she was skilled in the lore of the woods, and the streams, and the tale writ by man and bird and beast upon the delicate snow crust was to her an open book; yet prince caught the appreciative twinkle in her eye as she read the rules of the camp. these rules had been fathered by the unquenchable bettles at a time when his blood ran high, and were remarkable for the terse simplicity of their humor. prince always turned them to the wall before the arrival of ladies; but who could suspect that this native wife--well, it was too late now. this, then, was the wife of axel gunderson, a woman whose name and fame had traveled with her husband's, hand in hand, through all the northland. at table, malemute kid baited her with the assurance of an old friend, and prince shook off the shyness of first acquaintance and joined in. but she held her own in the unequal contest, while her husband, slower in wit, ventured naught but applause. and he was very proud of her; his every look and action revealed the magnitude of the place she occupied in his life. he of the otter skins ate in silence, forgotten in the merry battle; and long ere the others were done he pushed back from the table and went out among the dogs. yet all too soon his fellow travelers drew on their mittens and parkas and followed him. there had been no snow for many days, and the sleds slipped along the hardpacked yukon trail as easily as if it had been glare ice. ulysses led the first sled; with the second came prince and axel gunderson's wife; while malemute kid and the yellow-haired giant brought up the third. 'it's only a hunch, kid,' he said, 'but i think it's straight. he's never been there, but he tells a good story, and shows a map i heard of when i was in the kootenay country years ago. i'd like to have you go along; but he's a strange one, and swore point-blank to throw it up if anyone was brought in. but when i come back you'll get first tip, and i'll stake you next to me, and give you a half share in the town site besides.' 'no! no!' he cried, as the other strove to interrupt. 'i'm running this, and before i'm done it'll need two heads. 'if it's all right, why, it'll be a second cripple creek, man; do you hear?--a second cripple creek! it's quartz, you know, not placer; and if we work it right we'll corral the whole thing--millions upon millions. i've heard of the place before, and so have you. we'll build a town--thousands of workmen--good waterways--steamship lines--big carrying trade--light-draught steamers for head reaches--survey a railroad, perhaps--sawmills--electric-light plant--do our own banking--commercial company--syndicate--say! just you hold your hush till i get back!' the sleds came to a halt where the trail crossed the mouth of stuart river. an unbroken sea of frost, its wide expanse stretched away into the unknown east. the snowshoes were withdrawn from the lashings of the sleds. axel gunderson shook hands and stepped to the fore, his great webbed shoes sinking a fair half yard into the feathery surface and packing the snow so the dogs should not wallow. his wife fell in behind the last sled, betraying long practice in the art of handling the awkward footgear. the stillness was broken with cheery farewells; the dogs whined; and he of the otter skins talked with his whip to a recalcitrant wheeler. an hour later the train had taken on the likeness of a black pencil crawling in a long, straight line across a mighty sheet of foolscap. ii one night, many weeks later, malemute kid and prince fell to solving chess problems from the torn page of an ancient magazine. the kid had just returned from his bonanza properties and was resting up preparatory to a long moose hunt. prince, too, had been on creek and trail nearly all winter, and had grown hungry for a blissful week of cabin life. 'interpose the black knight, and force the king. no, that won't do. see, the next move-' 'why advance the pawn two squares? bound to take it in transit, and with the bishop out of the way-' 'but hold on! that leaves a hole, and-' 'no; it's protected. go ahead! you'll see it works.' it was very interesting. somebody knocked at the door a second time before malemute kid said, 'come in.' the door swung open. something staggered in. prince caught one square look and sprang to his feet. the horror in his eyes caused malemute kid to whirl about; and he, too, was startled, though he had seen bad things before. the thing tottered blindly toward them. prince edged away till he reached the nail from which hung his smith & wesson. 'my god! what is it?' he whispered to malemute kid. 'don't know. looks like a case of freezing and no grub,' replied the kid, sliding away in the opposite direction. 'watch out! it may be mad,' he warned, coming back from closing the door. the thing advanced to the table. the bright flame of the slush lamp caught its eye. it was amused, and gave voice to eldritch cackles which betokened mirth. then, suddenly, he--for it was a man--swayed back, with a hitch to his skin trousers, and began to sing a chantey, such as men lift when they swing around the capstan circle and the sea snorts in their ears: yan-kee ship come down de ri-ib-er, pull! my bully boys! pull! d'yeh want--to know de captain ru-uns her? pull! my bully boys! pull! jon-a-than jones ob south caho-li-in-a, pull! my bully. he broke off abruptly, tottered with a wolfish snarl to the meat shelf, and before they could intercept was tearing with his teeth at a chunk of raw bacon. the struggle was fierce between him and malemute kid; but his mad strength left him as suddenly as it had come, and he weakly surrendered the spoil. between them they got him upon a stool, where he sprawled with half his body across the table. a small dose of whiskey strengthened him, so that he could dip a spoon into the sugar caddy which malemute kid placed before him. after his appetite had been somewhat cloyed, prince, shuddering as he did so, passed him a mug of weak beef tea. the creature's eyes were alight with a somber frenzy, which blazed and waned with every mouthful. there was very little skin to the face. the face, for that matter, sunken and emaciated, bore little likeness to human countenance. frost after frost had bitten deeply, each depositing its stratum of scab upon the half-healed scar that went before. this dry, hard surface was of a bloody-black color, serrated by grievous cracks wherein the raw red flesh peeped forth. his skin garments were dirty and in tatters, and the fur of one side was singed and burned away, showing where he had lain upon his fire. malemute kid pointed to where the sun-tanned hide had been cut away, strip by strip--the grim signature of famine. 'who--are--you?' slowly and distinctly enunciated the kid. the man paid no heed. 'where do you come from?' 'yan-kee ship come down de ri-ib-er,' was the quavering response. 'don't doubt the beggar came down the river,' the kid said, shaking him in an endeavor to start a more lucid flow of talk. but the man shrieked at the contact, clapping a hand to his side in evident pain. he rose slowly to his feet, half leaning on the table. 'she laughed at me--so--with the hate in her eye; and she--would--not--come.' his voice died away, and he was sinking back when malemute kid gripped him by the wrist and shouted, 'who? who would not come?' 'she, unga. she laughed, and struck at me, so, and so. and then-' 'yes?' 'and then--' 'and then what?' 'and then he lay very still in the snow a long time. he is-still in--the--snow.' the two men looked at each other helplessly. 'who is in the snow?' 'she, unga. she looked at me with the hate in her eye, and then--' 'yes, yes.' 'and then she took the knife, so; and once, twice--she was weak. i traveled very slow. and there is much gold in that place, very much gold.' 'where is unga?' for all malemute kid knew, she might be dying a mile away. he shook the man savagely, repeating again and again, 'where is unga? who is unga?' 'she--is--in--the--snow.' 'go on!' the kid was pressing his wrist cruelly. 'so--i--would--be--in--the snow--but--i--had--a--debt--to--pay. it--was--heavy--i--had--a-debt--to--pay--a--debt--to--pay i--had-' the faltering monosyllables ceased as he fumbled in his pouch and drew forth a buckskin sack. 'a--debt--to--pay--five--pounds--of--gold-grub-stake--mal--e--mute--kid--i--y--' the exhausted head dropped upon the table; nor could malemute kid rouse it again. 'it's ulysses,' he said quietly, tossing the bag of dust on the table. 'guess it's all day with axel gunderson and the woman. come on, let's get him between the blankets. he's indian; he'll pull through and tell a tale besides.' as they cut his garments from him, near his right breast could be seen two unhealed, hard-lipped knife thrusts. iii 'i will talk of the things which were in my own way; but you will understand. i will begin at the beginning, and tell of myself and the woman, and, after that, of the man.' he of the otter skins drew over to the stove as do men who have been deprived of fire and are afraid the promethean gift may vanish at any moment. malemute kid picked up the slush lamp and placed it so its light might fall upon the face of the narrator. prince slid his body over the edge of the bunk and joined them. 'i am naass, a chief, and the son of a chief, born between a sunset and a rising, on the dark seas, in my father's oomiak. all of a night the men toiled at the paddles, and the women cast out the waves which threw in upon us, and we fought with the storm. the salt spray froze upon my mother's breast till her breath passed with the passing of the tide. but i--i raised my voice with the wind and the storm, and lived. 'we dwelt in akatan--' 'where?' asked malemute kid. 'akatan, which is in the aleutians; akatan, beyond chignik, beyond kardalak, beyond unimak. as i say, we dwelt in akatan, which lies in the midst of the sea on the edge of the world. we farmed the salt seas for the fish, the seal, and the otter; and our homes shouldered about one another on the rocky strip between the rim of the forest and the yellow beach where our kayaks lay. we were not many, and the world was very small. there were strange lands to the east--islands like akatan; so we thought all the world was islands and did not mind. 'i was different from my people. in the sands of the beach were the crooked timbers and wave-warped planks of a boat such as my people never built; and i remember on the point of the island which overlooked the ocean three ways there stood a pine tree which never grew there, smooth and straight and tall. it is said the two men came to that spot, turn about, through many days, and watched with the passing of the light. these two men came from out of the sea in the boat which lay in pieces on the beach. and they were white like you, and weak as the little children when the seal have gone away and the hunters come home empty. i know of these things from the old men and the old women, who got them from their fathers and mothers before them. these strange white men did not take kindly to our ways at first, but they grew strong, what of the fish and the oil, and fierce. and they built them each his own house, and took the pick of our women, and in time children came. thus he was born who was to become the father of my father's father. 'as i said, i was different from my people, for i carried the strong, strange blood of this white man who came out of the sea. it is said we had other laws in the days before these men; but they were fierce and quarrelsome, and fought with our men till there were no more left who dared to fight. then they made themselves chiefs, and took away our old laws, and gave us new ones, insomuch that the man was the son of his father, and not his mother, as our way had been. they also ruled that the son, first-born, should have all things which were his father's before him, and that the brothers and sisters should shift for themselves. and they gave us other laws. they showed us new ways in the catching of fish and the killing of bear which were thick in the woods; and they taught us to lay by bigger stores for the time of famine. and these things were good. 'but when they had become chiefs, and there were no more men to face their anger, they fought, these strange white men, each with the other. and the one whose blood i carry drove his seal spear the length of an arm through the other's body. their children took up the fight, and their children's children; and there was great hatred between them, and black doings, even to my time, so that in each family but one lived to pass down the blood of them that went before. of my blood i was alone; of the other man's there was but a girl. unga, who lived with her mother. her father and my father did not come back from the fishing one night; but afterward they washed up to the beach on the big tides, and they held very close to each other. 'the people wondered, because of the hatred between the houses, and the old men shook their heads and said the fight would go on when children were born to her and children to me. they told me this as a boy, till i came to believe, and to look upon unga as a foe, who was to be the mother of children which were to fight with mine. i thought of these things day by day, and when i grew to a stripling i came to ask why this should be so. 'and they answered, "we do not know, but that in such way your fathers did." and i marveled that those which were to come should fight the battles of those that were gone, and in it i could see no right. but the people said it must be, and i was only a stripling. 'and they said i must hurry, that my blood might be the older and grow strong before hers. this was easy, for i was head man, and the people looked up to me because of the deeds and the laws of my fathers, and the wealth which was mine. any maiden would come to me, but i found none to my liking. and the old men and the mothers of maidens told me to hurry, for even then were the hunters bidding high to the mother of unga; and should her children grow strong before mine, mine would surely die. 'nor did i find a maiden till one night coming back from the fishing. the sunlight was lying, so, low and full in the eyes, the wind free, and the kayacks racing with the white seas. of a sudden the kayak of unga came driving past me, and she looked upon me, so, with her black hair flying like a cloud of night and the spray wet on her cheek. as i say, the sunlight was full in the eyes, and i was a stripling; but somehow it was all clear, and i knew it to be the call of kind to kind. 'as she whipped ahead she looked back within the space of two strokes--looked as only the woman unga could look--and again i knew it as the call of kind. the people shouted as we ripped past the lazy oomiaks and left them far behind. but she was quick at the paddle, and my heart was like the belly of a sail, and i did not gain. the wind freshened, the sea whitened, and, leaping like the seals on the windward breech, we roared down the golden pathway of the sun.' naass was crouched half out of his stool, in the attitude of one driving a paddle, as he ran the race anew. somewhere across the stove he beheld the tossing kayak and the flying hair of unga. the voice of the wind was in his ears, and its salt beat fresh upon his nostrils. 'but she made the shore, and ran up the sand, laughing, to the house of her mother. and a great thought came to me that night--a thought worthy of him that was chief over all the people of akatan. so, when the moon was up, i went down to the house of her mother, and looked upon the goods of yash-noosh, which were piled by the door--the goods of yash-noosh, a strong hunter who had it in mind to be the father of the children of unga. other young men had piled their goods there and taken them away again; and each young man had made a pile greater than the one before. 'and i laughed to the moon and the stars, and went to my own house where my wealth was stored. and many trips i made, till my pile was greater by the fingers of one hand than the pile of yash-noosh. there were fish, dried in the sun and smoked; and forty hides of the hair seal, and half as many of the fur, and each hide was tied at the mouth and big bellied with oil; and ten skins of bear which i killed in the woods when they came out in the spring. and there were beads and blankets and scarlet cloths, such as i got in trade from the people who lived to the east, and who got them in trade from the people who lived still beyond in the east. 'and i looked upon the pile of yash-noosh and laughed, for i was head man in akatan, and my wealth was greater than the wealth of all my young men, and my fathers had done deeds, and given laws, and put their names for all time in the mouths of the people. 'so, when the morning came, i went down to the beach, casting out of the corner of my eye at the house of the mother of unga. my offer yet stood untouched. 'and the women smiled, and said sly things one to the other. i wondered, for never had such a price been offered; and that night i added more to the pile, and put beside it a kayak of well-tanned skins which never yet had swam in the sea. but in the day it was yet there, open to the laughter of all men. the mother of unga was crafty, and i grew angry at the shame in which i stood before my people. so that night i added till it became a great pile, and i hauled up my oomiak, which was of the value of twenty kayaks. and in the morning there was no pile. 'then made i preparation for the wedding, and the people that lived even to the east came for the food of the feast and the potlatch token. unga was older than i by the age of four suns in the way we reckoned the years. i was only a stripling; but then i was a chief, and the son of a chief, and it did not matter. 'but a ship shoved her sails above the floor of the ocean, and grew larger with the breath of the wind. from her scuppers she ran clear water, and the men were in haste and worked hard at the pumps. on the bow stood a mighty man, watching the depth of the water and giving commands with a voice of thunder. his eyes were of the pale blue of the deep waters, and his head was maned like that of a sea lion. and his hair was yellow, like the straw of a southern harvest or the manila rope yarns which sailormen plait. 'of late years we had seen ships from afar, but this was the first to come to the beach of akatan. the feast was broken, and the women and children fled to the houses, while we men strung our bows and waited with spears in hand. but when the ship's forefoot smelled the beach the strange men took no notice of us, being busy with their own work. with the falling of the tide they careened the schooner and patched a great hole in her bottom. so the women crept back, and the feast went on. 'when the tide rose, the sea wanderers kedged the schooner to deep water and then came among us. they bore presents and were friendly; so i made room for them, and out of the largeness of my heart gave them tokens such as i gave all the guests, for it was my wedding day, and i was head man in akatan. and he with the mane of the sea lion was there, so tall and strong that one looked to see the earth shake with the fall of his feet. he looked much and straight at unga, with his arms folded, so, and stayed till the sun went away and the stars came out. then he went down to his ship. after that i took unga by the hand and led her to my own house. and there was singing and great laughter, and the women said sly things, after the manner of women at such times. but we did not care. then the people left us alone and went home. 'the last noise had not died away when the chief of the sea wanderers came in by the door. and he had with him black bottles, from which we drank and made merry. you see, i was only a stripling, and had lived all my days on the edge of the world. so my blood became as fire, and my heart as light as the froth that flies from the surf to the cliff. unga sat silent among the skins in the corner, her eyes wide, for she seemed to fear. and he with the mane of the sea lion looked upon her straight and long. then his men came in with bundles of goods, and he piled before me wealth such as was not in all akatan. there were guns, both large and small, and powder and shot and shell, and bright axes and knives of steel, and cunning tools, and strange things the like of which i had never seen. when he showed me by sign that it was all mine, i thought him a great man to be so free; but he showed me also that unga was to go away with him in his ship. 'do you understand?--that unga was to go away with him in his ship. the blood of my fathers flamed hot on the sudden, and i made to drive him through with my spear. but the spirit of the bottles had stolen the life from my arm, and he took me by the neck, so, and knocked my head against the wall of the house. and i was made weak like a newborn child, and my legs would no more stand under me. 'unga screamed, and she laid hold of the things of the house with her hands, till they fell all about us as he dragged her to the door. then he took her in his great arms, and when she tore at his yellow hair laughed with a sound like that of the big bull seal in the rut. 'i crawled to the beach and called upon my people, but they were afraid. only yash-noosh was a man, and they struck him on the head with an oar, till he lay with his face in the sand and did not move. and they raised the sails to the sound of their songs, and the ship went away on the wind. 'the people said it was good, for there would be no more war of the bloods in akatan; but i said never a word, waiting till the time of the full moon, when i put fish and oil in my kayak and went away to the east. i saw many islands and many people, and i, who had lived on the edge, saw that the world was very large. i talked by signs; but they had not seen a schooner nor a man with the mane of a sea lion, and they pointed always to the east. and i slept in queer places, and ate odd things, and met strange faces. many laughed, for they thought me light of head; but sometimes old men turned my face to the light and blessed me, and the eyes of the young women grew soft as they asked me of the strange ship, and unga, and the men of the sea. 'and in this manner, through rough seas and great storms, i came to unalaska. there were two schooners there, but neither was the one i sought. so i passed on to the east, with the world growing ever larger, and in the island of unamok there was no word of the ship, nor in kadiak, nor in atognak. and so i came one day to a rocky land, where men dug great holes in the mountain. and there was a schooner, but not my schooner, and men loaded upon it the rocks which they dug. this i thought childish, for all the world was made of rocks; but they gave me food and set me to work. when the schooner was deep in the water, the captain gave me money and told me to go; but i asked which way he went, and he pointed south. i made signs that i would go with him, and he laughed at first, but then, being short of men, took me to help work the ship. so i came to talk after their manner, and to heave on ropes, and to reef the stiff sails in sudden squalls, and to take my turn at the wheel. but it was not strange, for the blood of my fathers was the blood of the men of the sea. 'i had thought it an easy task to find him i sought, once i got among his own people; and when we raised the land one day, and passed between a gateway of the sea to a port, i looked for perhaps as many schooners as there were fingers to my hands. but the ships lay against the wharves for miles, packed like so many little fish; and when i went among them to ask for a man with the mane of a sea lion, they laughed, and answered me in the tongues of many peoples. and i found that they hailed from the uttermost parts of the earth. 'and i went into the city to look upon the face of every man. but they were like the cod when they run thick on the banks, and i could not count them. and the noise smote upon me till i could not hear, and my head was dizzy with much movement. so i went on and on, through the lands which sang in the warm sunshine; where the harvests lay rich on the plains; and where great cities were fat with men that lived like women, with false words in their mouths and their hearts black with the lust of gold. and all the while my people of akatan hunted and fished, and were happy in the thought that the world was small. 'but the look in the eyes of unga coming home from the fishing was with me always, and i knew i would find her when the time was met. she walked down quiet lanes in the dusk of the evening, or led me chases across the thick fields wet with the morning dew, and there was a promise in her eyes such as only the woman unga could give. 'so i wandered through a thousand cities. some were gentle and gave me food, and others laughed, and still others cursed; but i kept my tongue between my teeth, and went strange ways and saw strange sights. sometimes i, who was a chief and the son of a chief, toiled for men--men rough of speech and hard as iron, who wrung gold from the sweat and sorrow of their fellow men. yet no word did i get of my quest till i came back to the sea like a homing seal to the rookeries. 'but this was at another port, in another country which lay to the north. and there i heard dim tales of the yellow-haired sea wanderer, and i learned that he was a hunter of seals, and that even then he was abroad on the ocean. 'so i shipped on a seal schooner with the lazy siwashes, and followed his trackless trail to the north where the hunt was then warm. and we were away weary months, and spoke many of the fleet, and heard much of the wild doings of him i sought; but never once did we raise him above the sea. we went north, even to the pribilofs, and killed the seals in herds on the beach, and brought their warm bodies aboard till our scuppers ran grease and blood and no man could stand upon the deck. then were we chased by a ship of slow steam, which fired upon us with great guns. but we put sail till the sea was over our decks and washed them clean, and lost ourselves in a fog. 'it is said, at this time, while we fled with fear at our hearts, that the yellow-haired sea wanderer put in to the pribilofs, right to the factory, and while the part of his men held the servants of the company, the rest loaded ten thousand green skins from the salt houses. i say it is said, but i believe; for in the voyages i made on the coast with never a meeting the northern seas rang with his wildness and daring, till the three nations which have lands there sought him with their ships. 'and i heard of unga, for the captains sang loud in her praise, and she was always with him. she had learned the ways of his people, they said, and was happy. but i knew better--knew that her heart harked back to her own people by the yellow beach of akatan. 'so, after a long time, i went back to the port which is by a gateway of the sea, and there i learned that he had gone across the girth of the great ocean to hunt for the seal to the east of the warm land which runs south from the russian seas. 'and i, who was become a sailorman, shipped with men of his own race, and went after him in the hunt of the seal. and there were few ships off that new land; but we hung on the flank of the seal pack and harried it north through all the spring of the year. and when the cows were heavy with pup and crossed the russian line, our men grumbled and were afraid. for there was much fog, and every day men were lost in the boats. they would not work, so the captain turned the ship back toward the way it came. but i knew the yellow-haired sea wanderer was unafraid, and would hang by the pack, even to the russian isles, where few men go. so i took a boat, in the black of night, when the lookout dozed on the fo'c'slehead, and went alone to the warm, long land. and i journeyed south to meet the men by yeddo bay, who are wild and unafraid. and the yoshiwara girls were small, and bright like steel, and good to look upon; but i could not stop, for i knew that unga rolled on the tossing floor by the rookeries of the north. 'the men by yeddo bay had met from the ends of the earth, and had neither gods nor homes, sailing under the flag of the japanese. and with them i went to the rich beaches of copper island, where our salt piles became high with skins. 'and in that silent sea we saw no man till we were ready to come away. then one day the fog lifted on the edge of a heavy wind, and there jammed down upon us a schooner, with close in her wake the cloudy funnels of a russian man-of-war. we fled away on the beam of the wind, with the schooner jamming still closer and plunging ahead three feet to our two. and upon her poop was the man with the mane of the sea lion, pressing the rails under with the canvas and laughing in his strength of life. and unga was there--i knew her on the moment--but he sent her below when the cannons began to talk across the sea. as i say, with three feet to our two, till we saw the rudder lift green at every jump--and i swinging on to the wheel and cursing, with my back to the russian shot. for we knew he had it in mind to run before us, that he might get away while we were caught. and they knocked our masts out of us till we dragged into the wind like a wounded gull; but he went on over the edge of the sky line--he and unga. 'what could we? the fresh hides spoke for themselves. so they took us to a russian port, and after that to a lone country, where they set us to work in the mines to dig salt. and some died, and--and some did not die.' naass swept the blanket from his shoulders, disclosing the gnarled and twisted flesh, marked with the unmistakable striations of the knout. prince hastily covered him, for it was not nice to look upon. 'we were there a weary time and sometimes men got away to the south, but they always came back. so, when we who hailed from yeddo bay rose in the night and took the guns from the guards, we went to the north. and the land was very large, with plains, soggy with water, and great forests. and the cold came, with much snow on the ground, and no man knew the way. weary months we journeyed through the endless forest--i do not remember, now, for there was little food and often we lay down to die. but at last we came to the cold sea, and but three were left to look upon it. one had shipped from yeddo as captain, and he knew in his head the lay of the great lands, and of the place where men may cross from one to the other on the ice. and he led us--i do not know, it was so long--till there were but two. when we came to that place we found five of the strange people which live in that country, and they had dogs and skins, and we were very poor. we fought in the snow till they died, and the captain died, and the dogs and skins were mine. then i crossed on the ice, which was broken, and once i drifted till a gale from the west put me upon the shore. and after that, golovin bay, pastilik, and the priest. then south, south, to the warm sunlands where first i wandered. 'but the sea was no longer fruitful, and those who went upon it after the seal went to little profit and great risk. the fleets scattered, and the captains and the men had no word of those i sought. so i turned away from the ocean which never rests, and went among the lands, where the trees, the houses, and the mountains sit always in one place and do not move. i journeyed far, and came to learn many things, even to the way of reading and writing from books. it was well i should do this, for it came upon me that unga must know these things, and that someday, when the time was met--we--you understand, when the time was met. 'so i drifted, like those little fish which raise a sail to the wind but cannot steer. but my eyes and my ears were open always, and i went among men who traveled much, for i knew they had but to see those i sought to remember. at last there came a man, fresh from the mountains, with pieces of rock in which the free gold stood to the size of peas, and he had heard, he had met, he knew them. they were rich, he said, and lived in the place where they drew the gold from the ground. 'it was in a wild country, and very far away; but in time i came to the camp, hidden between the mountains, where men worked night and day, out of the sight of the sun. yet the time was not come. i listened to the talk of the people. he had gone away--they had gone away--to england, it was said, in the matter of bringing men with much money together to form companies. i saw the house they had lived in; more like a palace, such as one sees in the old countries. in the nighttime i crept in through a window that i might see in what manner he treated her. i went from room to room, and in such way thought kings and queens must live, it was all so very good. and they all said he treated her like a queen, and many marveled as to what breed of woman she was for there was other blood in her veins, and she was different from the women of akatan, and no one knew her for what she was. aye, she was a queen; but i was a chief, and the son of a chief, and i had paid for her an untold price of skin and boat and bead. 'but why so many words? i was a sailorman, and knew the way of the ships on the seas. i followed to england, and then to other countries. sometimes i heard of them by word of mouth, sometimes i read of them in the papers; yet never once could i come by them, for they had much money, and traveled fast, while i was a poor man. then came trouble upon them, and their wealth slipped away one day like a curl of smoke. the papers were full of it at the time; but after that nothing was said, and i knew they had gone back where more gold could be got from the ground. 'they had dropped out of the world, being now poor, and so i wandered from camp to camp, even north to the kootenay country, where i picked up the cold scent. they had come and gone, some said this way, and some that, and still others that they had gone to the country of the yukon. and i went this way, and i went that, ever journeying from place to place, till it seemed i must grow weary of the world which was so large. but in the kootenay i traveled a bad trail, and a long trail, with a breed of the northwest, who saw fit to die when the famine pinched. he had been to the yukon by an unknown way over the mountains, and when he knew his time was near gave me the map and the secret of a place where he swore by his gods there was much gold. 'after that all the world began to flock into the north. i was a poor man; i sold myself to be a driver of dogs. the rest you know. i met him and her in dawson. 'she did not know me, for i was only a stripling, and her life had been large, so she had no time to remember the one who had paid for her an untold price. 'so? you bought me from my term of service. i went back to bring things about in my own way, for i had waited long, and now that i had my hand upon him was in no hurry. 'as i say, i had it in mind to do my own way, for i read back in my life, through all i had seen and suffered, and remembered the cold and hunger of the endless forest by the russian seas. as you know, i led him into the east--him and unga--into the east where many have gone and few returned. i led them to the spot where the bones and the curses of men lie with the gold which they may not have. 'the way was long and the trail unpacked. our dogs were many and ate much; nor could our sleds carry till the break of spring. we must come back before the river ran free. so here and there we cached grub, that our sleds might be lightened and there be no chance of famine on the back trip. at the mcquestion there were three men, and near them we built a cache, as also did we at the mayo, where was a hunting camp of a dozen pellys which had crossed the divide from the south. 'after that, as we went on into the east, we saw no men; only the sleeping river, the moveless forest, and the white silence of the north. as i say, the way was long and the trail unpacked. sometimes, in a day's toil, we made no more than eight miles, or ten, and at night we slept like dead men. and never once did they dream that i was naass, head man of akatan, the righter of wrongs. 'we now made smaller caches, and in the nighttime it was a small matter to go back on the trail we had broken and change them in such way that one might deem the wolverines the thieves. again there be places where there is a fall to the river, and the water is unruly, and the ice makes above and is eaten away beneath. 'in such a spot the sled i drove broke through, and the dogs; and to him and unga it was ill luck, but no more. and there was much grub on that sled, and the dogs the strongest. 'but he laughed, for he was strong of life, and gave the dogs that were left little grub till we cut them from the harnesses one by one and fed them to their mates. we would go home light, he said, traveling and eating from cache to cache, with neither dogs nor sleds; which was true, for our grub was very short, and the last dog died in the traces the night we came to the gold and the bones and the curses of men. 'to reach that place--and the map spoke true--in the heart of the great mountains, we cut ice steps against the wall of a divide. one looked for a valley beyond, but there was no valley; the snow spread away, level as the great harvest plains, and here and there about us mighty mountains shoved their white heads among the stars. and midway on that strange plain which should have been a valley the earth and the snow fell away, straight down toward the heart of the world. 'had we not been sailormen our heads would have swung round with the sight, but we stood on the dizzy edge that we might see a way to get down. and on one side, and one side only, the wall had fallen away till it was like the slope of the decks in a topsail breeze. i do not know why this thing should be so, but it was so. "it is the mouth of hell," he said; "let us go down." and we went down. 'and on the bottom there was a cabin, built by some man, of logs which he had cast down from above. it was a very old cabin, for men had died there alone at different times, and on pieces of birch bark which were there we read their last words and their curses. 'one had died of scurvy; another's partner had robbed him of his last grub and powder and stolen away; a third had been mauled by a baldface grizzly; a fourth had hunted for game and starved--and so it went, and they had been loath to leave the gold, and had died by the side of it in one way or another. and the worthless gold they had gathered yellowed the floor of the cabin like in a dream. 'but his soul was steady, and his head clear, this man i had led thus far. "we have nothing to eat," he said, "and we will only look upon this gold, and see whence it comes and how much there be. then we will go away quick, before it gets into our eyes and steals away our judgment. and in this way we may return in the end, with more grub, and possess it all." so we looked upon the great vein, which cut the wall of the pit as a true vein should, and we measured it, and traced it from above and below, and drove the stakes of the claims and blazed the trees in token of our rights. then, our knees shaking with lack of food, and a sickness in our bellies, and our hearts chugging close to our mouths, we climbed the mighty wall for the last time and turned our faces to the back trip. 'the last stretch we dragged unga between us, and we fell often, but in the end we made the cache. and lo, there was no grub. it was well done, for he thought it the wolverines, and damned them and his gods in one breath. but unga was brave, and smiled, and put her hand in his, till i turned away that i might hold myself. "we will rest by the fire," she said, "till morning, and we will gather strength from our moccasins." so we cut the tops of our moccasins in strips, and boiled them half of the night, that we might chew them and swallow them. and in the morning we talked of our chance. the next cache was five days' journey; we could not make it. we must find game. '"we will go forth and hunt," he said. '"yes," said i, "we will go forth and hunt." 'and he ruled that unga stay by the fire and save her strength. and we went forth, he in quest of the moose and i to the cache i had changed. but i ate little, so they might not see in me much strength. and in the night he fell many times as he drew into camp. and i, too, made to suffer great weakness, stumbling over my snowshoes as though each step might be my last. and we gathered strength from our moccasins. 'he was a great man. his soul lifted his body to the last; nor did he cry aloud, save for the sake of unga. on the second day i followed him, that i might not miss the end. and he lay down to rest often. that night he was near gone; but in the morning he swore weakly and went forth again. he was like a drunken man, and i looked many times for him to give up, but his was the strength of the strong, and his soul the soul of a giant, for he lifted his body through all the weary day. and he shot two ptarmigan, but would not eat them. he needed no fire; they meant life; but his thought was for unga, and he turned toward camp. 'he no longer walked, but crawled on hand and knee through the snow. i came to him, and read death in his eyes. even then it was not too late to eat of the ptarmigan. he cast away his rifle and carried the birds in his mouth like a dog. i walked by his side, upright. and he looked at me during the moments he rested, and wondered that i was so strong. i could see it, though he no longer spoke; and when his lips moved, they moved without sound. 'as i say, he was a great man, and my heart spoke for softness; but i read back in my life, and remembered the cold and hunger of the endless forest by the russian seas. besides, unga was mine, and i had paid for her an untold price of skin and boat and bead. 'and in this manner we came through the white forest, with the silence heavy upon us like a damp sea mist. and the ghosts of the past were in the air and all about us; and i saw the yellow beach of akatan, and the kayaks racing home from the fishing, and the houses on the rim of the forest. and the men who had made themselves chiefs were there, the lawgivers whose blood i bore and whose blood i had wedded in unga. aye, and yash-noosh walked with me, the wet sand in his hair, and his war spear, broken as he fell upon it, still in his hand. and i knew the time was meet, and saw in the eyes of unga the promise. 'as i say, we came thus through the forest, till the smell of the camp smoke was in our nostrils. and i bent above him, and tore the ptarmigan from his teeth. 'he turned on his side and rested, the wonder mounting in his eyes, and the hand which was under slipping slow toward the knife at his hip. but i took it from him, smiling close in his face. even then he did not understand. so i made to drink from black bottles, and to build high upon the snow a pile--of goods, and to live again the things which had happened on the night of my marriage. i spoke no word, but he understood. yet was he unafraid. there was a sneer to his lips, and cold anger, and he gathered new strength with the knowledge. it was not far, but the snow was deep, and he dragged himself very slow. 'once he lay so long i turned him over and gazed into his eyes. and sometimes he looked forth, and sometimes death. and when i loosed him he struggled on again. in this way we came to the fire. unga was at his side on the instant. his lips moved without sound; then he pointed at me, that unga might understand. and after that he lay in the snow, very still, for a long while. even now is he there in the snow. 'i said no word till i had cooked the ptarmigan. then i spoke to her, in her own tongue, which she had not heard in many years. she straightened herself, so, and her eyes were wonder-wide, and she asked who i was, and where i had learned that speech. '"i am naass," i said. '"you?" she said. "you?" and she crept close that she might look upon me. '"yes," i answered; "i am naass, head man of akatan, the last of the blood, as you are the last of the blood." 'and she laughed. by all the things i have seen and the deeds i have done may i never hear such a laugh again. it put the chill to my soul, sitting there in the white silence, alone with death and this woman who laughed. '"come!" i said, for i thought she wandered. "eat of the food and let us be gone. it is a far fetch from here to akatan." 'but she shoved her face in his yellow mane, and laughed till it seemed the heavens must fall about our ears. i had thought she would be overjoyed at the sight of me, and eager to go back to the memory of old times, but this seemed a strange form to take. '"come!" i cried, taking her strong by the hand. "the way is long and dark. let us hurry!" "where?" she asked, sitting up, and ceasing from her strange mirth. '"to akatan," i answered, intent on the light to grow on her face at the thought. but it became like his, with a sneer to the lips, and cold anger. '"yes," she said; "we will go, hand in hand, to akatan, you and i. and we will live in the dirty huts, and eat of the fish and oil, and bring forth a spawn--a spawn to be proud of all the days of our life. we will forget the world and be happy, very happy. it is good, most good. come! let us hurry. let us go back to akatan." and she ran her hand through his yellow hair, and smiled in a way which was not good. and there was no promise in her eyes. 'i sat silent, and marveled at the strangeness of woman. i went back to the night when he dragged her from me and she screamed and tore at his hair--at his hair which now she played with and would not leave. then i remembered the price and the long years of waiting; and i gripped her close, and dragged her away as he had done. and she held back, even as on that night, and fought like a she-cat for its whelp. and when the fire was between us and the man. i loosed her, and she sat and listened. and i told her of all that lay between, of all that had happened to me on strange seas, of all that i had done in strange lands; of my weary quest, and the hungry years, and the promise which had been mine from the first. aye, i told all, even to what had passed that day between the man and me, and in the days yet young. and as i spoke i saw the promise grow in her eyes, full and large like the break of dawn. and i read pity there, the tenderness of woman, the love, the heart and the soul of unga. and i was a stripling again, for the look was the look of unga as she ran up the beach, laughing, to the home of her mother. the stern unrest was gone, and the hunger, and the weary waiting. 'the time was met. i felt the call of her breast, and it seemed there i must pillow my head and forget. she opened her arms to me, and i came against her. then, sudden, the hate flamed in her eye, her hand was at my hip. and once, twice, she passed the knife. '"dog!" she sneered, as she flung me into the snow. "swine!" and then she laughed till the silence cracked, and went back to her dead. 'as i say, once she passed the knife, and twice; but she was weak with hunger, and it was not meant that i should die. yet was i minded to stay in that place, and to close my eyes in the last long sleep with those whose lives had crossed with mine and led my feet on unknown trails. but there lay a debt upon me which would not let me rest. 'and the way was long, the cold bitter, and there was little grub. the pellys had found no moose, and had robbed my cache. and so had the three white men, but they lay thin and dead in their cabins as i passed. after that i do not remember, till i came here, and found food and fire--much fire.' as he finished, he crouched closely, even jealously, over the stove. for a long while the slush-lamp shadows played tragedies upon the wall. 'but unga!' cried prince, the vision still strong upon him. 'unga? she would not eat of the ptarmigan. she lay with her arms about his neck, her face deep in his yellow hair. i drew the fire close, that she might not feel the frost, but she crept to the other side. and i built a fire there; yet it was little good, for she would not eat. and in this manner they still lie up there in the snow.' 'and you?' asked malemute kid. 'i do not know; but akatan is small, and i have little wish to go back and live on the edge of the world. yet is there small use in life. i can go to constantine, and he will put irons upon me, and one day they will tie a piece of rope, so, and i will sleep good. yet--no; i do not know.' 'but, kid,' protested prince, 'this is murder!' 'hush!' commanded malemute kid. 'there be things greater than our wisdom, beyond our justice. the right and the wrong of this we cannot say, and it is not for us to judge.' naass drew yet closer to the fire. there was a great silence, and in each man's eyes many pictures came and went. the end [illustration: "we of the flannel shirt and the unblacked boot." _frontispiece._] through the yukon gold diggings a narrative of personal travel by josiah edward spurr geologist, united states geological survey [illustration] boston eastern publishing company 1900 copyright, 1900 by josiah edward spurr preface. as a geologist of the united states geological survey, i had the good fortune to be placed in charge of the first expedition sent by that department into the interior of alaska. the gold diggings of the yukon region were not then known to the world in general, yet to those interested in mining their renown had come in a vague way, and the special problem with which i was charged was their investigation. the results of my studies were embodied in a report entitled: "geology of the yukon gold district," published by the government. it was during my travels through the mining regions that the klondike discovery, which subsequently turned so many heads throughout all of the civilized nations, was made. general conditions of mining, travelling and prospecting are much the same to-day as they were at that time, except in the limited districts into which the flood of miners has poured. my travels in alaska have been extensive since the journey of which this work is a record, and i have noted the same scenes that are herein described, in many other parts of the vast untravelled territory. it will take two or three decades or more, to make alterations in this region and change the condition throughout. in recording, therefore, the scenes and hardships encountered in this northern country, i describe the experiences of one who to-day knocks about the yukon region, the copper river region, the cook inlet region, the koyukuk, or the nome district. my aim has been throughout, to set down what i saw and encountered as fully and simply as possible, and i have endeavored to keep myself from sacrificing accuracy to picturesqueness. that my duties led me to see more than would the ordinary traveller, i trust the following pages will bear witness. let the reader, therefore, when he finds tedious or unpleasant passages, remember that they record tedious or unpleasant incidents that one who travels this vast region cannot escape, as will be found should any of those who peruse these pages go through the yukon gold diggings. author. contents chap. page i. the trip to dyea 9 ii. over the chilkoot pass 35 iii. the lakes and the yukon to forty mile 65 iv. the forty mile diggings 109 v. the american creek diggings 156 vi. the birch creek diggings 161 vii. the mynook creek diggings 207 viii. the lower yukon 229 ix. st. michael's and san francisco 264 illustrations page "we of the flannel shirt and the unblacked boot" _frontispiece_ an alaskan genealogical tree 12 bacon, lord of alaska 21 lynn canal 31 alaskan women and children 40 alaskan indians and house 63 shooting the white horse rapids 93 talking it over 98 alaska humpback salmon, male and female 107 washing gravel in sluice-boxes 131 "tracking" a boat upstream 137 a "cache" 140 native dogs 153 on the tramp again 165 hog'em junction road-house 171 on hog'em gulch 177 custom house at circle city 190 the break-up of the ice on the yukon 213 a yukon canoe 230 indian fish-traps 231 in a tent beneath spruce trees 239 three-hatch skin boat, or bidarka 261 eskimo houses at st. michael's 265 a native doorway 266 the captured whale 271 the author wishes to express his indebtedness to messrs. a. h. brooks, f. c. schrader, a. beverly smith, and the united states geological survey, for the use of photographs. through the yukon gold diggings. before the klondike discovery. chapter i. the trip to dyea. it was in 1896, before the klondike boom. we were seated at the table of an excursion steamer, which plied from seattle northward among the thousand wonderful mountain islands of the inland passage. it was a journey replete with brilliant spectacles, through many picturesque fjords from whose unfathomable depths the bare steep cliffs rise to dizzy heights, while over them tumble in disorderly loveliness cataracts pure as snow, leaping from cliff to cliff in very wildness, like embodiments of the untamed spirits of nature. we had just passed queen charlotte sound, where the swells from the open sea roll in during rough weather, and many passengers were appearing at the table with the pale face and defiant look which mark the unfortunate who has newly committed the crime of seasickness. it only enhanced the former stiffness, which we of the flannel shirt and the unblacked boot had striven in vain to break--for these were people who were gathered from the corners of the earth, and each individual, or each tiny group, seemed to have some invisible negative attraction for all the rest, like the little molecules which, scientists imagine, repel their neighbors to the very verge of explosion. they were all sight-seers of experience, come, some to do alaska, some to rest from mysterious labors, some--but who shall fathom at a glance an apparently dull lot of apparent snobs? at any rate, one would have thought the everlasting hills would have shrunk back and the stolid glaciers blushed with vexation at the patronizing way with which they were treated in general. it was depressing--even european tourists' wordy enthusiasm over a mud puddle or a dunghill would have been preferable. there are along this route all the benefits of a sea trip--the air, the rest--with none of its disadvantages. so steep are the shores that the steamer may often lie alongside of them when she stops and run her gang-plank out on the rocks. these stops show the traveller the little human life there is in this vast and desolate country. there are villages of the native tribes, with dwellings built in imitation of the common american fashion, in front of which rise great totem poles, carved and painted, representing grinning and grotesque animal-like, or human-like, or dragon-like figures, one piled on top of the other up to the very top of the column. a sort of ancestral tree, these are said to be,--only to be understood with a knowledge of the sign symbolism of these people--telling of their tribe and lineage, of their great-grandfather the bear, and their great-grandmother the wolf or such strange things. [illustration: an alaskan genealogical tree.] the people themselves, with their heavy faces and their imitation of the european dress--for the tourist and the prospector have brought prosperity and the thin veneer of civilization to these southernmost tribes of alaska--with their flaming neckerchief or head-kerchief of red and yellow silk that the silk-worm had no part in making, but only the cunning yankee weaver, paddle out in boats dug from the great evergreen trees that cover the hills so thickly, and bring articles made of sealskin, or skilfully woven baskets made out of the fibres of spruce roots, to sell to the passengers. or the steamer may stop at a little hamlet of white pioneers, where there is fishing for halibut, with perhaps some mining for gold on a small scale; then the practical men of the party, who have hitherto been bored, can inquire whether the industry pays, and contemplate in their suddenly awakened fancies the possibilities of a halibut syndicate, or another treadwell gold mine. so the artist gets his colors and forms, the business man sees wonderful possibilities in this shockingly unrailroaded wilderness, the tired may rest body and mind in the perfect peace and freedom from the human element, old ladies may sleep and young ones may flirt meantimes. all this would seem to prove that the passengers were neither professional nor business men, nor young nor old ladies--part of which appeared to me manifestly, and the rest probably untrue; or else that they were all enthusiastic and interested in the dumb british-american way, which sets down as vulgar any betrayal of one's self to one's neighbors. some one at the table wearily and warily inquired when we should get to the muir glacier, on which point we of the flannel-shirted brotherhood were informed; and incidentally we remarked that we intended to leave the festivities before that time, in juneau. "oh my!" said the sad-faced, middle-aged lady with circles about her eyes. "stay in juneau! how dreadful! are you going as missionaries, or," here she wrestled for an idea, "or are you simply going." "we are going to the yukon," we answered, "from juneau. you may have heard of the gold fields of the yukon country." and strange and sweet to say, at this later day, no one had heard of the gold fields--that was before they had become the rage and the fashion. but the whole table warmed with interest--they were as lively busybodies as other people and we were the first solution to the problems which they had been putting to themselves concerning each other since the beginning of the trip. there was a fire of small questions. "how interesting!" said an elderly young lady, who sat opposite. "i suppose you will have _all kinds_ of experiences, just _roughing_ it; and will you take your food with you on--er--wagons--or will you depend on the farmhouses along the way? only," she added hastily, detecting a certain gleam in the eye of her vis-a-vis, "i didn't think there were many farmhouses." "they will ride horses, jane," said the bluff old gentleman who was evidently her father, so authoritatively that i dared not dispute him--"everybody does in that country." then, as some glanced out at the precipitous mountain-side and dense timber, he added, "of course, not here. in the interior it is flat, like our plains, and one rides on little horses,--i think they call them kayaks--i have read it," he said, looking at me fiercely. then, as we were silent, he continued, more condescendingly, "i have roughed it myself, when i was young. we used to go hunting every fall in pennsylvania, when i was a boy, and once two of us went off together and were gone a week, just riding over the roughest country roads and into the mountains on horseback. if our coffee had not run out we would have stayed longer." "but isn't it dreadfully cold up there?" said the sweet brown-eyed girl, with a look in her eyes that wakened in our hearts the first momentary rebellion against our exile. "and the wild animals! you will suffer so." "i used to know an explorer," said the business man with the green necktie, who had been dragged to the shrine of nature by his wife. he had brought along an entire copy of the new york _screamer_, and buried himself all day long in its parti-colored mysteries. "he told me many things that might be useful to you, if i could remember them. about spearing whales--for food, you know--you will have to do a lot of that. i wish i could have you meet him sometime; he could tell you much more than i can. somebody said there was gold up there. was it you? well don't get frozen up and drift across the pole, like nansen, just to get where the gold is. but i suppose the nuggets----" "let's go on deck, jane," said the old gentleman;--then to us, politely but firmly, "i have been much interested in your account, and shall be glad to hear more later." we had not said anything yet. we disembarked at juneau. we had watched the shore for nearly the whole trip without perceiving a rift in the mountains through which it looked feasible to pass, and at juneau the outlook or uplook was no better. those who have been to juneau (and they are now many) know how slight and almost insecure is its foothold; how it is situated on an irregular hilly area which looks like a great landslide from the mountains towering above, whose sides are so sheer that the wagon road which winds up the gulch into silver bow basin is for some distance in the nature of a bridge, resting on wooden supports and hugging close to the steep rock wall. the excursionists tarried a little here, buying furs at extortionate prices from the natives, fancy baskets, and little ornaments which are said to be made in connecticut. in the hotel the proprietor arrived at our business in the shortest possible time, by the method of direct questioning. he was from colorado, i judged--all the men i have known that look like him come from colorado. there was also a heavily bearded man dressed in ill-fitting store-clothes, and with a necktie which had the strangest air of being ill at ease, who was lounging near by, smoking and spitting on the floor contemplatively. "here, pete," said the proprietor, "i want you to meet these gentlemen." he pronounced the last word with such a peculiar intonation that one felt sure he used it as synonymous with "tenderfeet" or "paperlegs" or other terms by which alaskans designate greenhorns. i had rather had him call me "this feller." "he says he's goin' over the pass, an' maybe you can help each other." pete smiled genially and crushed my hand, looking me full in the eye the while, doubtless to see how i stood the ordeal. "pete's an old timer," continued the hotel-man, "one of the yukon pioneers. been over that pass--how many times, pete, three times, ain't it?" "dis makes dirt time," answered pete, with a most unique dialect, which nevertheless was scandinavian. "virst time, me an' frank densmore, whisky bill an' de odder boys. dat was summer som we washed on stewart river, on'y us--fetched out britty peek sack dat year--eh?" he had a curious way of retaining the scandinavian relative pronoun _som_ in his english, instead of _who_ or _that_. "you bet, pete," answered the other, "you painted the town; done your duty by us." "ja," said pete, "blewed it in; mostly in 'frisco. was king dat winter till dust was all been spent. saw tings dat was goot; saw udder tings was too bad, efen for alaskan miner. one time enough. i tink dese cities kind of bad fer people. so i get out. sez i,--'i jes' got time to get to lake bennett by time ice breaks,' so i light out." he smiled happily as he said this, as a man might talk of going home, then continued, "den secon' dime i get a glaim forty mile, miller greek,--dat's really sixty mile, but feller gits dere f'm forty mile. had a pardner, but he went down to birch greek, den i work my glaim alone." he put his hand down in his trousers pocket and brought up a large flat angular piece of gold, two inches long; it had particles of quartz scattered through, and was in places rusty with iron, but was mostly smooth and showed the wearing it must have had in his pocket. he shoved the yellow lump into my hand. "dat nugget was de biggest in my glaim dat i found; anoder feller he washed over tailin's f'm my glaim efter, an' he got bigger nuggets, he says, but i tinks he's dam liar. anyhow, i get little sack an' i went down 'frisco, an' i blewed it in again. now i go back once more." we talked awhile and finally agreed to make the trip to forty mile together, since we were all bound to this place, and pete, unlike most miners and prospectors, had no "pardner." we were soon engaged in making the rounds of the shops, laying in our supplies--beans, bacon, dried fruit, flour, sugar, cheese, and, most precious of all, a bucket of strawberry jam. we made up our minds to revel in jam just as long as we were able, even if we ended up on plain flour three times a day. for a drink we took tea, which is almost universally used in alaska, instead of coffee, since a certain weight of it will last as long as many times the same weight of coffee: moreover, there is some quality in this beverage which makes it particularly adapted to the vigorous climate and conditions of this northern country. men who have never used tea acquire a fondness for it in alaska, and will drink vast quantities, especially in the winter. the russians, themselves the greatest tea-drinkers of all european nations, long ago introduced "tschai" to the alaskan natives; and throughout the country they will beg for it from every white man they meet, or will travel hundreds of miles and barter their furs to obtain it. [illustration: bacon, lord of alaska.] concerning the amount of supplies it is necessary to take on a trip like ours, it may be remarked that three pounds of solid food to each man per day, is liberal. as to the proportion, no constant estimate can be made, men's appetites varying with the nature of the articles in the rations and their temporary tastes. on this occasion pete picked out the supplies, laying in what he judged to be enough of each article: but it appeared afterwards that a man may be an experienced pioneer, and yet never have solved the problem of reasonably accurate rations, for some articles were soon exhausted on our trip, while others lasted throughout the summer, after which we were obliged to bequeath the remainder to the natives. camp kettles, and frying-pans, of course, were in the outfit, as well as axes, boat-building tools, whip-saw, draw-shave, chisels, hammers, nails, screws, oakum and pitch. it was our plan to build a boat on the lakes which are the source of the yukon, felling the spruce trees, and then with a whip-saw slicing off boards, which when put together would carry us down the river to the gold diggings. for our personal use we had a single small tent, a-shaped, but with half of one of the large slanting sides cut out, so that it could be elevated like a curtain, and, being secured at the corners by poles or tied by ropes to trees, made an additional shelter, while it opened up the interior of the tent to the fresh air or the warmth of the camp-fire outside. blankets for sleeping, and rubber blankets to lay next to the ground to keep out the wet; the best mosquito-netting or "bobinet" of hexagonal mesh, and stout gauntleted cavalry gloves, as protection against the mosquitoes. for personal attire, anything. dress on the frontier, above all in alaska, is always varied, picturesque, and unconventional. flannel or woollen shirts, of course, are universal; and for foot gear the heavy laced boot is the best. as usual, we were led by the prospective terrors of cold water in the lakes and streams to invest in rubber boots reaching to the hip, which, however, did not prove of such use as anticipated. we had brought with us canvas bags designed for packing, or carrying loads on the back, of a model long used in the lake superior woods. they were provided with suitable straps for the shoulders, and a broad one for the top of the head, so that the toiler, bending over, might support a large part of the load by the aid of his rigid neck. these we utilized also as receptacles for our clothes and other personal articles. other men were in juneau also, bound for the yukon,--not like the hordes that the klondike brought up later from the states, many of whom turned back before even crossing the passes, but small parties of determined men. we ran upon them here and there. in the hotel we sat down at the table with a self-contained man with a suggestion of recklessness or carelessness in his face, and soon found that he was bound over the same route as ourselves, on a newspaper mission. danlon, as we may call him, had brought his manservant with him, like the englishman he was. he was a great traveller, and full of interesting anecdotes of afghanistan, or borneo, or some other of the earth's corners. he had engaged to go with him a friend of pete's, another pioneer, cooper by name, short, blonde and powerfully built. between us, we arranged for a tug to take us the hundred miles of water which still lay between us and dyea, where the land journey begins; after which transaction, we sat down to eat our last dinner in civilization. how tearfully, almost, we remarked that this was the last plum-pudding we should have for many a moon! we sailed, or rather steamed away, from juneau in the evening. our tug had been designed for freight, and had not been altered in the slightest degree for the accommodation of passengers. her floor space, too, was limited, so that while ten or twelve men might have made themselves very comfortable, the fifty or sixty who finally appeared on board found hard work to dispose of themselves in any fashion. she had been originally engaged for our two parties, but new passengers continually applied, who, from the nature of things, could hardly be refused. so the motley crowd of strangers huddled together, the engines began clanking, and the lights of juneau soon dropped out of sight, as we steamed up lynn canal under the shadow of the giant mountains. our fellow-passengers were mostly prospectors; nearly all newcomers, as we could see by the light of the lantern which hung up in the bare apartment where we were. they had their luggage and outfit with them, which they piled up and sat or slept on, to make sure they would not lose it. there were men with grey beards and strapping boys with down on their chins; white handed men and those whose huge horny palms showed a life of toil; all strange, uneasy, and quiet at first, but soon they began to talk confidentially, as men will whom chance throws together in strange places. there was a catholic priest bound to his mission among the eskimos on the lower yukon,--calm, patient, sweet-tempered, and cheerful of speech; and near him was a noted alaskan pioneer and trader, bound on some wild trip or other alone. there was another alaskan--one of those who settle down and take native women as mates and are therefore somewhat scornfully called "squaw-men"; he had been to juneau as the countryman visits the metropolis, and had brought back with him abundant evidence of the worthlessness of the no-liquor laws of alaska, in the shape of a lordly drunk, and the material for many more, in a large demijohn, which he guarded carefully. the conversation among this crowd was of the directest sort, as it is always on the frontier. "where are _you_ goin', pardner? prospectin', i reckon?" then inquiries as to what each could tell the other concerning the conditions of the land we were to explore, mostly unknown to all: and straightway pete and cooper were constituted authorities, by virtue of their previous experience, and were listened to with great deference by the rest. the night was not calm, and the little craft swashed monotonously into the waves. one by one the travellers lay down on the bare dusty floor and slept; and so limited was the room that the last found it difficult to find a place. glancing around to find a vacant nook i was struck with the picturesqueness of the scene. under the lantern the last talkers--the catholic priest in a red sweater, smoking a bent pipe, the professional traveller and book-maker, and another englishman with smooth face and oily manners,--were discussing matters with as much reserve and decorum as they would in a drawing-room. around them lay stretched out, over the floor, under the table, and even on it, motley-clad men, breathing heavily or staring with wide fixed eyes overhead. the pioneer had gone to sleep lying on his back and was snoring at intervals, but by a physical feat hard to understand, retained his quid of tobacco, which he chewed languidly through it all. the only space i could find was in a narrow passageway leading to the pilot-house. here i coiled myself, hugging closely to the wall, but it was dark and throughout the night i was awakened by heavy boots accidentally placed on my body or head; yet i was too sleepy to hear the apologies and straightway slept again. it was natural, under the circumstances, that all should be early risers, and we were ravenously hungry for the breakfast which was tardily prepared. the only table was covered with oilcloth, and was calculated for four, but about eight managed to crowd around it: yet with all possible haste the last had breakfast about noon. we sat down where a momentary opening was offered at the third or fourth sitting. a moment later a couple of prospectors appeared who apparently had counted on places, and the hungry stomach of one of them prompted some very audible mutterings to the effect that all men were born free and equal, and he was as good as any one. the priest immediately got up, and with sincere kindness offered his seat, which so overcame the man with shame that he politely refused and retired; but the rest of us insisted on crowding together and making room for him. and for the remainder of the trip a more punctiliously polite individual than this same prospector could not be found. after each round of eaters, the tin plates and cups and the dingy black knives and forks were seized by a busy dishwasher, who performed a rapid hocus-pocus over them, in which a tiny dishpan filled with hot water that came finally to have the appearance and consistency of a hodge-podge, played an important part; then they were skillfully shyed on to the table again. i looked at my plate. swimming in the shallow film of dish-water, were flakes of beans, shreds of corned-beef and streaks of apple-sauce, which took me back in fancy to all the different tables that had eaten before: the boat was swaying heavily and i gulped down my stomach before i passed the plate to the dishwasher and suggested wiping. he was a very young man, remarkably dashing, like the hero of a dime novel. he was especially proficient in profanity and kept up a running fire of insults on the cook. he took the plate and eyed me scornfully, witheringly. "seems to me some tenderfeet is mighty pertickler," said he, with a very evident personal application, then swabbed out the plate with a towel, the sight of which made me turn and stare at the spruce-clad mountain-sides, in a desperate effort to elevate my mind and my stomach above trifles. "this is no place for a white man," said a prospector who had been staring out of the door all day. "good enough for bears and--and--siwash, maybe." most, i think shared more or less openly his depression, for the shores of lynn canal are no more attractive to the adventurer than the rest of the bleak alaskan mountain coast. [illustration: lynn canal.] it was a chilly, drizzling day. the clouds ordinarily hid the tops of the great steep mountains, so that these looked as if they might be walls that reached clear up to the heavens, or, when they broke away, exposed lofty snowy peaks, magnificent and gigantic in the mist. we caught glimpses of wrinkled glaciers, crawling down the valleys like huge jointed living things, in whose fronts the pure blue ice showed faintly and coldly. here and there waterfalls appeared, leaping hundreds of feet from crag to crag, and all along was the rugged brown shore, with the surf lashing the cliffs, and no place where even a boat might land. all men, whether they clearly perceive it or not, find in the phenomena of nature some figurative meanings, and are depressed or elevated by them. we anchored in the lee of a bare rounded mountain that night, it being too rough to attempt landing, and the next morning were off dyea, where we were to go ashore. the surf was still heavy, but the captain ventured out in a small boat to get the scow in which passengers and goods were generally conveyed to the shore; for the water was shallow, and the steamer had to keep a mile or so from the land. in the surf the boat capsized, and we could see the captain bobbing up and down in the breakers, now on top, now under his boat, in the icy water. the dishwasher, who evidently knew the course of action in all such emergencies from dime-novel precedents, yelled out "man the lifeboat!" the captain had taken the only boat there was. the entire crew, it may be mentioned, consisted, besides the dishwasher and the captain, of the sailor, who was also the cook. the duty of manning the lifeboat--had there been one--would thus apparently have devolved on the sailor, but he grew pale and swore that he did not know how to row and that he had just come from driving a milk-wagon in san francisco. a party of prospectors became engaged in a heated discussion as to whether, if there had been a boat on board, it would not have been foolish to venture out in it, even for the sake of trying to rescue the captain; some urging the claims of heroism, and others loudly proclaiming that they would not risk _their_ lives in any such d----d foolish way as that. however, all this was only the froth and excitement of the moment. the captain hauled his boat out of the breakers, skillfully launched it again, and came on board, shivering but calm, a strapping, reckless cape breton scotch-canadian. in due course of time afterwards the scow was also got out, and we transferred our outfits to it and sat on top of them, while we were slowly propelled ashore by long oars. chapter ii. over the chilkoot pass. at this time there was only one building at dyea--a log house used as a store for trading with the natives, and known by the name of healy's post. (two years afterwards, on returning to the place, i found a mushroom, sawed-board town of several thousand people; but that was after the klondike boom.) we pitched our tents near the shore that night, spreading our blankets on the ground. in the morning all were bustling around, following out their separate plans for getting over the pass as soon as possible. of the different notches in the mountain wall by which one may cross the coast range and arrive at the head waters of the yukon, the chilkoot, which is reached from dyea, was at that time the only one practicable. it was known that jack dalton, a pioneer trader of the country, was wont to go over the chilkat pass, a little further south, while schwatka, hayes, and russell, in an expedition of which few people ever heard, had crossed by the way of the taku river and the taku pass to the hootalinqua or teslin river, which is one of the important streams that unite to make up the upper yukon. but the white pass, which afterwards became the most popular, and which lies just east of the chilkoot, was at that time entirely unused, being a rough long trail that required clearing to make it serviceable. the chilkoot, though the highest and steepest of the passes, was yet the shortest and the most free from obstructions; it had been, before the advent of the white adventurer in alaska, the avenue of travel for the handful of half-starved interior natives who were wont to come down occasionally to the coast, for the purpose of trading. the coast indians are, as they always have been, a more numerous, more prosperous, stronger and more quarrelsome class, for the sea yielded them, directly and indirectly, a varied and bountiful subsistence. the particular tribe who occupied the dyea region,--the chilkoots--were accustomed to stand guard over the pass and to exact tribute from all the interior natives who came in; and when the first white men appeared, the natives tried in the same way to hinder them from crossing and so destroying their monopoly of petty traffic. for a short time this really prevented individuals and small parties from exploring, but in 1878 a party of nineteen prospectors, under the leadership of edmund bean, was organized, and to overcome the hostility of the chilkoots, a sort of military "demonstration" was arranged by the officers in charge at sitka. the little gunboat stationed there proceeded to dyea, and, anchoring, fired a few blank shots from her heaviest (or loudest) guns; afterwards the officer in charge went on shore, and made a sort of unwritten treaty or agreement with the thoroughly frightened natives, by which the prospectors, and all others who came after, were allowed to proceed unmolested. the fame of that "war-canoe" spread from indian to indian throughout the length and breadth of the vast territory of alaska. one can hear it from the natives in many places a thousand miles from where the incident occurred, and each time the story is so changed and disguised, that it might be taken for a myth by an enthusiastic mythologist, and carefully preserved, with all its vagaries, and very likely proved to be an allegory of the seasons, or the travels of the sun, moon, and stars. in proportion as the story reached more and more remote regions, the statements of the proportions of the canoe became more and more exaggerated, and the thunder of the guns more terrible, and the number of warriors on board increased faster than jacob's flock. the gunboat was the butt for many good-natured jokes from navy officers, on account of her small dimensions and frail construction. yet the natives a little way into the interior will tell you of the wonderful snow-white war-canoe, half a mile long, armed with guns a hundred yards or so in length; and by the time one gets in the neighborhood of the arctic circle, he will hear of the "great ship" (the native will perhaps point to some mountain eight or ten miles away) "as long as from here to the mountain"; how she vomited out smoke, fire and ashes like a volcano, and at the same time exploded her guns and killed many people, and how she ran forwards and backwards, with the wind or against it, at a terrific speed,--a formidable monster, truly! at the time of our trip (in 1896) the immigration into the yukon gold country had gone on, in a small way, for some years; several mining districts were well developed, and the natives had settled down into the habit of helping the white man, for a substantial remuneration. these natives were all camped or housed close to the shore. they were odd and interesting at first sight. the men were of fair size, strong, stolid, and sullen-looking; clothed in cheap civilized garb in this summer season,--it was in the early part of june--in overalls and jumpers, with now and then a woollen guernsey jacket, and with straw hats on their heads. the women were neither beautiful nor attractive. many of them had covered their faces with a mixture of soot and grease, which stuck well. other women had their chins tattooed in stripes with the indelible ink of the cuttlefish--sometimes one, sometimes three, sometimes five or six stripes. this custom i found afterwards among the women of many tribes and peoples in different parts of alaska, and it seems, in some regions at least, to be a mark of aristocracy, indicating the wealth of the parents at the time the girl-child was born. all the natives were living in tents or rude wooden huts, in the most primitive fashion, cooking by a smouldering fire outside, and sleeping packed close together, wrapped in skins and dirty blankets. [illustration: alaskan women and children.] it had been the custom of the miners to engage these natives to carry their outfits for them, from dyea, and some of the men who had come with us, immediately hired packers for the whole trip to lake lindeman, paying them, i think, eleven cents a pound for everything carried. the storekeeper, however, had been constructing a foot trail for about half the distance and had bought a few pack-horses, and we engaged these to transport our outfit as far as possible, trusting to indians for the rest. we had brought with us from juneau, on a last sudden idea, a lot of lumber with which to build our boat when we should get to lake lindeman, and here the transportation of this lumber became a great problem. to pack it on the horses was an impossibility, and the indians refused absolutely to take the boards unless they were cut in two, which would destroy much of their value, and even if this were done, demanded an enormous price for the carrying; therefore it was concluded to leave them behind, and trust to good luck in the future. in one way or another, everybody was furnished with some kind of transportation, and the whole visible population of dyea, permanent or transient, began moving up the valley. some of the natives put their loads in wooden dugout canoes, which they paddled, or pushed with poles, six or seven miles up the small stream which goes by the name of the dyea river; others took their packs on their backs, and led the way along the trail. not stronger, perhaps, than white men, the chilkoots showed themselves remarkably patient and enduring, carrying heavy loads rapidly long distances without resting. not only the men, but the women and children, made pack-animals of themselves. i remember a slight boy of thirteen or so, who could not have weighed over eighty pounds, carrying a load of one hundred. the dog belonging to the same family, a medium-sized animal, waddled along with a load of about forty pounds; he seemed to be imbued with the same spirit as the rest, and although the load nearly dragged him to the ground, he was patient and persevering. the trail was a tiresome one, being mostly through loose sand and gravel alongside the stream: several times we had to wade across. as we went up, the valley became narrower, and we had views of the glacier above us, which reached long slender fingers down the little valleys from the great ice-mass on the mountain. it was evident that the glacier had once filled the entire valley. as soon as we were up a little we were obliged to clamber over the piled-up boulders in the strips of moraine which the ice had left; in places the rows were so regular that they had the appearance of stone walls. we were seized with fatigue and a terrible hunger. "you haven't a sandwich about your clothes, have you?" i asked of some prospectors whom i overtook resting in the lee of a cliff. here the stream becomes so rough and rapid that the natives can work their canoes no further, and so the place has been somewhat pompously named on some maps the "head of navigation," by which most people infer that a gunboat may steam up this far. "no, by ----, pardner," was the answer, "if we had, we'd a' eaten it ourselves before now." crossing the stream for the last time, on the trunk of a fallen tree, which swayed alarmingly, the trail led up steeply among the bare rocks of the hillside. all the pedestrian groups had separated into singles by this time, every one going his "ain gait" according to his own ideas and strength, and in no mood for conversation. i overtook a young irishman, who had started out with a pack of about seventy-five pounds; he was resting, and quite downcast with fatigue and hunger. just where we stopped some one had left a load of canned corn and tomatoes. we eyed them hungrily, and gravely discussed our rights to helping ourselves. we did not know the owners and could not find them--certainly they were none of those that had come with us. we could not take them and leave money, for although the natives respected "caches" of provisions, we could not expect them to do the same with money. "again," said the irishman, "the feller what lift them here may be dipinding on every blissed can of swate corn for some little schayme of his, while we have plenty grub of our own, if we can on'y get our flippers on it." at this period, all through alaska, provisions and other property was regarded with utmost respect. old miners and prospectors have told me that they have left provisions exposed in a "cache" for a year, and on returning after having been hundreds of miles away, have found them untouched, although nearly starving natives had passed them almost daily all winter. in the mining camps the same custom prevailed. locks were unknown on the doors. when a white man arrived at the hut of an absent prospector, he helped himself, taking enough provisions from the "cache" to keep him out of want, till he could make the next stage of his journey, and wrote on paper or on the wooden door, "i have taken twenty pounds of flour, ten pounds of bacon, five pounds of beans, and a little tea," signed his name, and departed. it was not a bill, but an acknowledgment; and to have left without making the acknowledgment constituted a theft, in the eyes of the miner population. this condition of primitive honesty did not last, however. later, with the klondike boom, came the ordinary light-fingeredness of civilization, and a state of affairs unique and instructive passed away. we arrived finally at the end of the horse-trail, a spot named sheep camp by an early party of prospectors who killed some mountain sheep here. steep, rocky and snowy mountains overhang the valley, with a vast glacier not far up; and here, since our visit, have occurred a number of fatal disasters, from snowslides and landslides. pete had arrived before us: he had set up a yukon camp stove of sheet iron, had kindled fire therein and was engaged in the preparation of slapjacks and fried bacon, a sight that affected us so that we had to go and sit back to, and out of reach of the smell, till pete yelled out in vile chinook "muk-a-muk altay! bean on the table!" there were no beans and no table, of course, but that was pete's facetious way of putting it. further than sheep camp the horse-trail was quite too rocky and steep for the animals; so we tried to engage indians to take our freight for the remaining part of the distance across the pass. up to the time of our arrival, the regular price for packing from dyea to lake lindeman had been eleven cents a pound. for the transportation by horses over the first half of the distance--thirteen miles--we had paid five cents a pound, and we had expected to pay the indians six cents for the remainder of the trip. in the first place, however, it was difficult to gather the indians together, for they were off in bands in different parts of the neighboring country, on expeditions of their own; and when they arrived in sheep camp, with a bluster and a racket, they were so set up by the number of men that were waiting for their help that they took it into their heads to be in no hurry about working. finally they sent a spokesman who, with an insolence rather natural than assumed for the occasion, demanded nine cents per pound instead of six, for packing to lake lindeman. it was a genuine strike--the revolt of organized labor against helpless capital. being in a hurry to get ahead and fulfill our mission, we should doubtless have yielded; but there were many parties camped here besides ourselves--namely, all those who had been our fellow-sufferers on board the scrambler--and a general consultation being held among the gold-hunters, it was decided that the proposed increase of pay for labor would prove ruinous to their business. a committee representing these gentlemen waited on us and begged us not to yield to the strikers, in the carelessness of our hearts and our plethoric pocket-books, but to consider that in doing so they--the prospectors--must follow suit, the precedent being once established; whereas they were poor men, and could not afford the extra price. to this view of the case we agreed, considering ourselves as a part of the sheep camp community, rather than as an individual party; and the english traveller (who was likewise suspected of being overburdened with funds, and therefore likely to be careless with them) was also waited upon and persuaded to resist the demands. so everybody camped and waited, and was obstinate, for several days: not only the white men, but the siwash. by way of digression it may be mentioned that the word siwash is indiscriminately applied by the white men to all the alaskan natives, to whatever race--and there are many--they belong. the word therefore has no definite meaning, but corresponds roughly to the popular name of "nigger" for all very dark-skinned races, or "dago" for spaniards, portuguese, italians, greeks, turks, armenians, and a host of other black-haired, olive-skinned nations. the name has been said to be a corruption of the french word "sauvage,"--savage,--and this seems very likely. like the corresponding epithets cited, the word siwash has a certain familiar, facetious, and contemptuous value, and this may have been the idea which prompted its use just now, when speaking of the natives as strikers and opponents. at any rate, they took the situation in a careless, matter-of-fact way; cooked, ate, slept, borrowed our kettles, begged our tea and stole our sugar with utmost cheerfulness, and were apparently contented and happy. we white men likewise tried to conceal our restlessness, and chatted in each others' tents, admired the scenery, or went rambling up the steep mountain-sides in search of experiences, exercise, and rocks. some of us clambered over the huge boulders, each as big as a new england cottage, which had been brought here by glacial action, then up over the steep cliffs, wrenched and crumbling from the crushing of the same mighty force, supporting ourselves,--when the rocks gave way beneath our feet and went rattling down the cliff,--by the tough saplings that had taken root in the crevices, and grew out horizontally, or even inclined downwards, bent by continuous snowslides. so we reached the base of the glacier, where a sheer wall of clear blue ice rose to a height which we estimated at three or four hundred feet, back of which stretched a great uneven white ice field, as far as the eye could see, clear up till the view was lost in the mists of the upper mountains; an ice field seamed with great yawning crevasses, where the blue of the ice gleamed as streaks on the dead white. one morning we heard a yell from the siwash, and soon they came running over the little knoll which separated our camp from theirs, and began grabbing the articles that belonged to some of the miners. we were at a loss to know the meaning of what seemed at first to be a very unceremonious proceeding, but when we saw the miners, with many shamefaced glances at us, help the natives in the distribution of the material, we realized that these men had forsaken us and their resolutions; so greedy were they to reach the land of gold that they had gone to the natives and agreed to pay them the demanded rates on condition that they should have all the packers themselves, leaving none to us. we let these men and their natives go in peace, without even a reproach: less than a week afterwards we had the deep satisfaction of passing them on the trail, and even in lending them a hand in a series of little difficulties for which, in their haste, they had come unprepared. the veteran miner in alaska is a splendid, open-hearted, generous fellow; the newcomer, or "chicharko," is a thing to be avoided. after this we had to wait till the natives had got back from carrying the miners' supplies, and then we agreed, with what grace we could, to pay the price that the others had. the indians were quite a horde, capable of carrying in one trip all the supplies belonging to our party and that of the english traveller. since they were paid by the pound they vied in taking enormous loads; the largest carried was 161 pounds, but all the men's packs ranged from 125 to 150 pounds. women and half-grown boys carried packs of 100 pounds. it was a "stick" or interior indian, named at the mission _tom_, but originally possessed of a fearful and unpronounceable name, who carried the largest load. he was barely tolerated and was somewhat badgered by the chilkoots, hence he fled much to the society of the whites, and would squat near for hours, always smiling horribly when looked at; he claimed to be a chief among his own wretched people, and spent all his spare time in blackening his face, reserving rings around the eyes which he smeared with red ochre--having done which, he grinned ghastly approval of himself! pete started over the pass in advance of the party, to procure for us if possible a boat at lake lindeman. "dis is dirt time i gross pass," said pete. "virst dime i dake leedle pack--den i vos blayed out; nex' dime i dake leedle roll of clo'es--den i vos blayed out too, py chimney: dis dime i dake notting--den i vill be blayed out too!" the natives, after much shouting and confusion and wrangling, made up their packs about noon, and started out, we following; just before getting to snow-line they stopped in a place where a chaotic mass of boulders form a trifling shelter, grateful to wild beasts or wild men like these. here they deposited their loads, and with exasperating indifference composed themselves to sleep. we tried to persuade them to go on, but to no avail, and we discovered afterwards, as often happened to us in our dealing with the natives, that they were right. it was june, and yet the snow lay deep on all the upper parts of the pass; and in the long, warm days it became soft and mushy, making travel very difficult, especially with heavy packs. as soon as the sun went down behind the hills, however, the air became cool, and a hard crust formed, so that walking was much better. we left the natives and followed a trail which led among the boulders and then higher up the mountain, where many moccasined feet had left a deep path through the icy snow. we tramped onward, sometimes on hard ice, sometimes through soft snow, strung out in indian file, saying nothing, saving our breath for our lungs; at times the crust rang hollow to our tread, and beneath us we could hear torrents raging. it was about eight o'clock at night when we started, and the sun in the narrow valley had already gone down behind the high glaciers on the mountain-tops, even at this latitude and in the month of june; so the long northern twilight which is alaska's substitute for night in the summer months soon began to settle down upon us. at the same time the moisture from the snow which all day long had been lying in the sun, began cooling into mists, changeful and of different thicknesses; and in the dim light gave to everything a weird and unnatural aspect. even our fellow-travellers were distorted and magnified, now lengthwise, now sidewise, so that those above us were powerful-limbed giants, striding up the hill, while those behind us were flattened and broadened, and seemed straddling along as grotesquely as spiders. when we drew near and looked at each other we were inclined to laugh, but there was something in the pale-blue, ghastly color of the faces that made us stop, half-frightened. at twelve o'clock it was so dark that we could hardly follow the trail; then we saw a fire gleaming like a will-o'-the-wisp somewhere above us, and clambering up the steep rock which stuck out of the snow and overhung the trail, we saw a couple of figures crouching over a tiny blaze of twigs and smoking roots. it was a native and his "klutchman" or squaw; he turned out to be deaf-and-dumb, but made signs to us,--as we squatted ourselves around the fire,--that the night was dark, the trail dangerous, and that it would be better to wait till it grew a little lighter. so we kept ourselves warm for a half-hour or more by our exertions in tearing up roots for a fire: the fire itself being nothing more than a smoky, flary pile of wet fagots, hardly enough to warm our numbed fingers by. then a dim figure came toiling up to us. it was one of our packers, and he explained in broken, profane, and obscene english, of which he was very proud, (the foundation of his knowledge had been laid in the mission, and the trimmings, which were profuse and with the same idea many times repeated, like an art pattern, had been picked up from straggling whites) that the trail was good now. so we very gladly took up our march again. two of us soon got ahead of the guide and all the rest of our party, following the beaten track in the snow; after a while the ascent became very steep, as the last sheer declivity of the pass was reached, and we began to suspect that we had strayed from the right path, for although here was a track, we could find no footprints on it, but only grooves as if from things which had slid down. yet we decided not to go back, for we did not know how far we had strayed from the path, and the climbing was not so easy that we were anxious to do it twice. so we kept on upward, and the ascent soon became so steep that we were obliged to stop and kick footholds in the crust at every step. it was twilight again, but still foggy, and we could see neither up nor down, only what appeared to be a vast chasm beneath us, wherein great indistinct shapes were slowly shifting--an impression infinitely more grand and appalling than the reality. at any rate, it made us very careful in every step, for we had no mind that a misplaced foot should send us sliding down the grooves we were following. at last we gained the top, found here again the trail we had lost, and waited for the rest. around us, sticking out of the snow, were rocks, which appeared distorted and moving. it was the mists which moved past them, giving a deceptive effect. my companion suddenly exclaimed, "there's a bear!" on looking, my imagination gave the shape the same semblance, but on going towards it, it resolved itself very reluctantly into a rock, as if ashamed of its failure to "bluff." most grown-up people, as well as children, i fancy, are more or less afraid of the dark--where the uncertain evidence of the eyes can be shaped by the imagination into unnatural things. goethe must once have felt something like what faust expressed when he stood at night in one of the rugged hartz districts: "seh' die baã¼me hinter baã¼me, wie sie schnell vorã¼ber rã¼cken, und die klippen, die sich bã¼cken, und die langen felsennasen, wie sie schnarchen, wie sie blasen." presently the rest of the party came up from quite a different direction and with them a whole troop of packers. the main trail, from which we had strayed, was much longer, but not so steep; while the one we had followed was simply the mark of the articles which the packers were accustomed to send down from the summit to save carrying, while they themselves took the more circuitous route. on the interior side of the summit is a small lake with steep sides, which the miners have named crater lake, fancying from the shape that it had been formed by volcanic action; it has no such origin however, but occupies what is known as a glacial cirque or amphitheatre--a deep hollow carved out of the dioritic mountain mass by the powerful wearing action of a valley glacier. this lake was still frozen and we crossed on the ice, then followed down the valley of the stream which flowed from it and led into another small lake. there are several of these small bodies of water and connecting streams before one reaches lake lindeman, which is several miles long, and is the uppermost water of the yukon which is navigable for boats. our path was devious, following the packers, but always along this valley. we crossed and recrossed the streams over frail and reverberant arches, half ice, half snow, which, already broken away in places, showed foaming torrents beneath. as we descended in elevation, the ice on the little lakes became more and more rotten and the snow changed to slush, through which we waded knee deep for miles, sometimes putting a foot through the ice into the water beneath. we were all very tired by this time and were separated from one another by long distances, each silent, and travelling on his nerve. the indian packers, too, in spite of their long experience, were tired and out of temper; but the most pitiful sight of all was to see the women, especially the old ones, bending under crushing loads, dragging themselves by sheer effort at every step, groaning and stopping occasionally, but again driven forward by the men to whom they belonged. one could not interfere; it was a family matter; and as among white people, the woman would have resented the interference as much as the man. finally we came to a lake where the water was almost entirely open and were obliged to skirt along its rocky shores to where we found a brawling and rocky stream entering it, cutting us off. after a moment of vain glancing up and down in search of a ford, we took to the water bravely, floundering among the boulders on the stream's bottom, and supporting ourselves somewhat with sticks. afterwards we found a trail which led away from the lake high over the rocky hillside, where the rocks had been smoothed and laid bare by ancient glaciers, now vanished. here we found the remnants of a camp, left by some one who had recently gone before us; we inspected the corned beef cans lying about rather hungrily, thinking that something might have been left over. our only lunch since leaving sheep camp had been a small piece of chocolate and a biscuit. the biscuit possessed certain almost miraculous qualities, to which i ascribe our success in completing the trip and in arriving first among the travellers at lake lindeman. i myself was the concocter of this biscuit, but it was done in a moment of inspiration, and since i have forgotten certain mystic details, it probably could never be gotten together again. it was the first and last time that i have made biscuit in my life, and i did it simply for the purpose of instruction to the others, who were shockingly ignorant of such practical matters. we had brought a reflector with us for baking,--a metal arrangement which is set up in front of a camp-fire, and, from polished metallic surfaces, reflects the heat up and down, on to a pan of biscuit or bread, which is slid into the middle. these utensils as used in the lake superior region, that home of good wood-craft, are made of sheet iron, tinned; but thinking to get a lighter article, i had one constructed out of aluminum. this first and last trial with our aluminum reflector at sheep camp showed us that one of the peculiar properties of this metal is that it reflects heat but very little, but transmits it, almost as readily as glass does light. so when i had arrived at the first stage of my demonstration and had the reflector braced up in front of the fire, i found that the dough remained obstinately dough, while the heat passed through the reflector and radiated itself around about sheep camp. still i persisted, and after several hours of stewing in front of the fire, most of the water was evaporated from the dough, leaving a compact rubbery grey biscuit, as i termed it. i offered it for lunch and i ate one myself; no one else did, but i was rewarded by feeling a fullness all through the tramp, while the others were empty and famished. i also was sure that it gave me enormous strength and endurance; while some of the rest were unkind enough to suggest that the same high courage which led me up to the biscuit's mouth, figuratively speaking, kept me plugging away on the lake lindeman trail. we reached lake lindeman at about nine o'clock in the morning, and found pete and cooper already there. it was raining drearily and they had made themselves a shelter of poles and boughs under which they were lying contentedly enough, waiting until the packers should bring the tents. in a very short time after we had arrived all the natives were at hand, and setting down their packs demanded money. they could not be induced to accept bills, because they could not tell the denomination of them, and would as soon take a soap advertisement as a hundred-dollar note; they dislike gold, because they get so small a quantity of it in comparison with silver. like the indians of the united states, the alaskans formerly used wampum largely as a medium of exchange--small, straight, horn-shaped, rather rare shells, which were strung on thongs--but when the trading companies began shipping porcelain wampum into the country the natives soon learned the trick and stopped the use of it. i have in my possession specimens of this porcelain wampum, which i got from the agent of one of the large trading companies on the yukon. silver is now the favorite currency, whether or not on the basis of sound political economy; and each particular section has often a preference for some special coin, such as a quarter, ("two bits," as it is called in the language of the west coast) a half-dollar or a dollar. where the natives have had to deal only with quarters, you cannot buy anything for half-dollars, except for nearly double the price you would pay in quarters; while dimes, however large the quantity, would probably be refused entirely. [illustration: alaskan indians and house.] the chilkoots, however, on account of their residence on the coast and consequent contact with the whites, had become more liberal in their views as regarded denomination of silver, but drew the line at bimetalism, and had no faith whatsoever in the united states as the fulfiller of promises to redeem greenbacks in silver coin. so there was some trouble in paying them satisfactorily; and after they were paid they came back, begging for a little flour, a little tea, etc., and keeping up the process with unwearied ardor till the supply was definitely shut off. the toughness of these people is well shown by the fact that when they had rested an hour and had cooked themselves a little food and drunk a little tea, they departed over the trail again for sheep camp, although they had made the same journey as the white men, who were all exhausted, and had, in addition, carried loads of as high as 160 pounds over the whole of the rough trail of thirteen miles. when affairs were settled we pitched our tents, rolled into our blankets, and for the next twenty hours slept. chapter iii. the lakes and the yukon to forty mile. upon reaching lake lindeman, we found a number of other parties encamped,--men who had come over the trail before us, and had been delaying a short time, for different reasons. from one of these parties pete had been lucky enough to buy a boat already built, so that we did not have to wait and build one ourselves--a job that would have consumed a couple of weeks. the boat was after the dory pattern, but sharp at both ends, made of spruce, lap-streaked and unpainted, with the seams calked and pitched; about eighteen feet long, and uncovered. during the trip later we decided that it ought to be christened, and so we mixed some soot and bacon-grease for paint, applied it hot to the raw, porous wood, and inscribed in shaky letters the words "_skookum pete_," as a compliment to our pilot. _skookum_ is a chinook word signifying strength, courage, and other excellent qualities necessary for a native, a frontiersman, or any other dweller in the wilderness--qualities which were conspicuous in pete. pete was overcome with shame on reading the legend, however, and straightway erased his name, so that she was simply the skookum. and skookum she proved herself, in the two thousand miles we afterwards travelled, even though she sprung a leak occasionally or became obstinate when being urged up over a rapid. it may be observed that the chinook, to which this word belongs, is not a language, but a jargon, composed of words from many native american and also from many european tongues. it sprung up as a sort of universal language, which was used by the traders of the hudson bay company in their intercourse with the natives, and is consequently widely known, but is poor in vocabulary and expression. there were several boats ready to start, craft of all models and grades of workmanship, variously illustrating the efforts of the cowboy, the clerk, or the lawyer, at ship-carpentry. several of us got off together in the morning, our boat carrying four, and the english traveller's boat the same number, for he had taken into his party the priest whom we had met on the scrambler. this gentleman, with a number of miners and a newspaper reporter, had been unlucky enough to fall into the trap of a certain transportation company, which had a very prettily furnished office in seattle. this office was the big end of the company. as one went north towards the region where the company was supposed to be doing its transportation, it shrunk till nothing was left but a swindle. they promised for a certain sum of money to transport supplies and outfits over the pass, and to have the entire expedition in charge of an experienced man, who would relieve one of all worry and bother; and after transportation across the pass, to put their passengers on the company's steamers, which would carry them to the gold fields. even at juneau the "experienced man" who was to take the party through, and who was a high officer of the company, kept up the ridiculous pretences and succeeded in obtaining a number of passengers for the trip. when these men learned later, however, that the guide had never yet been further than juneau; that he had no means of transporting freight over the pass; that the steamers existed only in fancy; and finally, when opportunity to hire help offered, that the leader had no funds, so that they were obliged to do all the work themselves, in order to move along: when they learned all this they were naturally a disgusted set of men, but having now given away their money, most of them decided to stick together till the diggings were reached. the priest, however, who was in a hurry, became nervous when he saw different parties leaving the rapid and elegant transportation company in the rear, and effected a separation. when we left sheep camp, the manager was trying to cajole his passengers into carrying their own packs to the summit, even going so far as to take little loads himself--"just for exercise," as he airily informed us. he was an englishman, of aristocratic tendencies, with an awe-inspiring acquaintance with titles. "you know lord dudson dudley, of course," he would begin, fixing one with his eye as if to hypnotize; "his sister, you remember, made such a row by her flirtation with sir jekson jekby.--never heard of them?--humph!" and then with a look which seemed to say "what kind of a blarsted philistine is this?" he would retreat to his own camp-fire. we sailed down lake lindeman with a fair brisk wind, using our tent-fly braced against a pole, for a sail. the distance is only four or five miles, so that the lower end of the lake was reached in an hour. a mountain sheep was sighted on the hillside above us, soon after starting, and a long-range shot with the rifle was tried at it, but the animal bounded away. at the lower end of this first of the yukon navigable lakes there is a stream, full of little falls and rapids, which connects with lake bennett, a much larger body of water. according to pete, the boat could not run these rapids, so we began the task of "lining" her down. with a long pole shod with iron, especially brought along for such work, pete stood in the bow or stern, as the emergency called for, planting the pole on the rocks which stuck out of the water and so shoving and steering the boat through an open narrow channel, while we three held a long line and scrambled along the bank or waded in the shallow water. we had put on long rubber boots reaching to the hip and strapped to our belts, so at first our wading was not uncomfortable. on account of the roar of the water we could not hear pete's orders, but could see his signals to "haul in," or "let her go ahead." on one difficult little place he manoeuvered quite a while, getting stuck on a rock, signalling us to pull back, and then trying again. finally he struck the right channel, and motioned energetically to us to go ahead. we spurted forward, waddling clumsily, and the foremost man stepped suddenly into a groove where the water was above his waist. ugh! it was icy, but he floundered through, half swimming, half wading, dragging his great water-filled boots behind him like iron weights; and the rest followed. we felt quite triumphant and heroic when we emerged, deeming this something of a trial: we did not know that the time would come when it would be the ordinary thing all day long, and would become so monotonous that all feelings of novelty would be lost in a general neutral tint of bad temper and rheumatism. on reaching shallow water the weight of the water-filled rubber boots was so great that we could no longer navigate among the slippery rocks, so we took turns going-ashore and emptying them. there was a smooth round rock with steep sides, glaring in the sun; on this we stretched ourselves head down, so that the water ran out of our boots and trickled in cold little streams down our backs; then we returned to our work. before undertaking to line the skookum through the rapids we had taken out a large part of the load and put it on shore, in order to lighten the boat, and also to save our "grub" in case our boat was capsized. the next task was to carry this over the half-mile portage. packing is about the hardest and most disliked work that a pioneer has to do, and yet every one that travels hard and well in alaska and similar rough countries must do it _ad nauseam_. in such remote and unfinished parts of the world transportation comes back to the original and simple phase,--carrying on one's back. the railroad and the steamboat are for civilization, the wheeled vehicle for the inhabited land where there are roads, the camel for the desert, the horse for the plains and where trails have been cut, but for a large part of alaska nature's only highways are the rivers, and when the water will not carry the burdens the explorer must. in a properly-constructed pack-sack, the weight is carried partly by the shoulders but mainly by the neck, the back being bent and the neck stretched forward till the load rests upon the back and is kept from slipping by the head strap, which is nearly in line with the rigid neck. an astonishing amount can be carried in this way with practice,--for half a mile or so, very nearly one's own weight. getting up and down with such a load is a work of art, which spoils the temper and wrenches the muscles of the beginner. having got into the strap he finds himself pinned to the ground in spite of his backbone-breaking efforts to rise, so he must learn to so sit down in the beginning that he can tilt the load forward on his back, get on his hands and knees and then elevate himself to the necessary standing-stooping posture; or he must lie down flat and roll over on his face, getting his load fairly between his shoulders, and then work himself up to his hands and knees as before. sometimes, if the load is heavy, the help of another must be had to get an upright position, and then the packer goes trudging off, red and sweating and with bulging veins. by the time we had carried our outfits over the portage, we were ready for supper, and after that for a sleep. we pitched no tent--we were too tired, and the blue sky and the still shining sun looked very friendly--so we rolled in our blankets and slumbered. there were other craft than ours at lake bennett,--belonging to parties who had come over before us, and who had not yet started. the most astonishing thing was a small portable sawmill, which had been pulled across the chilkoot pass in the winter, over the snow and ice; and the limited means of communication in this country are well shown by the fact that no news of any such mill was to be had anywhere along the route. men went over the chilkoot pass into the interior, but rarely any came back that way. among the gold hunters was a solitary dutchman, a pathetic, desperate, mild-mannered sort of an adventurer, who had built himself a boat like a wood-box in model and construction, square, lop-sided, and leaky; but he started bravely down lake bennett, paddling, with a rag of a square-sail braced against a pole. we pitied, admired, and laughed at him, but many were the doubts expressed as to whether he could reach the diggings in his cockle-shell. then there was a large scow, also frailly built; this contained several tons of outfit, and a party of seven or eight men and one woman. they were the parasites of the mining camp, all ready, with smuggled whisky and faro games--wein, weib, und gesang--to relieve the miners of some of their gold-dust: and i am told that the manager of the expedition brought out $100,000 two years later. we all got away, one after the other. there was a stiff fair wind blowing down the lake, which soon increased to a gale, and the waves became very rough. the lake is narrow and fjord-like, walled in by high mountains which often rise directly from the shores. lakes like this all through alaska are naturally subject to frequent and violent gales, since the deep mountain valleys form a kind of chimney, up and down which the currents of air rush to the frosty snowy mountains from the warmer lowlands, or in the opposite direction. the further we went the harder the wind blew, and the rougher became the water, so that when about half-way down we made a landing to escape a heavy squall. after dinner, it seemed from our snug little cove that the wind had abated, and we put out again. on getting well away from the sheltering shore we found it rougher than ever; but while we were at dinner we had seen the scow go past, its square bow nearly buried in foaming water, and had seen it apparently run ashore on the opposite side of the lake, some miles further down. once out, therefore, we steered for the place where the scow had been beached, for the purpose of giving aid if any were necessary. on the run over we shipped water repeatedly over both bow and stern, and sometimes were in imminent danger of swamping, but by skillful managing we gained the shelter of a little nook about half a mile from the open beach where the scow was lying, and landed. we then walked along the shore to the scow, and found its passengers all right, they having beached voluntarily, on account of the roughness of the water. however, we had had enough navigation for one day, so we did not venture out again. presently another little boat came scudding down the lake through the white, frothy water, and shot in alongside the skookum. it was a party of miners--the young irishman whom i had overtaken on the trail to sheep camp, and his three "pardners." it was not an ideal spot where we all camped, being simply a steep rocky slope at the foot of cliffs. when the time came to sleep we had difficulty in finding places smooth enough to lie down comfortably, but finally all were scattered around here and there in various places of concealment among the rocks. i had cleared a space close under a big boulder, of exactly my length and breadth (which does not imply any great labor), and with my head muffled in the blankets, was beginning to doze, when i heard stealthy footsteps creeping toward me. as i lay, these sounds were muffled and magnified in the marvellous quiet of the alaskan night (although the sun was still shining), so that i could not judge of the size and the distance of the animal. soon it got quite close to me, and i could hear it scratching at something; then it seemed to be investigating my matches, knife and compass. finally, wide-awake, and somewhat startled, i sat up suddenly and threw my blanket from my face, and looked for the marauding animal. i found him--in the shape of a saucy little grey mouse, that stared at me in amazement for a moment, and then scampered into his hole under the boulder. as i had no desire to have the impudent little fellow lunching on me while i slept, i plugged the hole with stones before i lay down again. some of the same animals came to visit schrader in his bedchamber, and nibbled his ears so that they were sore for some time.[1] as the gale continued all the next day without abatement, we profited by the enforced delay to climb the high mountain which rose precipitously above us. and apropos of this climb, it is remarkable what difference one finds in the appearance of a bit of country when simply surveyed from a single point and when actually travelled over. especially is this true in mountains. broad slopes which appear to be perfectly easy to traverse are in reality cut up by narrow and deep canyons, almost impossible to cross; what seems to be a trifling bench of rock, half a mile up the mountain, grows into a perpendicular cliff a hundred feet high before one reaches it; and pretty grey streaks become gulches filled with great angular rock fragments, so loosely laid one over the other that at each careful step one is in fear of starting a mighty avalanche, and of being buried under rock enough to build a city. owing to difficulties like these it was near supper-time when we gained the top of the main mountain range. as far as the eye could see in all directions, there rose a wilderness of barren peaks, covered with snow; while in one direction lay a desolate, lifeless table-land, shut in by high mountains. below and near us lay gulches and canyons of magnificent depth, and the blue waters of one of the arms of lake bennett appeared, just lately free from ice. above, rose a still higher peak, steep, difficult of access, and covered with snow; this the lateness of the hour prevented us from attempting to climb. next day and the next the wind was as high as ever; but the waiting finally became too tedious, and we started out, the four miners having preceded us by a half an hour. once out of the shelter of the projecting point, we found the gale very strong and the chop disagreeable. we squared off and ran before the wind for the opposite side of the lake, driving ahead at a good rate under our little rag of a sail. although the boat was balanced as evenly as possible, every minute or two we would take in water, sometimes over the bow, sometimes in the stern, sometimes amidships. i have in my mind a very vivid picture of that scene: wiborg in the stern, steering intently and carefully; goodrich and schrader forward, sheets in hand, attending to the sail; and myself stretched flat on my face, in order not to make the boat top-heavy, and bailing out the water with a frying-pan. on nearing the lower shore we noticed that the boat containing the miners had run into the breakers, and presently one of the men came running along the beach, signaling to us. fearing that they were in trouble, we made shift to land, although it was no easy matter on this exposed shore; and we then learned that they had kept too near the beach, had drifted into the breakers and had been swamped, but had all safely landed. three of our party went to give assistance in hauling their boat out of the water, while i remained behind to fry the bacon for dinner. after dinner we concluded to wait again before attempting the next stage; so we picked out soft places in the sand and slumbered. when we awoke we found the lake perfectly smooth and calm, and lost no time in getting under way. on this day we depended for our motive power solely on our oars, and we found the results so satisfactory that we kept up the practice hundreds of miles. below lake bennett came tagish lake, beautiful and calm. its largest fjord-like arm is famous for its heavy gales, whence it has been given the name of "windy arm"; but as we passed it we could hardly distinguish the line of division between the mountains in the air and those reflected in the lake, so completely at rest was the water. at the lower part, where we camped, we found the first inhabitants since leaving the coast, natives belonging to the tagish tribe. they are a handful of wretched, half-starved creatures, who scatter in the summer season for hunting and fishing, but always return to this place, where they have constructed rude wooden habitations for winter use. we bought here a large pike, which formed an agreeable change from bacons, beans, and slapjacks. while camped at this place we met an old man and his two sons, who had brought horses into the country some months before, with some crazy idea of taking up land for farming purposes, or of getting gold. the old man had been taken sick, and all three were now on their way out, having abandoned their horses on the hootalinqua. all three were thin and worn, and agreed if they ever got out of the country they would not come back. the old man begged for a little tea, which we supplied him, together with a few other things; he insisted on our taking pay for them, with the pathetic pride of a man broken in health and fortune, but we understood the pioneer custom well enough to know we should give no offence by refusing. after passing out of this lake we entered another, appropriately called by the miners "mud lake"; it is very shallow, with muddy bottom and shores. here we found camping disagreeable, for on account of the shallowness we could not bring our heavily laden boat quite to the shore, but were obliged to wade knee deep in soft mud for a rod or two before finding even moderately solid ground. about this time we experienced the first sharp taste of the terrible alaskan mosquito--or it might be more correct to reverse the statement, and say that the mosquitoes had their first taste of us. at the lower end of tagish lake they suddenly attacked us in swarms, and remained with us steadily until near the time of our departure from the territory. we had heard several times of the various hardships to be encountered in alaska, but, as is often the case, we found that these accounts had left a rather unduly magnified image of the difficulties in our imaginations, as compared with our actual experiences. in this generalization the mosquito must be excepted. i do not think that any description or adjective can exaggerate the discomfort and even torture produced by these pests, at their worst, for they stand peerless among their kind, so far as my experience goes, and that of others with whom i have spoken, for wickedness unalloyed. we were driven nearly frantic when they attacked us and quickly donned veils of netting, fastened around the hat and buttoned into the shirt, and gauntleted cavalry gloves; but still the heat of rowing and the warmth of the sun made the stings smart till we could hardly bear it. from time to time i glanced at pete, who sat in the stern, steering with a paddle, his face and hands unprotected, his hat pushed back, trolling his favorite song. "and none was left to tell me, tom, and few was left to know who played upon the village green, just twenty year ago!" i admired him beyond expression. "how long," thought i, "does one have to stay in alaska before one gets so indifferent to mosquitoes as this? or is it simply the phlegm of the norwegian--magnificent in mosquito time?" just then pete broke in his song and began a refrain of curses in norwegian and english and some other languages--all apropos of mosquitoes. he averred emphatically that never--no, never--had he seen mosquitoes quite so disagreeable. this lasted about five minutes; then he settled down to a calm again. i perceived that men's tempers may be something like geysers--some keep bubbling hot water continually, while others, like pete's, keep quiet for a while and then explode violently. it seems strange to many that a country like alaska, sub-arctic in climate, should be so burdened with a pest which we generally associate with hot weather and tropical swamps. but the long warm days of summer in these high latitudes seem to be extraordinarily favorable to all kinds of insect life--mosquitoes, gnats, and flies--which harbor in the moss and dense underbrush. other countries similarly situated, such as the region between the gulf of bothnia and the arctic ocean--northern finland--which is north of the arctic circle, are also pestered with mosquitoes during the summer months. in alaska the mosquitoes are so numerous that they occupy a large part of men's attention, and form the subject for much conversation as long as they remain--and they are astonishing stayers, appearing before the snow is gone and not leaving until the nights grow comparatively long and frosty. they flourish as well in cool weather as in hot, thawing cheerfully out after a heavy frost and getting to work as if to make up for lost time. we were able to distinguish at least three species: a large one like those met at the seaside resorts, which buzzes and buzzes and buzzes; then a smaller one that buzzes a little but also bites ferociously; and, worst of all, little striped fellows who go about in great crowds. these last never stop to buzz, but come straight for the intruder on a bee-line, stinging him almost before they reach him--and their sting is particularly irritating. many stories have been told of the mosquitoes in alaska; one traveller tells how bears are sometimes killed by these pests, though this story is probably an exaggeration. but men who are travelling must have veils and gloves as protection against them. even the natives wrap their heads in skins or cloth, and are overjoyed at any little piece of mosquito-netting they can get hold of. with the best protection, however, one cannot help being tormented and worn out. we always slept with gloves and veils on, and with our heads wrapped as tightly as possible, yet the insects would crawl through the crevices of the blankets and sting through the clothes, or where the veil pressed against the face,--not one, but hundreds--so that one slept but fitfully and woke to find his face bloody and smarting, and would at once make for the cold river water, bathing hands and face to relieve the pain, and dreading to keep his veil up long enough to gobble his breakfast. the climate of this interior country is dry, and the rains infrequent. we worked so long during the day that we seldom took the trouble to pitch a tent at night, but lay down with our backs against some convenient log, so that the mosquitoes had a good chance at us. even in the day, when protected by veil and gloves, i have been so irritated by them as to run until breathless to relieve my excitement, and i can readily believe, as has been told, that a man lost in the underbrush without protection, would very soon lose his reason and his life. as soon as the country is cleared up or burned over, the scourge becomes much less, so that in the mining camps the annoyance is comparatively slight. mosquitoes are popularly supposed to seek and feed upon men, while the reverse is true. they avoid men, swarming most in thick underbrush and swamps which are difficult of access, and disappearing almost entirely as soon as the axe and the plow and other implements in the hands of man invade their solitudes. out of mud lake we floated into the river again, and slipped easily down between the sandbanks. ducks and geese were plentiful along here, and we practised incessantly on them with the rifle, without, however, doing any noticeable execution. on the second day we knew we must be near the famous canyon of the lewes; and one of our party was put on watch, in order that we might know its whereabouts before the swift current should sweep us into it, all heavily laden as we were. the rest of us rowed and steered, and admired the beautiful tints of the hills, which now receded from the river, now came close to it. presently we heard a gentle snore from the lookout who was comfortably settled among the flour sacks in the bow; this proved to us that our confidence had been misplaced, and all hands became immediately alert. soon after, we noticed a bit of red flannel fluttering from a tree projecting over the bank, doubtless a part of some traveller's shirt sacrificed in the cause of humanity; and by the time we had pulled in to the shore we could see the waters of the river go swirling and roaring into a sudden narrow canyon with high, perpendicular walls. we found the parties of miners already landed, and presently, as we waited on the bank and reconnoitered, danlon's party came up, and not long after, the barge, so that we were about twenty in all. wiborg, and danlon's guide, cooper, were the only ones that had had experience in this matter, so all depended on their judgment, and waited to see the results of their efforts before risking anything themselves. in former years all travellers made a portage around this very difficult place, hauling their boats over the hill with a rude sort of a windlass; but a man having been accidentally sucked into the canyon came out of the other end all right, which emboldened others. in this case wiborg and cooper decided that the canyon could be run, although the water was very high and turbulent; and they thought best to run the boats through themselves. our own boat was selected to be experimented with; most of the articles that were easily damageable by water were taken out, leaving perhaps about eight hundred pounds. i went as passenger sitting in the bow, while the two old frontiersmen managed paddles and oars. rowing out from the shore we were immediately sucked into the gorge, and went dashing through at a rate which i thought could not be less than twenty miles an hour. so great is the body of water confined between these perpendicular walls, and so swift is the stream, that its surface becomes convex, being considerably higher in the centre of the channel than on the sides. waves rushing in every direction are also generated, forming a puzzling chop. two or three of these waves presently boarded us, so that i was thoroughly wet, and then came a broad glare of sunlight as we emerged from the first half of the canyon into a sort of cauldron which lies about in its centre. here we were twisted about by eddying currents for a few seconds, and then precipitated half sidewise into the canyon again. the latter half turned out to be the rougher part, and our bow dipped repeatedly into the waves, till i found myself sitting in water, and the bow, where most of the water remained, sagged alarmingly. it seemed as if another ducking would sink us. this fortunately we did not get, but steered safely through the final swirl to smooth water. during all this trip i had not looked up once, although as we shot by we heard faintly a cheer from the rocks above, where our companions were. next day, after a night made almost unbearable by mosquitoes, we rose to face the difficulties of white horse rapids, which lie below the canyon proper, and are still more formidable. here the river contracts again, and is confined between perpendicular walls of basalt. the channel is full of projecting rocks, so that the whole surface is broken, and there are many strong conflicting currents and eddies. at the end of these rapids, which extend for a quarter of a mile or so, is a narrow gorge in the rocks, through which the whole volume of water is forced. this is said to be only twenty or thirty feet wide, although at the time of our passing the water was sufficiently high to flow over the top of the enclosing walls, thus concealing the actual width of the chute. through this the water plunges at a tremendous velocity--probably thirty miles an hour--forming roaring, foaming, tossing, lashing waves which somehow make the name white horse seem appropriate. above the beginning of the rapid we unloaded our boat, and carefully lowered it down by ropes, keeping it close to the shore, and out of the resistless main current. after having safely landed it, with considerable trouble, below the chute, we carried our outfit (about twelve hundred pounds) to the same point. danlon's boat and that belonging to the miners were safely gotten through in the same way, all hands helping in turn. when it came to the scow, it was the general opinion that it would be impossible to lower it safely, for its square shape gave the current such a grip that it seemed as if no available strength of rope or man could hold out against it. as carrying the boat was out of the question, the only alternative was to boldly run it through the rapids, in the middle of the channel; and this naturally hazardous undertaking was rendered more difficult by the frail construction of the scow, which had been built of thin lumber by unskilled hands. the scow's crew did not care to make the venture themselves, but finally prevailed upon wiborg and cooper to make the trial. [illustration: shooting the white horse rapids.] reflecting that at any time i might be placed in similar difficulties, in this unknown country, and thrown upon my own resources, i resolved to accompany them, for the sake of finding out how the thing was done; but i was ruled out of active service by wiborg, who, however, consented finally to my going along as passenger. two of the scow's own crew were drafted to act as oarsmen, and we pushed out, cooper steering, and wiborg in the bow, iron-shod pole in hand, fending off from threatening rocks; and in a second we were dancing down the boiling rapids and tossing hither and thither like a cork. i sat facing the bow, opposite the oarsmen, who tugged frantically away, white as death; behind me cooper's paddle flashed and twisted rapidly, as we dodged by rocks projecting from the water, sometimes escaping only by a few inches, where a collision would have smashed us to chips. the rest of the party, waiting below the chute, said that sometimes they saw only the bottom of the scow, and sometimes looked down upon it as if from above. as we neared the end, cooper's skillful paddle drove us straight for the centre, where the water formed an actual fall; this central part was the most turbulent, but the safest, for on either side, a few feet away, there was danger of grazing the shallow underlying rocks. as we trembled on the brink, i looked up and saw our friends standing close by, looking much concerned. a moment later there was a dizzying plunge, a blinding shower of water, a sudden dashing, too swift for observation, past rock walls, and then wiborg let out an exultant yell--we were safe. at that instant one of the oarsmen snapped his oar, an accident which would have been serious a moment before. on the shore below the rapids we found flour-sacks, valises, boxes and splintered boards, mementoes of poor fellows less lucky than ourselves. we camped at the mouth of the tahkeena river that night, and arrived the next day at lake labarge, the last and longest of the series. when we reached it, at one o'clock, the water was calm and smooth; and although it was nearly forty miles across, we decided to keep on without stopping till we reached the other side, for fear of strong winds such as had delayed us on lake bennett. danlon's party concluded to do the same, and so we rowed steadily all night, after having rowed all day. about two o'clock in the morning a favorable wind sprung up suddenly, and increased to a gale. at this time we became separated from the other boats, which kept somewhat close to the shore, while we, with our tiny sail, stood straight across the lake for the outlet. as soon as we stopped rowing i could not help falling asleep, although much against my will, for our position was neither comfortable nor secure; and thus i dozed and woke half a dozen times before landing. on reaching the shore we found difficulty in sleeping on account of the swarms of hungry mosquitoes, so we soon loaded up again. we had got caribou meat from some people whom we passed half-way down lake labarge; and the next day we saw a moose on an island, but the current swept us by before we could get a shot at him. large game, on the whole, however, was very scarce along this route. the weather was warm and pleasant after leaving lake labarge, and there were no serious obstructions. the swift current bombarded the bottom of the boat with grains of sand, making a sound like a continual frying. "look out!" pete would say. "the devil is frying his fat for us!" we travelled easily sixty or eighty miles a day, floating with the current and rowing. danlon's party, which we had lost sight of on lake labarge, reached us a couple of days afterwards, having pulled night and day to catch up. they were grey and speckled with fatigue and told us of having decided to leave one boat (they came with only one of the two they had started in) at lake labarge, and also of leaving some of their provisions. they had unfortunately forgotten to keep any sugar--could we lend them some? we produced the sugar and smiled knowingly; a few days later we ran across the solitary dutchman, who had engineered his wood-box thus far, and he told us the whole story: how when the boats got near the shore one was swamped in shallow water, losing most of its cargo, and how the occupants had to stand in cold water the rest of the night, finally getting to shore and to rights again. the priest had been naming the camps after the letters of the greek alphabet, and the night on labarge should have been camp rho; and this was appropriate as we rowed nearly all night. from here the journey was comparatively easy. the skies were always clear and blue, and the stream had by this time increased to a lordly river, growing larger by continual accessions of new tributaries. it is dotted with many small islands, which are covered with a dense growth of evergreen trees. on the side of the valley are often long smooth terraces, perfectly carved and smoothly grassed, so as to present an almost artificial aspect. from this sort of a country are sudden changes to a more bold and picturesque type, so at one time the river flows swiftly through high gates of purple rock rising steeply for hundreds of feet, and in a few moments more emerges into a wide low valley. the cliffs are sometimes carved into buttresses or pinnacles, which overlook the walls, and appear to form part of a gigantic and impregnable castle, on the top of which the dead spruces stand out against the sky like spires and flag-staves. usually on one side or the other of the river is low fertile land, where grows a profusion of shrubs and flowers. in the mellow twilight, which lasts for two or three hours in the middle of the night, one can see nearly as far and as distinctly as by day, but everything takes on an unreal air. this is something like a beautiful sunset effect further south, but is evenly distributed over all the landscape. at about ten o'clock the coloring becomes exquisite, when the half-light brings out the violets, the purples, and various shades of yellow and brown in the rocks, in contrast to the green of the vegetation. [illustration: talking it over.] we had some difficulty in finding suitable camping-places in this country. one night i remember, we ran fifteen miles after our usual camping-hour, with cliffs on one side of the river and low thickets on the other. three times we landed on small islands, in a tangle of vines and roses; and as many times we were driven off by the innumerable mosquitoes. at last we found a strip of shore about ten feet wide, between the water and the thickets, sloping at a considerable angle; and there we made shift to spend the night. there are two places below the white horse rapids where the channel is so narrowed or shallowed that rapids are formed. at the first of these, called the "five finger rapids," the river is partially blocked by high islets, which cut up the stream in several portions. although the currents in each of these "fingers" is rapid, and the water rough, yet we found no difficulty in running through without removing any part of the load, although one of the boats shipped a little water. when we arrived at the second place, which is called the "rink rapids," and is not far below the five fingers, we were relieved to find that owing to the fullness of the river, the rough water, which in this case is caused by the shallowing of the stream, was smoothed down, and we went through, close to the shore, with no more trouble than if we had been floating down a lake. during the whole trip the country through which we passed was singularly lonely and uninhabited. after leaving the few huts on tagish lake, which i have mentioned, we saw a few indians in a summer camp on lake labarge; and this was all until we got to the junction of the lewes and pelly rivers, over three hundred miles from tagish lake. at pelly we found a log trading-post, with a single white man in charge, and a few indians. there were also three miners, who had met with misfortune, and were disconsolate enough. they had started up pelly river with a two years' outfit, intending to remain and prospect for that period, but at some rapid water their boat had been swamped and all their provisions lost. they had managed to burn off logs enough to build a raft, and in that way had floated down the river to the post, living in the meantime on some flour which they had been lucky enough to pick up after the wreck. although there are very few people in the country, one is continually surprised at first by perceiving solitary white tents standing on some prominent point or cliff which overlooks the river. at first this looks very cheerful, and we sent many a hearty hail across the river to such places; but our calls were never answered, for these are not the habitations of the living but of the dead. inside of each of these tents, which are ordinarily made of white cloth, though sometimes of woven matting, is a dead indian, and near him is laid his rifle, snowshoes, ornaments and other personal effects. i do not think the custom of leaving these articles at the grave implies any belief that they will be used by the dead man in another world, but simply signifies that he will have no more use for the things which were so dear to him in life--just as among ourselves, articles which have been used by dear friends are henceforth laid aside and no longer used. these dwellings of the dead are always put in prominent positions, commanding as broad and fair a view as can be obtained. at pelly we saw several indian graves that were surrounded by hewn palings, rudely and fantastically painted. when we reached the white river we found it nearly as broad as the yukon. the waters of the two rivers are separated by a distinct line at their confluence and for some distance further down, the yukon water being dark and the other milky, whence the name--white river. all over this country is a thin deposit of white dust-like volcanic ash, covering the surface, but on white river this ash is very thick, and the river flowing through it carries away enough to give the waters continually a milky appearance. as we approached white river we beheld what seemed a most extraordinary cloud hanging over its valley. it was a solid compact mass of white, like some great ice-flower rising from the hills, reminding one as one explored it through field-glasses, in its snowy vastness and unevenness, of some great glacier. the clouds were in rounded bunches and each bunch was crenulated. below was a mass of smoke with a ruddy reflection as if from some great fire, and smaller snowy compact clouds came up at intervals, as if gulped out from some crater. this we thought might be the fabled volcano of the white river, but on getting nearer it seemed to be probably a forest-fire. although there are no railway trains to set fires with their sparks, nowhere do fires start more easily than in alaska, for the ground is generally covered deep with a peat-like dry moss, which ignites when one lights a fire above and smoulders so persistently that it can hardly be extinguished, creeping along under the roots of the living moss and breaking out into flame on opportunity. the fourth of july was celebrated by shooting at a mark; and that night we had a true blessing, for we camped on a little bare sandspit on an island, where the wind was brisk and kept the mosquitoes away. these insects cannot stand against a breeze, but are whisked away by it like the imps of darkness at the first breath of god's morning light, as we have read in fairy stories. the freedom was delicious, so we just stretched ourselves in the sand, and slept ten hours. we were awakened by a violent plunge in the water and stuck our heads out of the blankets in a hurry, thinking it was a moose; but it turned out to be only one of our party celebrating the day after the fourth by a bath. at sixty mile we found an indian trading-post, located on an island in the river, and kept by jo la du, a lonely trader who a year afterwards became rich and famous from his participation in the klondike rush. he had no idea of this when we saw him, but shook hands with us shyly and silently, a man whom years had made more accustomed to the indian than to the white man. the name sixty mile is applied to a small river here, which is sixty miles from old fort reliance, an ancient trading post belonging to the hudson bay company. the hardy and intrepid agents of the company were the first white men to explore the interior of alaska. the lower yukon in the vicinity of the delta was explored by the russians in 1835 to 1838, and the river was called by the eskimo name of kwikpuk or kwikpak,--the great river: in 1842-3 the russian lieutenant zagoskin explored as far as the nowikakat. but the upper yukon was first explored by members of the hudson bay company. in 1846 a trader named bell crossed from the mackenzie to the porcupine, and so down to the yukon, to which he first applied the name by which it is now known: it is an indian, not eskimo, word. previous to this, in 1840, robert campbell, of the hudson bay company, crossed from the stikeen to the pelly and so down to its junction with the lewes or upper yukon. at the point of the junction campbell built fort selkirk, which was afterwards pillaged and burned by the indians, and remained deserted till harper built the present post, close to the site of the old one. forty miles below old fort reliance is forty mile creek, so that the mouths of forty mile and sixty mile are a hundred miles apart. the river by this time is a mile wide in places, and filled with low wooded islands: its water is muddy and the eddying currents give the appearance of boiling. we found no one on the site of old fort reliance, and we used the fragments of the old buildings lying around in the grass for fire-wood. it was practically broad daylight all night, for although the sun went down behind the hills for an hour or two, yet it was never darker than a cloudy day. the day of leaving fort reliance we came to the junction of the klondike or thronduc river with the yukon, and found here a village of probably two hundred indians, but no white men. the indians were living in log cabins: on the shore numbers of narrow and shallow birch canoes were drawn up, very graceful and delicate in shape, and marvellously light, weighing only about thirty pounds, but very difficult for any one but an indian to manoeuvre. yet the natives spear salmon from these boats. at the time we were there most of the male indians were stationed along the river, eagerly watching for the first salmon to leap out of the water, for about this time of the year the immigration of these fish begins, and they swim up the rivers from the sea thousands of miles, to place their spawn in some quiet creek. on account of the large number of salmon who turn aside to enter the stream here, the indians called it thronduc or _fish-water_; this is now corrupted by the miners into klondike, the indian village is replaced by the frontier city of dawson, and the fame of the klondike is throughout the world. [illustration: alaska humpbacked salmon, male and female.] the trip of forty miles from fort reliance to forty mile post was made in the morning, and was enlivened by an exciting race between our boat and that belonging to danlon. we had kept pretty closely together on all our trip, passing and repassing one another, but our boat was generally ahead; and when we both encamped at fort reliance, the other party resolved to outwit us. so they got up early in the morning and slipped away before we were well awake. when we discovered that they were gone, we got off after them as quickly as possible, but as the current flows about seven miles an hour, and they were rowing hard besides, they were long out of sight of us. however, we buckled down to hard rowing, each pulling a single oar only, and relieving one another at intervals, tugging away as desperately as if something important depended on it. when we were already in sight of forty mile post we spied our opponents' boat about a mile ahead of us, and we soon overhauled them, for they had already spent themselves by hard rowing. then pete knew a little channel which led up to the very centre of the camp, while the others took the more roundabout way, so that we arrived and were quite settled--we assumed a very negligent air, as if we had been there all day--when the others arrived. we called this the great anglo-american boat race and crowed not a little over the finish. footnote: [1] a portion of this description is similar to that used by the writer in an article published in "outing." chapter iv. the forty mile diggings. forty mile creek is the oldest mining camp in the yukon country, and the first where coarse gold or "gulch diggings" was found. in the fall of 1886 a prospector by the name of franklin discovered the precious metal near the mouth of what is now called forty mile creek. this stream was put down on the old maps as the shitando river, but miners are very independent in their nomenclature, and often adopt a new name if the old one does not suit them, preferring a simple term with an evident meaning to the more euphonious ones suggestive of pullman cars. at the time of the discovery of gold there was a post of the alaskan commercial company at the mouth of the stream, but the trader in charge, jack mcquesten, was absent in san francisco. as the supplies at the post were very low, and a rush of miners to the district was anticipated for the next summer, it was thought best to try to get word to the trader, and george williams undertook to carry out a letter in midwinter. accompanied by an indian, he succeeded in attaining the chilkoot pass, but was there frozen to death. the letter, however, was carried to the post at dyea by the indian, and the necessary supplies were sent, thus averting the threatened famine. from 1887 to 1893 the various gulches of forty mile creek were the greatest gold producers of the yukon country, but by 1893 the supplies of gold began to show exhaustion; and about this time a russian half-breed, by the name of pitka, discovered gold in the bars of birch creek, some two hundred miles further down the yukon. a large part of the population of the forty mile district rushed to the new diggings and built the mining camp to which they gave the name of circle city, from its proximity to the arctic circle. the forty mile district is partly in british and partly in american territory, since the boundary line crosses the stream some distance above its mouth, while birch creek is entirely in american territory. the world-renowned klondike, again, is within british boundaries. so the tide of mining population has ebbed back and forth in the yukon country, each wave growing larger than the first, till it culminated in the third of the great world-rushes after gold, exciting, wild and romantic--the klondike boom, a fit successor to the "forty-nine" days of california, and to the events which followed the discovery of gold in australia. at the time of our visit, in 1896, forty mile post was distinctly on the decline. yet it contained probably 500 or 600 inhabitants, not counting the indians, of whom there were a considerable number. these indians were called charley indians, from their chief charley. there is a mission near here and the indians have all been christianized. it is told that the tanana indians, who had no mission, and who came here out of their wild fastnesses only once in a while to trade, did not embrace christianity, which rather elated charley's followers, as they considered that they now had decidedly the advantage; and they openly vaunted of it. in this country at certain times of the year, particularly in the fall, great herds of caribou pass, and then one can slaughter as many as he needs for the winter's supply of meat, without much hunting, for the animals select some trail and are not easily scared from it. one fall a herd marched up one of the busiest mining gulches of birch creek and the miners stood in their cabin doors and shot them. so the indians always watch as eagerly for the caribou, as they do for the salmon in the summer. but this particular fall it happened that the animals stayed away from the charley indians' hunting grounds, but passed through those of the tananas in force. the heathen then came down to the trading post laden with meat, and the chief, who knew a little english, taunted charley in it. "where moose, charley?" he asked. "no moose," said charley. "woo!" said the tanana chief, grinning in triumph. "what's the matter with your jesus?" the indians at forty mile post were mostly encamped in tents or were living in rude huts of timber plastered with mud; while the white men had built houses of logs, unsquared, with the chinks filled with mud and moss and the roof covered with similar material. prices were high throughout: a lot of land in the middle of the town, say 100 by 150 feet, was worth $7,000 or $8,000; sugar was worth twenty-five cents a pound and ordinary labor ten dollars a day. all provisions were also very expensive, and the supply was often short. many common articles, usually reckoned among what the foolish call the necessities of life, could not be obtained by us. i say foolish, because one can learn from pioneering and exploring, upon how little life can be supported and health and strength maintained, and how many of the supposed necessities are really luxuries. the alaskan eskimo lives practically on fish alone throughout the year, without salt, without bread,--just fish--and grows fat and oily and of pungent odor. but white men can hardly become so simple in their diet without some danger of dying in the course of the experiment, like the famous cow that was trained to go without eating, but whose untimely death cut short her career in the first bloom of success. the miners have always been dependent for supplies on steamers from san francisco or seattle, which have to make a trip of 4,000 miles or more; and, in the early days, if any accident occurred, there was no other source. i have heard of a bishop of the episcopal church, a missionary in this country, who lived all winter upon moose meat, without salt; and an old miner told me of working all summer on flour alone. when the fall came he shot some caribou, and his description of his sensations on eating his first venison steak were touching. hardly a winter has passed until very recently when the miners were not put on rations--so many pounds of bacon and so much flour to the man,--to bridge over the time until the steamer should arrive. the winter of 1889-90 is known to the old yukon pioneer as the "starvation winter," for during the previous summer a succession of accidents prevented the river boat from reaching forty mile with provisions. the men were finally starved out and in october they all began attempting to make their way down the yukon, towards st. michaels, over a thousand miles away, where food was known to be stored, having been landed at this depot from ocean steamers. nearly a hundred men left the post in small boats. some travelled the whole distance to st. michaels, others stopped and wintered by the way at the various miserable trading posts, or in the winter camps of the indians themselves, wherever food could be found. it happened that this year the river did not freeze up so early as usual, which favored the flight, though the journey down the lower part of the river was made in running ice. in connection with the shortness of provisions and supplies in these early years, a story is told of a worthless vagabond who used to hang around forty mile post, and whose hoaxes, invented to make money, put the wooden nutmeg and the oak ham of connecticut to shame. there was a dearth of candles one year at the post, and in midwinter, when, for a while, the sun hardly rises at all, that was no trifling privation. the weather was cold, as it always is at forty mile in the winter time. the trickster had some candle molds in his possession, but no grease; so he put the wicks into the molds, which he filled with water colored white with chalk or condensed milk. the water immediately froze solid, making a very close imitation of a candle. he manufactured a large number and then started around the post to peddle them. all bought eagerly--indian squaws to sew by, miners, shop-keepers, everybody. one man bought a whole case and shoved them under his bed; when he came to pull them out again to use, he found nothing but the wicks in a pile, the ice having melted and the water having evaporated in the warm room. what punishment was meted out to this unique swindler i do not know, but i could not learn that he was ever severely dealt with. the evening of our arrival in forty mile post we were attracted by observing a row of miners, who were lined up in front of the saloon engaged in watching the door of a large log cabin opposite, rather dilapidated, with the windows broken in. on being questioned, they said there was going to be a dance, but when or how they did not seem to know: all seemed to take only a languid looker-on interest, speaking of the affair lightly and flippantly. presently more men, however, joined the group and eyed the cabin expectantly. in spite of their disclaimers they evidently expected to take part, but where were the fair partners for the mazy waltz? the evening wore on until ten o'clock, when in the dusk a stolid indian woman, with a baby in the blanket on her back, came cautiously around the corner, and with the peculiar long slouchy step of her kind, made for the cabin door, looking neither to the right nor to the left. she had no fan, nor yet an opera cloak; she was not even dã©colletã©; she wore large moccasins on her feet--number twelve, i think, according to the white man's system of measurement--and she had a bright colored handkerchief on her head. she was followed by a dozen others, one far behind the other, each silent and unconcerned, and each with a baby upon her back. they sidled into the log cabin and sat down on the benches, where they also deposited their babies in a row: the little red people lay there very still, with wide eyes shut or staring, but never crying--indian babies know that is all foolishness and doesn't do any good. the mothers sat awhile looking at the ground in some one spot and then slowly lifted their heads to look at the miners who had slouched into the cabin after them--men fresh from the diggings, spoiling for excitement of any kind. then a man with a dilapidated fiddle struck up a swinging, sawing melody, and in the intoxication of the moment some of the most reckless of the miners grabbed an indian woman and began furiously swinging her around in a sort of waltz, while the others crowded around and looked on. little by little the dusk grew deeper, but candles were scarce and could not be afforded. the figures of the dancing couples grew more and more indistinct and their faces became lost to view, while the sawing of the fiddle grew more and more rapid, and the dancing more excited. there was no noise, however; scarcely a sound save the fiddle and the shuffling of the feet over the floor of rough hewn logs; for the indian women were stolid as ever, and the miners could not speak the language of their partners. even the lookers-on said nothing, so that these silent dancing figures in the dusk made an almost weird effect. one by one, however, the women dropped out, tired, picked up their babies and slouched off home, and the men slipped over to the saloon to have a drink before going to their cabins. surely this squaw-dance, as they call it, was one of the most peculiar balls ever seen. no sound of revelry by night, no lights, no flowers, no introductions, no conversations. of all the muses, terpsichore the nimble-footed, alone was represented, for surely the nymph who presides over music would have disowned the fiddle. all the diggings in the forty mile district were remote from the post, and to reach them one had to ascend forty mile creek, a rapid stream, for some distance. pete left us here, and we three concluded to go it alone. inasmuch as we were young and tender, we were overwhelmed with advice of such various and contradictory kinds that we were almost disheartened. every one agreed that it would be impossible to take our boats up the river, that we should take an "up river" boat, (that is, a boat built long and narrow, with a wide overhang, so as to make as little friction with the water as possible, and to make upsetting difficult); but when we came to inquire we found there was no such boat to be had. we were advised to take half-a-dozen experienced polers, but such polers could not be found. evidently we must either wait the larger part of the summer for our preparations _ã  la mode_, or go anyhow; and this latter we decided to do. we announced our intention at the table of the man whose hospitality we were enjoying. he stared. "you'll find forty mile creek a hard river to go up," he said, slowly. "have you had much experience in ascending rivers?" "very little," we replied. "are you good polers?" asked another. "like the young lady who was asked whether she could play the piano," i answered, "we don't know--we never tried." everybody roared; they had been wanting to laugh for some time, and here was their opportunity. later a guide was offered to us, but we had got on our dignity and refused him; then he asked to be allowed to accompany us as a passenger, taking his own food, and helping with the boat, and we consented to this. he had a claim on the headwaters of sixty mile, to which he wished to go back, but could not make the journey up the river alone. a year afterwards this penniless fellow was one of the lucky men in the klondike rush and came back to civilization with a reputed fortune of $100,000. we could row only a short distance up the creek from the post, for after this the current became so swift that we could make no headway. we then tied a long line to the bow of the boat, and two of us, walking on the shore, pulled the line, while another stood in the bow and by constant shoving out into the stream, succeeded in overcoming the tendency for the pull of the line to make the boat run into the shore or into such shallow water that it would ground. we soon reached the canyon, supposed to be the most difficult place in the creek to pass; here the stream is very rapid and tumbles foaming over huge boulders which have partially choked it. we towed our boat up through this, however, without much difficulty, and on the second night camped at the boundary line. here a gaunt old character, sam patch by name, had his cabin. he was famous for his patriotism and his vegetables. his garden was on the steep side of a south-facing hill and was sheltered from the continual frosts which fall in the summer nights, so that it succeeded well. foreign vegetables, as well as native plants, thrive luxuriantly in alaska so long as they can be kept from being frost-bitten: for in the long sunshiny summer days they grow twice as fast and big as they do in more temperate climates. "sam patch's potato patch" was famous throughout the diggings, and the surest way to win sam's heart was to go and inspect and admire it. sam was always an enthusiastic american, and when the canadian surveyors surveyed the meridian line which constituted the international boundary, they ran it right through his potato patch; but he stood by his american flag and refused to haul it down--quite unnecessarily, because no one asked him to do so. the next day we reached the mouth of the little tributary called moose creek. from here a trail thirty miles in length leads over the low mountains to the headwaters of sixty mile creek, where several of the richest gulches of the forty mile district were located. we beached our boat, therefore, put packs on our backs and started. at this time the days were hot and the mosquitoes vicious, and nearly every night was frosty; so we sweat and smarted all day, and shivered by night, for our blankets were hardly thick enough. we used to remark on rising in the morning that alaska was a delightful country, with temperature to suit every taste; no matter if one liked hot weather or moderate or cold, if he would wait he would get it inside of twenty-four hours. we were tired when we started over the trail, and the journey was not an easy one, for we carried blankets, food, cameras, and other small necessaries. we camped in a small swamp the first night, where the ground was so wet that we were obliged to curl up on the roots of trees, close to the trunks, to keep out of the water. the second day a forest fire blocked our journey, but we made our way through it, treading swiftly over the burning ground and through the thick smoke: then we emerged onto a bare rocky ridge, from which we could look down, on the right, over the network of little valleys which feed forty mile creek, and on the other side over the tributaries of sixty mile creek, clearly defined as if on a map. the ridge on which we travelled was cut up like the teeth of a saw, so that a large part of our time was spent in climbing up and down. on the latter part of the second day we found no wood, and at night we could hardly prepare food enough to keep our stomachs from sickening. my feet had become raw at the start from hard boots, and every step was a torture; yet the boots could not be taken off, for the trail was covered with small sharp stones, and the packs on our backs pressed heavily downward. the third day we separated, each descending from the mountain ridge into one of the little gulches, in which we could see the white tents or the brown cabins of the miners, with smoke rising here and there. my way led me down a rocky ridge and then abruptly into the valley of miller creek. as i sat down and rested, surveying the little valley well dotted with shanties, two men came climbing up the trail and sat down to chat. they were going to the spot on forty mile creek which we had just left--there was a keg of whisky "cached" there and they had been selected a committee of two by the miners to escort the aforesaid booze into camp. they were alternately doleful at the prospect of the sixty mile tramp and jubilant over the promised whisky, for, as they informed us, the camp had been "dry for some time." descending into the camp where the men were busily working, i stopped to watch them. gaunt, muscular, sweating, they stood in their long boots in the wet gravel and shovelled it above their heads into "sluice boxes,"--a series of long wooden troughs in which a continuous current of water was running. the small material was carried out of the lower end of the sluices by the water. here and there the big stones choked the current and a man with a long shovel was continuously occupied with cleaning the boxes of such accumulations. everybody was working intensely. the season is short in alaska and the claim-owner is generally a hustler; and men who are paid ten dollars a day for shovelling must jump to earn their money. strangers were rare on miller creek in those days, and everybody stopped a minute to look and answer my greetings politely, but there was no staring, and everybody went on with his work without asking any questions. men are courteous in rough countries, where each one must travel on his merits and fight his own battles, and where social standing or previous condition of servitude count for nothing. i wandered slowly down from claim to claim. they were all working, one below the other, for this was the best part of one of the oldest and richest gulches of the forty mile district. one man asked me where i was going to sleep, and on my telling him that i had not thought of it, replied that there were some empty log cabins a little distance below. further down a tall, dark, mournful man addressed me in broken english, with a canadian french accent, and put the same question. "i work on ze night shift to-night," he continued, "so i do not sleep in my bed. you like, you no fin' better, you is very welcome, sair, to sleep in my cabine, in my bed." i accepted gratefully, for i was very tired; so the frenchman conducted me to a cabin about six feet square and insisted upon cooking a little supper for me. he was working for day's wages, he answered to my rather blunt questions, but hoped that he would earn enough this summer and the next winter to buy an outfit and enough "grub" to go prospecting for himself, on the tanana, which had not been explored and where he believed there must be gold; prospectors get very firmly convinced of such things with no real reason. after supper he darkened the windows for me and went to work. i sought the comfort of a wooden bunk, covering myself with a dirty bed-quilt. it was very ancient and perhaps did not smell sweet, but what did i care? it was heaven. the darkness was delicious. i had not known real darkness for so long throughout the summer--always sleeping out of doors in the light of the alaskan night--that i had felt continually strained and uncomfortable for the lack of it, and this darkened cabin came to me like the sweetest of opiates. when i awoke the frenchman was preparing breakfast. i had slept some ten hours without moving. there was only one tin plate, one cup, and one knife and fork, and he insisted upon my eating with them, while he stood by and gravely superintended, urging more slapjacks upon me. i suddenly felt ashamed that i had told him neither my name nor business, for although i had questioned him freely, he had not manifested the slightest curiosity. so without being asked i volunteered some information about myself. he listened attentively and politely, but without any great interest. it was quite apparent that the most important thing to him was that i was a stranger. soon after breakfast i thanked him warmly and went away--i knew enough of miners not to insult him by offering him money for his hospitality. the night shift of shovellers had given way to the day shift, and work was going on as fiercely as ever. the bottoms of all these gulches are covered with roughly stratified shingle, most of which slides down from the steep hillsides of the creek. among the rocks on the hillsides are many quartz veins, which carry "iron pyrite" or "fool's gold"; these often contain small specks of real gold. so when all the rubble gets together and is broken up in the bottom of the stream, where the water flows through it, the different materials in the rocks begin to separate one from another, more or less, according to the difference in their weights and the fineness of the fragments into which they are broken. now gold is the heaviest of metals, and the result is, that through all this jostling and crowding it gradually works itself down to the bottom of the heap, and generally quite to the solid rock below. this has been found to be the case nearly everywhere. in process of time the gravel accumulations become quite thick; in miller creek, for example, they varied from three or four feet at the head of the valley, where i was, to fifty or sixty at the mouth. but all the upper gravels are barren and valueless. where the gravels are not deep, they are simply shovelled off and out of the way, till the lower part, where the gold lies, is laid bare; this work generally takes a year, during which time there is no return for the labor. once the pay gravel--as it is called--is reached, a long wooden trough called a "sluice," is constructed, the current turned through it, and the gravel shovelled in. this work can only be carried on in the summer-time, when the water is not frozen, so that the warm months are the time for hustling, day and night shifts being employed, with as many men on each as can work conveniently together. in case the barren overlying gravel is very deep, the miners wait until it is frozen and then sink shafts to the pay dirt, which they take out by running tunnels and excavating chambers or "stopes" along the bed rock. in this work they do not use blasting, but build a small fire wherever they wish to penetrate, and as soon as the gravel thaws they shovel it up and convey it out, meanwhile pushing the fire ahead so that more may thaw out. in this way they accumulate the pay dirt in a heap on the surface, and as soon as warm weather comes they shovel it into the sluices as before. at the time of my visit, the construction of the sluices was a work of considerable labor, for as there was no sawmill in the country, the boards from which they were made had to be sawed by hand out of felled trees. in the last few of the trough-sections or sluice-boxes, slats are placed, sometimes transverse, sometimes lengthwise, sometimes oblique, sometimes crossed, forming a grating--all patterns have nearly the same effect, namely, to catch the gold and the other heavy minerals by means of vortexes which are created. thus behind these slats or "riffles" the gold lodges, while the lighter and barren gravel is swept by the current of water out of the trough, and the heavy stones are thrust out by the shovel of the miner. nearly the same process as that which in nature concentrates gold at the bottom of the gravels and on top of the bed-rock is adopted by man to cleanse the gold perfectly from the attendant valueless minerals. [illustration: washing the gravel in sluice-boxes.] everybody was hospitable along the gulch. i had five different invitations to dinner,--hearty ones, too--and some were loath to be put off with the plea of previous engagement. they were all eager for news from the outside world, from which they had not heard since the fall before; keenly interested in political developments, at home and abroad. they were intelligent and better informed than the ordinary man, for in the long winter months there is little to do but to sleep and read. they develop also a surprising taste for solid literature; nearly everywhere shakespeare seemed to be the favorite author, all nationalities and degrees of education uniting in the general liking. a gulch that had a full set of shakespeare considered itself in for a rather cozy winter; and there were regular shakespeare clubs, where each miner took a certain character to read. books of science, and especially philosophy, were also widely sought. it has been my theory that in conditions like this, where there are not the thousand and one stimuli to fritter away the intellectual energy, the mental qualities become stronger and keener and the little that is done is done with surprising vigor and clearness. down the creek i found a swede, working over the gravels on a claim that had already been washed once. he had turned off the water from the sluice-boxes and was scraping up the residue from among the riffles. mostly black heavy magnetic iron particles with many sparkling yellow grains of gold, green hornblendes and ruby-colored garnets. he put all this into a gold pan, (a large shallow steel pan such as used in the first stages of prospecting), and proceeded to "pan out" the gold yet a little more. he immersed the vessel just below the surface of a pool of water, and by skillful twirlings caused the contents to be agitated, and while the heavier particles sank quickly to the bottom, he continuously worked off the lighter ones, allowing them to flow out over the edge of the pan. yet he was very careful that no bit of gold should escape, and when he had carried this process as far as he could, he invited me into his cabin to see him continue the separation. here he spread the "dust" on the table and began blowing it with a small hand-bellows. the garnets, the hornblendes and the fragments of quartz, being lighter than the rest, soon rolled out to one side, leaving only the gold and the magnetic iron. then with a hand magnet he drew the iron out from the gold, leaving the noble yellow metal nearly pure, in flakes and irregular grains. as the material he had separated still contained some gold, he put this aside to be treated with quicksilver. the quicksilver is poured into the dust, where it forms an amalgam with the gold: it is then strained off, and the amalgam is distilled--the quicksilver is vaporized, leaving the gold behind. this man had his wife with him, a tired, lonely looking woman. i asked her if there were no more women on the creek. she said no; there was another woman over on glacier creek, and she wanted so much to see her sometimes, but she was not a good woman, so she could not go. she was lonely, she said; she had been here three years and had not seen a woman. from some of the miners i obtained a pair of indian moccasins, which i padded well with hay and cloth to make them easy for my chafing feet; then i slung my own heavy boots on top of my pack and the next morning bade the gulch good-bye, feeling strengthened from my rest. as i climbed out of the gulch i met the miners who had gone as a committee to escort the whisky, arriving with it, white and speckled with fatigue, speaking huskily, (but not from drinking), yet triumphant. the day was cool and when one is alone one is apt to travel hard; but the unwonted lightness of my feet and the freedom from pain encouraged me, so i set my indian moccasins into a regular indian trot, and by noon had covered the entire fifteen miles that constituted the first half of the journey. this brought me to a locality dignified by the name of the "half-way house," from a tent-fly of striped drilling left by some one, in which the miners were accustomed to pass the night in their journeys over the trail. here i found schrader, who had arrived late the night before and was preparing to make a start. we lighted a fire and made some tea, which with corned beef and crackers, made up our lunch. while we were eating, our old companion pete, with two more miners, came in from the opposite direction to that from which we had come; he was on his way to visit his old claim on miller creek. afterwards we got away, and kept up a steady indian trot till we reached our camp on forty mile creek at about six o'clock. we found goodrich already arrived and wrestling with the cooking, with which he was having tremendously hard luck. this travelling thirty miles in one day, carrying an average of thirty-five pounds, i considered something of an achievement; but the tiredness which came the next day showed that the energy meant for a long time had been drawn upon. [illustration: "tracking" a boat upstream.] for four days after that we worked our way up forty mile creek, making on an average seven or eight miles a day. mosquitoes were abundant, and the weather showery. we used the same method of pulling and poling as before,--a laborious process and one calculated to ruin the most angelic disposition. the river was very low and consequently full of rapids and "riffles," as the miners call the shallow places over which the water splashes. on many of these riffles our boat stuck fast, and we dragged it over the rocks by sheer force, wading out and grasping it by the gunwale. again, where there were many large boulders piled together in deep water, the boat would stick upon one, and we would be obliged to wade out again and pilot it through by hand, now standing dry upon a high boulder, and now floundering waist deep in the cold water at some awkward step--maybe losing temper and scolding our innocent companions for having shoved the boat too violently. we generally worked till late, and began cooking our supper in the dusk--which was now beginning to come--over a camp-fire whose glare dazzled us so that when we tossed our flapjack into the air, preparatory to browning its raw upper side, we often lost sight of it in the gloom, and it sprawled upon the fire, or fell ignominiously over the edge of the frying-pan. those were awful moments; no one dared to laugh at the cook then. we took turns at cooking, and patience was the watchword. the cook needed it and much more so, those on whom he practiced. one of our number produced a series of slapjacks once which rivalled my famous chilkoot biscuit. they were leaden, flabby, wretched. we ate one apiece, and ate nothing else for a week, for, as the woodsmen say, it "stuck to our ribs" wonderfully. "how much baking powder did you put in with the flour?" we asked the cook. "how should i know?" he answered, indignantly. "what was right, of course." "did you measure it?" we persisted, for the slapjack was irritating us inside. "anybody," replied the cook, with crushing dignity, "who knows anything, knows how much baking powder to put in with flour without measuring it. i just used common sense." so we concluded that he had put in too much common sense and not enough baking powder. just above where the river divides into two nearly equal forks, the water grew so shallow that we could not drag our boat further, so we hauled it up and filled it with green boughs to prevent it from drying and cracking in the sun; then we built a "cache." it may be best to explain the word "cache," so freely used in alaska. the term came from the french canadian voyageurs or trappers; it is pronounced "cash" and comes from the french _cacher_, to hide. so a cache is something hidden, and was applied by these woodsmen to hidden supplies and other articles of value, which could not be carried about, being secreted until the owners should come that way again. in alaska, when anything was thus left, a high platform of poles was built, supported by the trunks of slender trees, and the goods were left on this platform, covered in some way against the ravages of wild animals. to this structure the name "cache" came to be applied; and later was extended to the storehouses wherein the natives kept their winter supplies of fish and smoked meat, for these houses have a somewhat similar structure, being built on top of upright poles like the old swiss lake-dwellings. [illustration: a "cache."] the next morning we shouldered our pack-sacks, containing our blankets, a little food, and other necessities, and were again on the tramp, this time having no trail, however, but being obliged to keep on the side of the stream. here, as below, the river flowed in one nearly continuous canyon, but on one side or the other flats had been built out on the side where the current was slackest, while on the opposite side was deep water quite up to the bold cliffs; and since the current sweeps from side to side, one encounters levels and gravel flats, and high rocks, on the same side. many of the cliffs we scaled, crawling gingerly along the almost perpendicular side of the rock. the constant temptation in such climbing is to go higher, where it always looks easier, but when one gets up it seems impossible to return. however, we had no accidents, which, considering how awkward our packs made us, was lucky. at other times we waded the stream to avoid the cliffs. at night we reached the mouth of franklin gulch, where active mining had been going on for some time. the miners were almost out of food, the boat which ordinarily brought provisions from forty mile post having been unable to get up, on account of the low water. yet they gave us freely what they could. we took possession of an empty log cabin, lighted a fire and toasted some trout which they gave us, and this with crackers and bacon made our meal; then we discovered some bunks with straw in them, which we agreed were gilt-edged, and proceeded to make use of them without delay. only a few of the total number of miners were here, the rest having gone over the mountain to chicken creek, where the latest find of gold was reported. the men had not heard from "the outside" for some time. even forty mile post was a metropolis for them and they were glad to hear from it. they had few books and only a couple of newspapers three years old. "doesn't it get very dull here?" we asked of an old stager; "what do you do for amusement?" "do!" he echoed with grave humor, "do! why, god bless you, we 'ave very genteel amusements. as for readin' an' litrachure an' all that, wy, dammit, wen the fust grub comes in the spring, we 'ave a meetin' an' we call all the boys together an' we app'int a chairman an' then some one reads from the directions on the bakin'-powder boxes." i set out alone for chicken creek the next morning, following a line of blazed trees up over the mountain from franklin creek. i had been told that once up on the divide one could look right down into chicken creek, and i have no doubt that this is true, for on attaining the top of the hill a stretch of country twenty miles across was spread out before me as on a map, while directly below was a considerable branch of forty mile creek, divided into many closely adjacent gulches. one of these must be chicken creek, but which? there were no tents and no smoke visible, much as the eye might strain through the field-glasses. just here the trail gave out, the blazer having evidently grown tired of blazing. thinking to obtain a better view into the valley, i set out along the hill which curved around it, tramping patiently along until nearly night over the sharp ridges, but without ever seeing any signs of life in the great desolate country below me. when the dark shadows were striking the valleys, i caught sight of what appeared to be a faint smoke in the heart of a black timbered gulch, and i made straightway down the mountain-side for it, hurrying for fear the fire should be extinguished before i could get close enough to it to find the place. i had no doubt that this came from the log cabin of some prospector, who would be only too glad to welcome a weary stranger with a warm supper and a blanket on the floor. on getting down, away from the bare rocks on the mountain ridge, i found deep moss, tiresome to my wearied limbs, and further down great areas of "niggerheads"--the terror of travellers in the northern swamps. these niggerheads are tufts of vegetation which grow upwards by successive accumulations till they are knee high or even more. they are scattered thickly about, but each tuft is separated completely from all the rest, leaving hardly space to step between; if one attempts to walk on top of them he will slip off, so there is nothing to do but to walk on the ground, lifting the legs over the obstacles with great exertion. the tops of the tufts are covered with long grass, which droops down on all sides, whence the name niggerheads,--_tãªtes de femme_ or women's heads is the name given them by the french canadian voyageurs. still lower the brush and vines became so thick that it was almost impossible to force the way through in places. at last i emerged upon a grey lifeless area which seemed to have been burned over. there were no trees or plants, but the bare blackened sticks of what had once been a young growth of spruce still stood upright, though some trunks had fallen and lay piled, obstacles to travelling. the whole looked peculiarly forlorn. a little further i came to the spot where i had seen the smoke. there was nothing but a stagnant pool covered so deep with green scum that one caught only an occasional glimpse of the black water beneath, and from this, unsavory mists were rising in the chill of the evening air. i had mistaken these vapors for smoke from my post miles up the mountain. my dream of a log cabin and a blanket went up likewise in smoke. it was now eleven o'clock at night, and twilight; i had walked at least twenty miles through a rough country and could go no further. so i broke off the smaller dried trees and sticks and lighted a fire, then i ate some crackers and bacon that i had with me, but i did not dare to drink the water of the stagnant pool, which was all there was to be had. the night grew frosty, and i had no blankets; but i lay down close to the fire and caught fifteen-minute naps. once i woke with the smell of burning cloth in my nostrils: in my sleep i had edged too close to the grateful warmth, and my coat and the notebook in my pocket, containing all my season's notes, had caught fire. i rolled over on them and crushed out the fire with my fingers, and after that i shivered away a little further from the fire. at about three o'clock it grew light enough to see the surrounding country, and i started out again for the first point i had reached on the ridge the morning before, thinking to get back to franklin gulch, for i was thoroughly exhausted. on reaching the ridge, however, i met a miner coming over the trail; he agreed to pilot me to the new prospects, so i turned back again. there were fifteen or twenty men in the gulch which we finally reached, all living in tents in a very primitive way, and all very short of provisions, yet, hospitable to the last morsel, they freely offered the best they had. they were poor, too; everybody does not get rich in the gold diggings, even in alaska. in fact, previous to the klondike discovery, the largest net sum of money taken out by any one man was about $30,000, while hundreds could not pay for their provisions or get enough to buy a ticket out of the country. the klondike, too, has been badly lied about. not one man in twenty who goes there makes more than a bare living, and many have to "hustle" for that harder than they would at home. so the hospitality of the miners, such as i found it nearly everywhere on the yukon, is not a mere act of courtesy which costs nothing, but the genuine unselfishness which cheerfully divides the last crust with a passing stranger. having been strengthened by two square meals, simple but sufficient, i started back for franklin gulch the same night. it began to rain in torrents on the way, and this, as usual, drove out the mosquitoes and made them unusually savage. they attacked me in such numbers that in spite of my gloves and veil i was nearly frantic. the best relief was to stride along at a good round pace, for this kept most of the pests at my back, and gave me a vent for my wrought-up nerves; and at the same time i had the satisfaction of knowing i was "getting there." the thong of my moccasin became undone, but i did not dare to stop to tie it, but kept plunging along, shuffling it with me. i reached our cabin at the mouth of franklin gulch, and the sight of the bunk with straw in it, and the familiar grey blanket, was sweet to me. next day we bade the miners at the creek's mouth good-bye, with promises to hurry up the provision-boat if possible, and made our way to where we had left our boat and cache. the next morning we launched the skookum again, and began our journey back. going down was quicker work than coming up, not so laborious, and far more exciting. owing to the lowness of the water, the stream was one succession of small rapids, which were full of boulders; and to steer the boat, careering like a race horse, among these, was a pretty piece of work. one pulled the oars to give headway, another steered, and the third stood in the bow, pole in hand, to fend us off from such rocks as we were in danger of striking. we soon found that the safest part of such a rapid is where the waves are roughest, for here the water, rebounding from the shallow shore on either side, meets in a narrow channel, where it tosses and foams, yet here is the only place where there is no danger of striking. the second day out we ran twenty-five or thirty of these rapids. in running through one we pulled aside to avoid a large boulder sticking up in midstream, and then saw in front of us another boulder just at the surface, which we had not before noticed. it was too late, however, and the boat stuck fast in a second, and began to turn over from the force of the water behind. with one accord we all leaped out of the boat, expecting to find foothold somewhere among the boulders, and hold the boat or shove her off so that she should not capsize; but none of us touched bottom, though we sank to our necks, still grasping the gunwale of the boat. our being out, however, made the boat so much lighter that she immediately slipped over the rock and went gloriously down the rapid, broadside, we hanging on. as soon as we could we clambered in, each grasped a paddle or oars or pole, and by great good luck we had no further accident. some distance further down we again sighted white water ahead, where the stream ran hard against a perpendicular cliff. some miners were "rocking" gravel for gold in the bars just above; and we yelled to them to know if we could run the rapids. "yes," came the answer, "if you're a d----d good man!" "all right--thanks!" we cried, and sailed serenely through. this was known by the cheerful name of dead man's riffle. owing to the strong wind blowing, the mosquitoes were not very annoying these few days; the sun was warm and bright, and the hillsides were covered thickly with a carmine flower which gave them a general brilliant appearance. these things, with the exhilaration of running rapids, made a sort of vacation--an outing, a picnic, as it were--in contrast to our previous hard work. when we got to the miller creek trail we took on a couple of miners who wanted to get out of the country, but had no boat in which to go down to forty mile post. they had worked for some time and had barely succeeded in making enough to buy food, and now, a little homesick and discouraged, they had made up their minds to try to get out and back to "god's country" as they called it--colorado. with their help we let our boat down through the "caã±on" safely, and the next day,--the 29th of july,--arrived at forty mile post. at the post we found that plenty was reigning, for the first steamboat had arrived, bringing a lot of sorely-needed provisions. the trader in charge gave us a fine lunch of eggs, moosemeat, canned asparagus, and other delicacies, and then we took possession of a deserted log cabin. on ransacking around we found a yukon lamp, consisting of a twisted bit of cotton stuck into a pint bottle of seal oil, and when it began to grow dusk we lighted it and sat down at the table and wrote home to our friends; for the steamer had gone further up the river and would return in a few days, so that letters sent down by her would probably be ahead of us in getting home--eight thousand miles! we had laid in a new stock of provisions. flour, i remember was $8.00 for 100 pounds, and we managed to get a few of the last eggs which the steamer had brought, at $1.00 a dozen. the skookum had suffered considerably in our forty mile trip, and we spent a large part of the next day in patching her, plugging her seams with oakum and sealing them with hot pitch. one of our number, who was cooking for the boat-menders, suddenly appeared on the scene, chasing a pack of yelping dogs with our long camp-axe. he had gone to the woodpile for a moment, leaving the door ajar. at this moment a grey dog whose tail had been cut off somehow, was looking around the log house opposite--he had been on guard and watching our door for the last twenty-four hours. he uttered a low yelp which brought a dozen others together from all quarters, all lean, strong and sneaking; and they slipped into our door. when the cook turned from the woodpile a minute later he was just in time to aim a billet at the last one as he emerged from the cabin with our cheese in his mouth. they fled swiftly and were not to be caught: and an examination showed that they had, in their silent and well organized raid, cleaned our larder thoroughly, having eaten the delicacies on the spot and carried off nearly all the rest. [illustration: native dogs.] the indian dog is a study, for he is much unlike his civilized brother. he rarely barks, never at strangers, and takes no notice of a white man who arrives in the village,--even though the village may never have seen such a thing, and the children scream, the women flee, and the men are troubled and silent--but he howls nights. a dog wakes up in the middle of the night, yawns, looks at the stars, and listens. there is not a sound. "how dull and stupid it is here in ouklavigamute," he thinks; "not nearly as lively as it was in mumtreghloghmembramute. there we had fights nearly every night, sometimes twice. if i only knew a dog i was sure i could lick--anyhow, here goes for a good long howl. i'll show them that there is a dog in town with spirit enough to make a noise, anyhow." with that he tunes up--do, re, mi, tra-la-la, dulce, crescendo, grand wagnerian smash. the other dogs wake up and one nudges the other and says, "oh, my, what a lark! isn't it fun! let's yell too--whoop, roo, riaow!" and just as men get excited at a football game, or an election, or when the fire-alarm rings, these dogs yell and grow red in the face. then the inhabitants wake up and get out after the dogs, who run and yelp; and after a while each cur crawls into a hiding-place and goes to sleep. in the morning they wake up and wriggle their tails. "what enthusiasm there was last night--but--er--i didn't quite catch on to the idea--of course i yelled to help the other fellows--it's such fun being enthusiastic, you know." this happens every night. the indian dog makes it a point to stand around like a bump on a log and look stupid; when he has fooled you to that extent he will surprise you some day by a daring theft, for he is clever as a man and quick as an express train. chapter v. the american creek diggings. from forty mile we floated down the yukon again, and in a day's journey camped at the mouth of mission creek, not then down on the map. it had received its name from miners who had come there prospecting. several of them were encamped in tents, and they came over and silently watched our cooking, evidently sizing us up. "when did you leave the outside?" asked a blue-eyed, blonde, shaggy man. (the outside means anywhere but alaska--a man who has been long in the country falls into the idea of considering himself in a kind of a prison, and refers to the rest of the world as lying beyond the door of this.) "in june," we replied. "how did the harvard-yale football game come out last fall?" he inquired eagerly--it was now august, and nearly time for the next! "harvard was whipped, of course," we answered. "look here," he said, firing up, "you needn't say 'of course.' harvard is _my_ college!" i was engaged in reinforcing my overalls with a piece of bacon sack; i could not help being amused at this fair-haired savage being a college man. "that makes no difference," i replied. "harvard's _our_ college too--all of us." "what are you giving me?" he ejaculated, and at first i thought he looked a little angry, as if he thought we were trifling with him; and then a little supercilious, as he surveyed the forlorn condition of my clothing, which the removal of the overalls i wore instead of trousers had exposed. "hard facts," i said. "classes of '92 and '93. lend me your sheath-knife." "why-ee!" he exclaimed. "ninety-three's my class. shake!--rah, rah, rah! who are we?--you know!--who are we? we are harvard ninety-three--what can we do?--what can we do?--we can lick harvard ninety-two--cocka-doodle-doodle-doo--harvard, harvard--ninety-two--hooray!" the next day we tramped over to american creek together, where some new gold diggings were just being developed. the harvard miner had had no tea for several months, as he told us (and one who has been living in alaska knows what a serious thing that is) so we brought a pound package along to make a drink for lunch. at american creek we got a large tomato can outside of a miner's cabin, and the harvard man offered to do the brewing. "how much shall i put in?" he asked. "suit yourself," was the answer. he took a tremendous handful. "is this too much?" he asked, apologetically. "you see, i haven't had tea for three months, and i feel like having a good strong cup." we assured him that the strength of the drink was to be limited only by his own desires. he was tempted to another handful, and so little by little, till half the package was in the can. when he was satisfied, we told him to keep the remaining half pound for the next time. he was disappointed. "if i had known you intended giving it to me," he replied, "i wouldn't have used so much." we drank the tea eagerly, for we were tired, but my head spun afterwards. there were some paying claims already on this creek--it was a little stream which one could leap at almost any point--and on the day we arrived we saw the clean-up in one of them. it was very dazzling to see the coarse gold that was scraped from the riffles of the sluice-boxes into the baking-powder cans which were used to store it. there was gold of all sizes, from fine dust up to pieces as big as pumpkin seed; but this was the result of a week's work of several men, and much time had been spent in getting the claim ready before work could begin. still, the results were very good, the clean-up amounting, i was told, to "thirty dollars to the shovel"--that is, thirty dollars a day to each man shovelling gravel into the sluices. on the edge of the stream the rock, a rusty slate, lay loosely; one of the miners was thrusting his pick among the pieces curiously, and on turning one over showed the crevice beneath filled with flat pieces of yellow gold of all sizes. they were very thin and probably worth only about five dollars in all, but lying as they did the sight was enough to give one the gold fever, if he did not yet have it. the harvard man and his companion were immediately seized with a violent attack, and set off down the stream to stake out claims, meanwhile talking over plans of wintering here, so as to be early on the ground the next spring. i slept on the floor of a miner's cabin that night and the next morning made my way back to our camp on the yukon. chapter vi. the birch creek diggings. the next night we reached that part of the river where circle city was put down on the map we carried, but not finding it, camped on a gravelly beach beneath a timbered bluff. when we went up the bluff to get wood for our fire the mosquitoes fairly drove us back and continued bothering us all night, biting through our blankets and giving us very little peace, though we slept with our hats, veils, and gloves on. we afterwards found that circle city had at first been actually started at about this point, but was soon afterwards moved further down, to where we found it the next day. we had been looking forward to our arrival in this place for several reasons, one of which was that we had had no fresh meat for over a month, and hoped to find moose or caribou for sale. as our boat came around the bend and approached the settlement of log huts dignified by the name of circle city, we noticed quite a large number of people crowding down to the shore to meet us, and as soon as we got within hailing distance one of the foremost yelled out: "got any moose meat?" when we answered "no," the crowd immediately dispersed and we did not need to inquire about the supply of fresh meat in camp. we landed in front of the alaska commercial company's store, kept by jack mcquesten. on jumping ashore, i went up immediately, in search of information, and as i stepped in i heard my name called in a loud voice. i answered promptly "here," with no idea of what was wanted, for there was a large crowd in the store; but from the centre of the room something was passed from hand to hand towards me, which proved to be a package of letters from home--the first news i had received for over two months. on inquiry i found that the mail up the river had just arrived, and the storekeeper, who was also postmaster _ex officio_, had begun calling out the addresses on the letters to the expectant crowd of miners, and had got to my name as i entered the door--a coincidence, i suppose, but surely a pleasant and striking one. we obtained lodgings in a log house, large for circle city, since it contained two rooms. it was already occupied by two customhouse officers, the only representatives of uncle sam whom we encountered in the whole region. one room had been used as a storeroom and carpenter-shop, and here, on the shavings, we spread out our blankets and made ourselves at home. the building had first been built as a church by missionaries, but as they were absent for some time after its completion, one room was fitted up with a bar by a newly arrived enterprising liquor-dealer, till the officers, armed in their turn with the full sanction of the church, turned the building into a customhouse and hoisted the american flag, on a pole fashioned out of a slim spruce by the customs officer himself. the officers, when we came there, were sleeping days and working nights on the trail of some whisky smugglers who were in the habit of bringing liquor down the river from canadian territory, in defiance of the american laws. there were only a few hundred men in circle city at this time, most of the miners being away at the diggings, for this was one of the busiest times of the year. these diggings were sixty miles from the camp, and were only to be reached by a foot trail which led through wood and swamp. several newcomers in the country were camped around the post, waiting for cooler weather before starting out on the trail, for the mosquitoes, they said, were frightful. it was said that nobody had been on the trail for two weeks, on this account, and blood-curdling stories were told of the torments of some that had dared to try, and how strong men had sat down on the trail to sob, quite unable to withstand the pest. however, we had seen mosquitoes before, and the next morning struck out for the trail. it was called a wagon road, the brush and trees having been cut out sufficiently wide for a wagon to pass; taken as a footpath, however, it was just fair. the mosquitoes were actually in clouds; they were of enormous size, and had vigorous appetites. it was hot, too, so that their bites smarted worse than usual. the twelve miles, which the trail as far as the crossing of birch creek had been said to be, lengthened out into an actual fifteen, over low rolling country, till we descended a sharp bluff to the stream. here a hail brought a boatman across to ferry us to the other side, where there stood two low log houses facing one another, and connected overhead by their projecting log roofs. [illustration: on the tramp again.] this was the twelve mile cache, a road-house for miners, and here we spent the night. each of the buildings contained but a single room, one house being used as a sleeping apartment, the other as kitchen and dining-room. the host had no chairs to offer us, but only long benches; and there were boxes and stumps for those who could not find room on the benches, which were shorter than the tables. we ate out of tin dishes and had only the regulation bacon, beans and apple-sauce, yet it was with a curious feeling that we sat down to the meal and got up from it, as if we were enjoying a little bit of luxury--for so it seemed to us then. there were eleven of us who slept in the building which had been set apart for sleeping; we all provided our own blankets and slept on the floor, which was no other than the earth, and was so full of humps and hollows, and projecting sharp sticks where saplings had been cut off, that one or the other of the company was in misery nearly all night, and roused the others with his cursings and growling. the eight who were not of our party were miners returning from the diggings with their season's earnings of gold in the packs strapped to their backs; they all carried big revolvers and were on the lookout for possible highwaymen. on getting up we washed in the stream, ate breakfast, and prepared to start out again. in the fine, bright morning light we noticed a sign nailed up on the dining cabin, which we had not seen in the dusk of the preceding evening. it was a notice to thieves, and a specimen of miners' law in this rough country. notice. to whom it may concern. _at a general meeting of miners held in circle city it was the unanimous verdict that all thieving and stealing shall be punished by whipping at the post and banishment from the country, the severity of the whipping and the guilt of the accused to be determined by the jury._ so all thieves beware. our packs were about twenty-five pounds each, and contained blankets, a little corned beef and crackers, and a few other necessities: they were heavy enough before the day was over. from twelve mile cache to the diggings we travelled over what was called the hog'em trail, since it led to the gulch of that name: it ran for the whole distance through a swamp, and was said to be a very good trail in winter--in summer it was vile. we had been informed of a way which branched off from the hog'em route and ran over drier ground to a road-house called the "central house," but we were unable to pick up this; and we discovered afterwards that it had been blazed from the central house, but that the blazing had been discontinued two or three miles before reaching the junction of the hog'em trail, the axe-man having got tired, or having gone home for his dinner and forgotten to come back. so people like ourselves, starting for the diggings, invariably followed the hog'em trail, whether they would or not, and those coming out of the diggings and returning by way of the central house, followed the blazes through the woods till they stopped, and then wandered ahead blindly, often getting lost. the hog'em trail was a continuous bed of black, soft, stinking, sticky mud, for it had been well travelled over. at times there was thick moss; and again broad pools of water of uncertain depth, with mud bottoms, to be waded through; and long stretches covered with "nigger-heads." we walked twelve miles of this trail without stopping or eating, for the mosquitoes were bloodthirsty, and even hunger can hardly tempt a man to bestride a "nigger-head" and lunch under such conditions. we arrived at night at what was called the "jump-off,"--a sharp descent which succeeded a gradual rise--where we found two sturdy men, both old guides from the adirondacks, engaged in felling the trees which grew on the margin of the stream, and piling them into a log house. this they intended to use as a road-house, for the travel here was considerable, especially in the winter. in the meantime they were living in a tent, yet maintained a sort of hostelry for travellers, in that they dispensed meals to them. as soon as they were through with the big log they were getting into place when we arrived, they built a fire on the ground and cooked supper, after which we were invited to spread our blankets, with the stars and the grey sky for a shelter. they made some apologies at not being able to offer us a tent--theirs was a tiny affair,--and promised better accommodations if we would come back a month from then, when the cabin would be finished and the chinks neatly plugged with muck and moss. the next day's journey was again twelve miles, over about the same kind of trail. crossing a sluggish stream which was being converted into a swamp by encroaching vegetation, we were obliged to wade nearly waist deep, and then our feet rested on such oozy and sinking mud that we did not know but the next moment we might disappear from sight entirely. further on, the trail ran fair into a small lake, whose shores we had to skirt. there was no trail around, but much burnt and felled timber lay everywhere, and climbing over this, balancing our packs in the meantime, was "such fun." sometimes we would jump down from a high log, and, slipping a little, our packs would turn us around in the air, and we would fall on our backs, sprawling like turtles, and often unable to get out of our awkward position without help from our comrades. reedy lakes such as this, fringed with moss and coarse grass, with stunted spruce a little distance away, are common through this swampy country, and have something of the picturesque about them. the surrounding vegetation is very abundant. excellent cranberries are found, bright red in color and small in size; and on a little drier ground blue-berries nourish. raspberries of good size, although borne on bushes usually not more than two or three inches high, are also here; and red and black currants. [illustration: hog'em junction road-house.] at the end of the second day we arrived at hog'em junction, where the hog'em trail unites with that leading off to the other gulches where gold is found. here was the largest road-house we had seen. there were fifteen or twenty men hanging about, mostly miners returning or going to the diggings, and a professional hunter--a sort of wild man, who told thrilling stories of fighting bears. one of the structures we saw here was called the dog-corral and was a big enclosure built of logs. dogs were used to carry most of the provisions to the birch creek diggings from circle city, freighting beginning as soon as the snow fell and everything froze hard. there was a pack of these animals around the inn--a sneaking, cringing, hungry lot, rarely barking at intruders or strangers, and easily cowed by a man, but very prone to fight among themselves. they were all indian dogs, and were of two varieties; one long-haired, called mahlemut, from the fact that its home is among the mahlemut eskimo of the lower yukon; the other short-haired, and stouter. both breeds are of large size, and a good dog is capable of pulling as much as 400 pounds on a sleigh, when the snow is very good, and the weather not too cold. the dog-corral is used to put the sleighs in when the freighter arrives, and the dogs are left outside, to keep them away from the provisions. the winter price for freight from circle city was seven cents per pound; in summer it was forty. we ate breakfast and supper at hog'em junction, paying a dollar apiece for the meals; and when we learned that the bacon which was served to us had cost sixty-five cents a pound, the charge did not seem too much. no good bacon was to be had, that which we ate being decidedly strong; and even this kind had to be hunted after at this time of the year. not only was food very high in the diggings, but it could not always be bought, so that in the winter, when freighting was cheap, enough could not often be obtained to last through the next summer, and the miners had to wait for the steamer to come up the yukon. the hog'em junction innkeeper paid twenty dollars for a case of evaporated fruit, such as cost a dollar in san francisco; condensed milk was one dollar a can, and sugar eighty-five cents a pound. the previous winter beans brought one dollar a pound, and butter two and a half dollars a roll. in summer all prices were those of circle city, plus forty cents freighting, plus ten cents handling. so a sack of potatoes, which i was told would cost twenty-five cents in the state of washington, cost here eighty-five dollars. even in circle city the prices, though comparatively low, were not exactly what people would expect at a bargain counter in one of our cities. winchester rifles were sold for fifty dollars apiece, and calico brought fifty cents a yard. luckily there were few women folks in the country at that time! of the hog'em junction inn i have little distinct recollection except concerning the meals. we were so hungry when we reached there that the food question was indelibly branded on our memory. for the rest i remember that when supper was cleared away, the guests wrapped themselves in their private blankets and lay down anywhere they thought best. there was a log outhouse with some rude bunks filled with straw, for those who preferred, so in a short time we were stowed away with truly mediã¦val simplicity, to sleep heavily until the summons came to breakfast,--for there were no "hotel hours" for lazy guests at this inn, and he who did not turn out for a seven o'clock breakfast could go without. we three separated on leaving here, each taking a different trail, so that we might see all of the gulches in a short space of time. i shouldered my blankets and after a seven mile tramp through the brush came to the foot of hog'em gulch, which was in a deep valley in the hills that now rose above the plain. this gulch derived its name from the fact that its discoverer tried to _hog_ all the claims for himself, taking up some for his wife, his wife's brother, his brother, and the niece of his wife's particular friend; even, it is said, inventing fictitious personages that he might stake out claims for them. the other miners disappointed him in his schemes for gain, and they contemptuously called the creek "hog'em." afterwards a faction of the claim-owners proposed to change the name to deadwood, claiming that it sounded better and was also appropriate, inasmuch as they had got that variety of timber on the schemer. it was somewhat unkindly asserted, however, by those who were not residents of the gulch, that the first name was always the most appropriate, since the spirit of the discoverer seemed to have gone down to his successors. be that as it may, i noticed a remarkable difference between the men whom i found working their claims along the creek and the miners of forty mile. nobody showed the slightest hospitality or friendliness, except one man on the lower creek, who invited me to share his little tent at night. he had not enough blankets to keep him warm, so i added mine, and beneath them both we two slept very comfortably. in the morning he cooked a very simple meal over a tiny fire outside of the tent--wood was scarce along here--and invited me, with little talk, to partake of it with him. he was evidently far from happy in this cheerless existence; he was working for wages, which, to be sure, were ten dollars a day, but with provisions as high as they were this was nothing much, and the work was so hard that, great stalwart man as he was, he had lost thirty pounds since he had begun. he would have liked to return to the states, for he was somewhat discouraged, but he could not save enough money to pay for the expensive passage out. i hope he has struck it rich since then and brought back to his wife and babies the fortune he went to seek! [illustration: on hog'em gulch.] after i left this silent man, i found none who showed much interest. some of them were a little curious as to what i was doing, but most of them were fiercely and feverishly working to make the most of the hours and weeks which remained of the mining season; the run of gold was ordinarily very good, and all were anxious to make as good a final clean-up as possible. at dinner-time everybody rushed to their meal, and i sat down by the side of the trail, ate stale corned beef, broken crackers, and drank the creek water. when i was half-way through i observed two young men in a tent munching their meal, but watching me; and a sort of righteous indignation came upon me, as must always seize the poor when he beholds the abundance of the rich man's table. i walked into the tent and asked for a share of their dinner. they gave me a place, but so surlily that i said hotly, "see here, i'll pay you for this dinner, so don't be so stingy about it." the offer to pay was an insult to the miner's tradition and one of them growled out, "none of that kind of talk, d'ye hear? you're welcome to whatever we've got, and don't yer forget it! only there's been a good many bums along here lately, and we was getting tired of them." after this they were pleasanter, although i could not help reflecting that i was actually a bum, as they put it, and mentally pitied the professional tramp, if his evil destiny should ever lead him into the yukon country. as it grew near nightfall i climbed out of the gulch, and, crossing the ridge, dropped down into greenhorn gulch, which, with its neighbor tinhorn gulch, form depressions parallel to hog'em. there was only one claim working here, and on this the supply of water was so scarce that not much washing could be done. the people seemed like those of hog'em gulch, and took little notice of strangers. having learned a new code of manners on birch creek, however, i walked into the cabin where one of the claim owners was getting supper. he was a short, powerful, fierce-eyed man, who never smiled, and spoke with an almost frenzied earnestness. he did not speak for some time, however, but glared suspiciously when i walked in. i looked at him without nodding, took off my pack and put it in the corner, sat down on a stool and fished my pipe out of my pocket. he glared until he was tired, and then said: "hallo!" "hallo," i returned, and drawing up to the table, began working with my specimens and notebook. looking up and finding him still regarding me, i continued: "how's the claim turning out?" "pretty fair!" he growled. "what in h--l are _you_ reportin' for?" "uncle sam," i replied. he was from the moonshine district of tennessee, and this was no recommendation to him, so he kept his eye on me. presently his "pardner" came in and looked at me inquiringly. i spoke to him quite warmly, as if i was welcoming him to the cabin. soon supper was ready, and the fierce-eyed moonshiner looked at me four or five times, then said, beckoning me to the table: "set up." after supper the two men crawled into their bunks; i spread my blankets on the floor. the tennessee man poked his head out. "goin' to sleep on the floor?" he asked. "yes," answered i. he crawled out and pulled a caribou hide from the rafters above. "lay on that," he said. when i thanked him, he looked at me suspiciously. in the morning i sat down to breakfast without being asked, and ate enormously and silently. the moonshiner warmed up at this. "you're a better sort of feller than i thought at first," he said; "i thought you was goin' to be one of them d--d polite fellers." "me? oh, no; not me," i replied, "you're thinkin' of some one else, i reckon?" after breakfast he showed me his gold dust; a little flat piece interested me, and i said, "gimme that, i'll pay yer; what's it worth?" "nothin'," he replied. "yer can take it." afterwards i shouldered my pack and made for the door; when i got there i stopped and looked over my shoulder and said, "so long!" "so long to _you_!" he answered, looking after me with more human interest than i had previously seen in him. "stop here when you come this way again." i climbed out of the gulch and walked along the mountain ridge for a while, encountering, whenever there was no wind, swarms of the tiny gnats which the miners often dread worse than the mosquitoes. they are so numerous as actually to obscure the sun in places and they fill nose, ears, and eyes; there is no escape from them, for they are so small that they go through the meshes of a mosquito net with the greatest ease. on top of the ridge, where the wind blew, they disappeared. as i walked along here i met a prospector, and after a friendly talk with him, dropped down another mountain-side to the bed of independence creek, and followed that to the junction of mammoth creek, so called from the number of bones of the extinct elephant, or mammoth, which are buried there. wading across a swamp, i found in the brush another road-house, the mammoth junction. this was a large log building containing a single room, which served as kitchen, dining-room, parlor, general bedroom, and barroom. at first i was the only guest, but afterwards a prospector arrived from a hard trip to the tanana, and he related his experiences; how he had shot three bears, seven caribou, and a moose in seven days. he was a tall, well-built cape bretoner, dick mcdonald by name. when he got tired of talking i spread my blankets on the floor (for which privilege i paid fifty cents) and gladly stowed myself away for the night. the next day a tramp of seventeen miles brought me to the central house, on the way home from the diggings; for although our rendezvous should have been at mammoth junction, yet i concluded to wait for the others at circle city. the trail was very bad, and during the first part of the journey the gnats were as annoying as they had been on the mountains the day before. there were millions of them. during the last part the mosquitoes got the upper hand, and gave me the strictest attention. "ah," i soliloquized, perspiring freely and tugging at my pack straps like a jaded horse at his harness, "the trials of an alaskan pioneer! stumbling and staggering through mud knee-deep, and through nigger-heads, wading streams, fighting gnats and mosquitoes, suffering often from hunger and thirst, and rolling into one's sole pair of blankets under the frosty stars or the rain-clouds!" when my views were thus gloomy, a smell of smoke came to my nostrils, and crossing a little stream on a fallen tree, i came to the friendly inn i was seeking. the next morning, at five o'clock by my watch and eight by the host's, (it is unnecessary to observe that there was no standard time used in the birch creek district) i started for twelve mile cache. the first part of the trail was fairly well worn, but was covered with small dead trees which had fallen across it, necessitating the continual lifting of the feet and the taking of irregular steps. ten miles of this was enough to make one very weary. i lunched on my stale corned beef and cracker crumbs, and drank from a little creek that i crossed. soon after this, i came to a place where a newly blazed trail, leading to the twelve mile cache, diverged from the older path, which ran up over the mountains. deciding to take the newer route, i found it very hard walking, especially as my feet were clad in the eskimo sealskin boot, or makalok, which are soft and offer little protection. much of the road lay among immense untrodden nigger-heads and in swampy brush, where the sticks which had been cut off in making the trail stuck up three or four inches above the ground, just convenient for stubbing the toe; and yet the long grass quite concealed them, so they could not be avoided. afterwards the trail struck into an old winter sleighing road, and i got on more rapidly for a few miles; but the mosquitoes had increased to legions and stung painfully. the gnats and flies were also numerous, the big deer flies biting my ears where the mosquito netting rested on them, till they were bloody. at about four o'clock the cut trail came to an end, and here was a stick pointing into the woods, inscribed: "foller thes blaies to twelv mill house. six mills to twelv mill house 9 mills central house." the "blaies" (blazes) had been newly cut, and as i started to follow them, it seemed that they led through the thickest of the brush, where it was almost impossible to fight one's way, especially with a pack, which protrudes on both sides of the shoulders, and which often wedges one firmly between two saplings. soon the blazes grew further and further apart; after leaving one it often took ten minutes to find the next, scouting around everywhere in the tangle of bushes. the mosquitoes kept up their attacks, and my head began to ache splittingly, partly from their bites and partly from the jerking of the head strap of my pack in my struggles through the brush. at last in despair i abandoned the attempt to follow the blazes, and turning square away from them, struck off in the direction where i knew the hog'em junction trail, by which we had reached the diggings, must lie, steering by my compass. very soon i found better walking,--comparatively open swampy patches, with alder thickets between--and in half a mile i cut into the trail i was seeking. three miles of this trail brought me to twelve mile cache, after one of the hardest days i had had in alaska. compared with such a trip as this the dreaded chilkoot pass was not so formidable, after all. the entire distance i had travelled was twenty-seven miles. i had counted my paces through it all, and they tallied with the count of my companions, who came on later. for supper at twelve mile cache we had fresh fish,--pike and arctic trout--taken from a trap in the river, and fresh vegetables raised on the roof, which was covered with a luxuriant garden. a thick layer of rich loam had been put on, and the seed dropped into this throve amazingly, for the fires inside the cabin supplied warmth, and the plants did not have to fight against the eternal frost which lies everywhere a short distance below the surface. the long glorious sunshine of the northern summer did the rest, and splendid potatoes, rutabagas, cabbages, beets, and lettuce were the results. the fifteen miles back to circle city the next day was a very weary walk, for my overwork on the day before had left me tired out. the mosquitoes were maddening on the last part of the trail, in spite of gloves and veil. on getting into circle city, however, i was kindly welcomed by my friends, the customs officers, and given a square meal. the room we had occupied as a bedroom had, in the short time since we had left, been put to still other uses. a newly arrived physician was using it for a laboratory, and a man who had brought a scow load of merchandise down the yukon was storing his stuff in the same room. also a red-sweatered young man turned up who said he had been told to sleep here, but the customs officers kicked him out and he went and slept under an upturned boat on the bank. after a bath i felt refreshed, but glancing into a looking-glass for the first time for many a day, i saw that my appearance was still against me. i was a long-haired, bushy-bearded, ragged, belted and knifed wild man, not fair to look upon. i spent the next day in wandering around town in a desultory fashion, and on returning to the customhouse found the door locked. when i knocked i was challenged and then cautiously admitted: on entering i was surprised to see the officers with their rifles ready for use alongside of them. ross lifted up the strip of calico which formed a curtain hiding the space under the bed and disclosed two good-sized kegs. these he told me he and wendling (the other officer) had seized while we were away. it was, and is, entirely illegal to bring liquor into the territory of alaska, and this law and its attendant features have brought about much of the dishonesty and corruption which have made the inside history of alaskan government since its acquisition by americans such a dismal one. [illustration: custom house at circle city.] in circle city liquor was freely brought down the river from the british side of the boundary. the first customs inspector was said to have been a notorious rascal, who had not only winked at the bringing in of liquor, but had taken a hand in the trade himself. the present representatives of the government, however, seemed to wish to do their duty, and their watching nights and sleeping days had finally resulted in their trapping the smugglers as they were landing, and they had captured the whisky and had brought it to the customhouse, where the whole camp knew it to be. the whole camp was interested in it, moreover, for it had been whisky-dry; and the feeling towards the officers was probably none of the best in any quarter, although most recognized that they were simply doing their duty. at the enormously high prices which prevailed, these two kegs were worth several thousand dollars, and so were valuable booty. therefore, a plot had been hatched to recover the liquor, and this plot had come to the officers' ears a few hours before the _coup_ was to have taken place. hence the caution and warlike preparations which greeted me. the men from whom the whisky had been taken were the leaders in the scheme, and they had also enlisted several miners, among them a gigantic fellow who called himself "caribou bill," and whom i had met on the trail to the diggings. bill gave the thing away by going to a saloon-keeper and trying to borrow a second revolver--he already had one. on being questioned as to why he wanted it, he took the saloon-keeper into his confidence. the saloon-keeper told a friend of his, who being also a friend of one of the customs officers, cautioned him. both of the officers advised me to go elsewhere till the trouble was over, but reflecting that i was their guest and so under obligations to them, and also that i was an officer of uncle sam, and was in duty bound to "uphold the government of the united states by land and sea, against foreign and domestic enemies" as had been specified in my oath of office, i decided to remain with them. ross hunted up two of his old friends among the miners and told them he proposed to resist the attack till the last, and that if there should be any bloodshed he hoped the camp would treat him fairly, considering that he had simply been doing his duty. the miners offered to stay with us and help in the resistance, but as we knew their hearts were hardly in their offer of loyalty, we refused to let them stay. one of them, however, loaned his rifle to wendling; and as he went to get it, a couple of forms behind the house jumped up and ran away. the other miner, who had also gone out for a moment, returned with the news that he had seen four men skulking behind the bank which lay in front of the house. the plan of the smugglers and their friends, as ross had learned it, was to come to the door of the cabin and knock. when the officer went to the door to open it, he would be covered with a revolver, and the second officer with another, and the whisky would be rolled out and over the bank into a boat which would convey it up the river into a new hiding-place. if the officers resisted they would be shot and the whisky taken just the same. the plan we determined upon was to leave the door unlocked, so that when the expected knock should come we would not have to go to the door to open it, but would call out "come in" without stirring. i had my post on a box near the wall directly opposite the door, while ross sat in the darkness close by the window, so that when the knocker should enter he would find the muzzles of repeating rifles levelled at him from two opposite directions, and be invited to drop his fire-arms and surrender. wendling was in the other room watching the second door and window, but we did not expect the attack to be made there, since the smugglers must know very well that the whisky was in the officers' living-room, where we were. directly after we had taken our places a man came and stood twenty yards in front of the cabin in the dusk, and beckoned. ross went out to him, and a long talk ensued, which ended by the officer returning. he said that the man had told him that we were three against many, and that they were bound to get the whisky anyway, since it was theirs and they would fight for it; so if ross would simply yield without fighting it would save us. at the same time they would be willing to pay him a nice little sum as a plaster wherewith to heal his wounded dignity. ross had replied that they had mistaken their man; whereupon he was informed that he must take the consequences. so he returned, and we waited with tense nerves, in momentary expectation of an attack, our eyes strained, our fingers on the triggers of our cocked rifles, our ears listening. after an hour or more had passed, and no sound was heard, the suspense began to grow unbearable. ross whispered to me, "if them fellers are coming i wish they'd hurry up, and not keep us waiting here all night." shortly afterwards wendling, crawling cautiously and silently around in the other room, knocked down from some shelf on the wall a pile of tin pans, which made a terrific rattle and bang; this upset our tightly-drawn nerves so that we laughed convulsively, trying to choke down our merriment so that it could not be heard. still no noise from the outside, save that once we heard coughing behind the logs at the back of the building. ross, peering through the window, saw now and then a shadowy form creeping along the bank in front; and wendling, reconnoitring through the window in the other room, saw other figures passing around back of the house. and still no alarm. sitting bolt upright on my box, i suddenly caught my head, which was in the act of falling forward--caught it with a jerk which brought my eyes wide open, and at the same time horror filled my soul--i was in danger of falling asleep! this frightened me so that i kept awake easily after that. so we waited till the morning grey brightened in the sky, when finally ross remarked: "well, there's no more danger, and i'm tired enough to sleep." we rolled ourselves in our blankets and dropped asleep without a moment's delay, not waking until the day was late and goodrich and schrader, just returning from the diggings, pounded on the door and asked for admission and a bite to eat. concerning the reasons why the raid was given up, there was much inner history that i never learned. i suspect that the miners who had offered to help us afterwards warned the smugglers, telling them how well we were prepared, and that this kept them from carrying out their plans. the next night a grand ball was gotten up by the ladies of circle city, and our bedroom in the customhouse--being one of the largest places available--was selected as the scene of the dance. i was requested to write the announcements of the ball, which i did, and stuck one up on each of the companies' stores. they ran as follows: social dance. _there will be a social dance given by the ladies of circle city wednesday eve. aug. 19th, at the residence of mr. george ross. the supply of ice cream brought up on the arctic being exhausted, there will be no collation. no rubber boots allowed on the floor. dogs must be tied with ribbons in the anteroom._ after the notices were posted, one of the customs officers came to me in great perturbation concerning the regulation about rubber boots, saying that such a restriction would exclude many desirable and well-meaning gentlemen who would otherwise be able to attend. the shavings were swept out of the room and our beds and other stuff cleared out. wax candles were cut up and rubbed on the floor, and by dusk everything was in readiness. one of the trading companies donated the candles, which were stuck up around the room to the extent of nearly a dozen, and furnished a brilliant illumination. the services of a pock-marked vagabond who was employed around a saloon and dance-house was secured as director of the affair, and two miners just in from the gulches (they had taken only one change of clothes to the diggings and had not had time to change them after coming back before going to the dance), furnished the orchestra, playing very acceptably on guitar and fiddle. the music was all classical,--ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay or the irish washerwoman occupying most of the time. each of the players was so enthusiastic in his art that he often entirely forgot his companion, and would be fiddling away at the closing spasms of ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay, with perspiring zeal, when his more rapid partner had finished this tune and was merrily galloping through "wuz ye iver inside of an irishman's shanty? wid salt an' peraties an' iverything planty, a three-legged stool an' a table to match, and the door of the shanty unlocks wid a latch!" the pock-marked director yelled out "_swing_ your pardners. _ladies_ to the left. _forward_ and back! _alleman left!_ etc.," loud above the squeak of the stringed instruments. the couples gyrated in eccentric curves around in obedience to the cries; the candles flickered in the draft from the open door; and a row of miners too bashful to dance, or who could find no partners, sat on boxes close to the wall, hunched up their legs and spit tobacco-juice, until the middle of the floor was a sort of an island. in short, it was the most brilliant affair circle city had ever witnessed; even the indians who crowded around the open door and peered in over one another's heads murmured in admiration, and all agreed that it was a "_haioo_ time", which is equivalent to saying a rip-roaring time. this was not the first dance held in the camp. the small but powerful contingent of ladies of adventure held nightly dances, but this was the first where the ladies were respectable. we were hard put to it for finery. the dancer of our party, having, as we explained to him, to bear in a way the brunt of the social duties for us all, bought a new pair of blue overalls, much too large for him; these he turned up at the bottom, and braced up mightily, so that they covered many shortcomings; then he bought a green and yellow abomination of a necktie, which had been designed to catch the heathen fancy of the natives, plastered his hair down, and worried the tangles out of his beard. after this he was the beau of the evening, the gayest of the gay, being snubbed by only one woman, and she of doubtful reputation, as we consolingly reminded him. the men in general wore the most varied costumes, high boots being the prevailing style, though even the rubber boots i had been so near forbidding were seen; then one might notice the indian moccasins, and the sealskin makalok, which had been brought up from the eskimos on the lower yukon. flannel shirts without coat or vests were the rule, for the night was warm. here and there was a corduroy coat, or a mackinaw checked with red and green squares four inches across, but the wearers of them suffered for their vanity. in striking and almost ridiculous contrast to this picturesque attire was the black cutaway suit and polished shoes of the baker who had just arrived on a yukon steamer from st. michael's. after midnight we had cake, which the ladies had brought with them, and considering the fact that they had so little material for cooking, the variety and excellence were remarkable. underneath the festive board which covered the bed still lay concealed the two kegs of whisky which we had watched over the night before. it was at a late hour (to adopt country newspaper phraseology) that the company broke up, loud in their praises of the success of the fãªte, and returned to their respective homes. we then rolled our blankets out upon the waxed floor, and lay down for another night. the same day a river steamer had arrived in circle city from the lower yukon, bringing our trunks to us, which we had sent around by water from seattle. these were well filled with a goodly outfit for the winter, for we had expected that our work would take us two seasons. we had, however, gotten on twice as well as we had expected, and already saw the end of our task ahead, so there was nothing to hinder us from going out this same fall. the freight on our three trunks from seattle was one hundred and eighty dollars, and we did not feel justified in expending a like sum to carry them back. we therefore determined to sell our things, and the day after the party i wrote out notices announcing an auction to be held in the room where we had danced. wendling volunteered to act as auctioneer, provided he were allowed to work in as part of our effects several hundred pounds of tobacco which he had brought up as a speculation. at seven o'clock we started in, having borrowed a pair of gold-scales for the sake of transacting the financial part of the business, for almost the sole currency of the camp was gold dust. not being ourselves accustomed to the delicate operation of weighing, we persuaded some of the miners to do it for us, so that there should be no question as to fairness. at eight the miners began leaving and we were told that a miners' meeting had been called, so we adjourned for an hour, and attended the gathering. the miners' meeting was the sole legislative, judiciary and executive body in these little republics. to settle any question whatever, any one had the right to call such a council, which brought the issue to a summary close. this one was held in the open air close to the river bank in front of the company's store. the miners flocked together and conversed in groups. nobody knew who had called the meeting or why; but presently some grew impatient, remarking: "let's have the meeting. who's for chairman?" one man answered: "what's the matter with sandy jim for chairman? here he is, just in from the diggings! come over here, jim!" "second the motion, somebody. any body object to sandy jim?" said the first speaker. "climb up on the box, sandy, my boy." sandy jim was a slender, blonde young man with quiet manners, and a style of speech which told of a good education. he mounted the box in the centre of the crowd, and having thus obtained a commanding position, he began, with correct parliamentary methods, to bring about order. having requested silence, he inquired who had called the meeting. a man who acted as town clerk or some similar officer in the miners' vague system of government, explained that he had issued the call, to inform the miners that some one had settled upon a piece of land that had been set aside for town purposes, and, in spite of warnings to the contrary, was proceeding to erect a log house upon it; and that the tent temporarily occupied by the individual mentioned was already pitched upon the lot. as an officer of the camp he had felt in duty bound to call a meeting and let the boys decide what was to be done. instantly there was a rattle of contradictory suggestions, everybody addressing everybody else, and forgetting to turn to the chairman. finally a tall man with a heavy black beard mounted the box and addressed the meeting, arguing coldly and logically that the person had acted in defiance of the miners' meeting, which was the only law they had; and proposing that he be fined, and in case he resisted further, put in a boat and set floating down the yukon. there was a general murmur of approval, and the chairman, putting the question to a vote, found a fairly unanimous verdict in favor of the speaker's suggestion. "before i appoint a committee," said the chairman, "the meeting should know who the person is who has to be dealt with, and i will ask the gentleman who called the meeting to give the information." the clerk of the camp elbowed his way forward a little. "i've been trying to get a word in for a long time," he said. "i don't think we ought to be so hard in this case. you all know the person--it's black kitty. she's a woman, even if she _is_ black and a fighter, and she's alone and working for a living. i move we go it easy." amid another buzz the tall bearded man got up and remarked: "that's different. i don't think any one wanted to quarrel with a woman, and a black one at that." this was only his way of expressing it, for he certainly did not mean that he would rather have quarrelled with a white woman. "anyhow, there's plenty of land for public purposes out there in the brush, and i move an amendment that we let kitty alone!" in defiance of all parliamentary usage, this amendment was accepted with a chorus of approval by the crowd, which, satisfied with itself, scattered almost before the chairman could make himself heard, sanctioning and proclaiming valid the last expression of opinion. most of the miners returned to our cabin, where the auction began again, and lasted till twelve o'clock, by which time we had sold nearly everything we cared to, at prices a little above cost in seattle. wendling also succeeded in disposing of a hundred pounds of his tobacco, putting up lots every now and then. some miners expressed surprise to ross that we should use so much tobacco, and ross winked and put his finger on his nose and said, "you don't know the inside, that's all. see that little feller over there?" indicating me. "that little feller chews a pound a day. yes, sir! he eats it sometimes." the next morning we weighed out our gold dust and found it some twenty-five dollars more than we had any record of, from which we inferred that the miners who had so kindly superintended the weighing of the various sums paid in had been a little generous, and always given full weight. when we got to san francisco, and presented our gold dust at the mint, where it was weighed accurately, we received several dollars more for it than we made it from our final weighing; so it appears that the yukon miner's currency is none of the most accurate. stories were told around camp, of barkeepers who panned the sawdust on their floor and made good wages at it; and it was alleged that one had a strip of carpet on his counter, into which he let fall a trifle of gold dust every time he took a pinch for a drink of whisky, and at the end of the day, by taking up his carpet and shaking it, he had a nice little sum over his day's earnings. chapter vii. the mynook creek diggings. the next day, the 21st of august, we loaded up the skookum again, and dropped away from circle city with the current. the customs officers were short of rice, but they sent a pair of old slippers flying after us as we moved away; and several of the ladies who had been at the dance stood on the bank and waved us adieu. soon the river broadened out, with many channels flowing amid a maze of low wooded islands. this was the beginning of the great yukon flats, which stretch in dreary monotony for so many miles below circle city. the wind blew strong, with gusts of rain, in the morning, and increased to a gale which lasted nearly all day. the proper channel was difficult to determine, and we were often sucked into some little channel or slough (pronounced "sloo"), only to find our way back again, after a long circuit, to the larger body of water, at a place near where we had left it. no hills were visible in any direction--nothing but the waste of waters, the sandspits, and the level wooded islands and banks. at night we reached fort yukon, a trading post, which is situated at the junction of the porcupine with the yukon; we had made the distance from circle city, estimated at about eighty miles, in sixteen hours. so bewildering are the various channels here that one would hardly suspect that any stream entered the yukon, and the current is so varied and sluggish that one might easily attempt to ascend the porcupine, having the impression that he was still descending the yukon--a delusion that would be dispelled after the first few miles. like other so-called "forts" in the alaskan country, fort yukon was simply a rough log building inhabited by one white man, who had a scanty stock of very poor provisions, such as flour and tea, to exchange for skins with the natives. around the building the indians had made their camp, as usual, a trading-post being always the nucleus of a dirty and foul-smelling congregation of natives. from one indian we bought a whitefish, and on his presenting it to us whole, we motioned him to clean it; he did so, laying the entrails carefully on a board. he wished tea in exchange for it, and not being experienced in native trading, we gave him what we afterwards learned was ten or twelve times the usual price. we had the best english breakfast tea, and he was at first doubtful at this, having seen only the cheap black tea always sold to the natives; but he was vastly pleased at the quantity, and, laughing delightedly, proceeded to "treat" his friends on the occasion of his good fortune, by handing around the raw entrails of the fish, which they divided and ate without further ceremony. not liking to sleep within reach of the indian dogs, who are very dangerous enemies to one's bacon, we dropped down the river half a mile below the post and made camp in a spruce grove--a beautiful spot, cool, and free from mosquitoes. the next day we were still in the flats. there was a high wind blowing and the sky was spotted with curious clouds. some were like cauliflowers in form; others were funnel-shaped; and still others were dark, with long black tentacles of rain. whenever these tentacles passed over the river in a direction against the current, an ugly chop sea was the result, and our boat, stout dory though she was, shipped water in some of these places. floating down through the network of channels we suddenly ran hard upon a sand-bar, and it took a couple of hours' work to get us off, for as soon as we were lodged the sand which the yukon waters carry began settling round the boat and banking it in, making it the hardest work imaginable to move it. while we were tugging and groaning in our efforts, a steamer--the arctic--came down the river behind us, and being steered by experienced indian pilots, struck the right channel only a short distance from us and floated past triumphantly. the deck was swarming with miners who were bound for st. michael's, and they made many jocose remarks at our expense, offering to take word to our friends, and do other favors for us. we said nothing, though we fumed inwardly. finally we succeeded in getting free, and floated off. some time afterwards we saw behind us what appeared to be the smoke of another steamer; but when we stopped for lunch the craft caught up with us, and proved to be an ordinary open boat like our own, but with a yukon stove made of sheet iron set up in it, whereon the solitary passenger cooked his dinner while he floated. in the afternoon we caught sight of a bona fide steamer ahead of us, and as we came steadily closer, it seemed as if she must be stopping; soon we recognized the arctic, and saw that the crew and all the passengers were laboring excitedly in many ways, trying to get the boat off the sand-bar on which she was stuck. we ran close by her, for there was water enough for our little boat, although the rapid deposit from the river had built up a bank to the surface of the water on one side of the steamer. we were sorry for these men, who were in a hurry to get to st. michael's, and so on home; at the same time we could not resist the temptation to return to them their greetings of the morning, and offer to take letters to their friends. they did not seem to be so much amused at the joke as they had been in the morning--probably because they had heard it before. we were several days floating through this monotonous part of the river. there were always the same banks of silt, from which portions, undercut by the current, were continually crashing into the stream; these were immediately taken up and hurried along by the current to form part of the vast deposit of mud which the yukon has built up at its mouth, and which has filled up the behring sea until it is shallow and dangerous. on the higher banks, which were forty feet or so above the river (it was then low water), spruce and other trees were growing, and as the soil which bore them was undercut, they too dropped into the river and started on their long journey to the sea. along the vast tundra at the yukon mouth, and the treeless shores of the behring sea, the natives depend entirely upon these wandered trees for their fuel. the quantity brought down every year is enormous, for the stream is continually working its way sidewise, and cutting out fresh ground. everywhere we noticed the effects of the ice which comes grinding down the river in the spring. the trees had been girdled by the ice and were dying, the underbrush cut down, the earth plowed up, and occasionally there were piles of pebbles where a grounded cake had melted and deposited its burden. [illustration: the break-up of the ice on the yukon.] we used to camp on the gravel bars mostly, to avoid the mosquitoes; but every now and then a night was cool and even frosty, and the mosquitoes and gnats, after starting in their assault, were gradually numbed, and their buzzing grew fainter and fainter till it disappeared. when we felt such nights coming on, we camped in the spruce groves on the higher banks, built roaring fires and sat by them comfortably and smoked, looking out on the smooth river with the dark even fringe of trees between it and the sky with its snapping stars; and for the first time on our trip we began to have some of the pleasures which usually come to the camper-out. we passed indian hunting and fishing camps occasionally, and once a solitary white man engaged in cutting wood for the river steamers. the natives seemed always to have plenty to eat, and we frequently obtained from them fish, duck, moose, and berries. as we passed a camp the inhabitants would put out in their tiny birch-bark canoes, if we did not stop; and, overtaking us with ease, would hold up for purchase such articles as they had. the berries were in native dishes of hewn wood, or of birch-bark tied with wooden thongs, and were so quaint that we took them home as curiosities. after several days in the flats, we saw--when the clouds lifted after a prolonged rainstorm--that the course of the river was apparently barred by low mountains, level-topped, with occasional higher peaks rising above the general level, but all with smooth and rounded outlines. as we drew nearer we saw a narrow valley cutting through the mountains, and into this the river ran. just before entering, we found a trading post, fort hamlin by name, and from the trader, who was the only white man here, we each bought a pair of eskimo water-boots, made of the skin of the makalok or hair seal, soaked in oil. we had long ago worn out the most of our civilized foot-gear, and were obliged to adopt the native styles. these eskimo boots often have soles of walrus, and yet they are too thin for walking over stones, so they are made very large, and dried grass is put into the bottom; the foot, too, is wrapped in as many thicknesses of cloth or skins as possible, and thus is protected against bruises and against the cold of the severest winter weather. leaving fort hamlin, we floated down through picturesque hills, on the sides of which the birch was beginning to yellow. another day brought us to mynook creek, of which we had heard at circle city as likely to be a good gold producer. at the mouth of the creek we found the temporary camps of a few prospectors, who were on their way up to stake out claims. there were also numerous indians encamped in the vicinity--true savages, with very few words of english among them, "yes" "no" and "steamboat" making up almost their entire vocabulary. a sort of chief among them was a mynook, a half-breed with more indian than white in his features. it was after him that the creek had been named (or rather renamed, for it had formerly been known as the klanakakat or klanachargut, the native name); he had been the first to discover gold, and was engaged in working a claim with a crew of natives, notwithstanding the fact that indians have, according to our somewhat peculiar laws, no legal right to stake mines. he was a good-looking fellow with a fair knowledge of english, which he was very proud to air, especially the "cuss-words," which he introduced into conversation very gravely and irrelevantly. he said when he got dust enough he was going to "san francisco," that being to him a general name for the world of the white men. he had always hired natives to work his claims, although he admitted that they did not work nearly as well as white people; they would labor only until they had a little money ahead, and then would quit until it was all spent, although it might be the very busiest season; and if perchance a steamboat was reported on the river, the gang to a man would drop pick and shovel and trot down the trail to the mouth of the creek, there to stand open-eyed and open-mouthed, gazing at the smoking monster which held them with a fascination stronger than even mynook's displeasure. we camped on the beach, and made preparations the next morning to visit the diggings. we separated, as usual, each taking a different route, and each hiring an indian to accompany him and carry his pack. the first indian i hired had on a new gingham jumper, and a sly smile which gave an impression that his subsequent actions did not belie. he wanted to be paid before starting, and when this was refused said he was hungry, and was so weak that he could not walk without food. so we administered to him a substantial breakfast, after which he disappeared and never could be found again. soon another indian presented himself--a particularly wicked looking fellow, with red bulging eyes that gave one a sort of shiver to look at him. he wanted to go with me, and i hired him, having no other choice. then he too explained by gestures, that he was starving and must have some breakfast to keep him strong on his long walk; whereupon i explained, also by gestures, that the first indian had gotten the second indian's breakfast already, and that, having delivered the breakfast, the rest was no affair of mine (i having carried out my share of the transaction as was fitting), so that the only possible subject for discussion lay between him and the first indian. he seemed to be impressed with the logic of this, shouldered his pack and trotted off meekly enough. as we started, the smoke of a steamboat became visible down the river; the natives raised the excited cry of "shteemboot" and my guide showed signs of sitting down to wait for it to come and go before he should proceed with his journey. however, a few studiously stern looks, accompanied by prodding in his ribs with a stick, started him along the trail, to which he kept faithfully after that. this led through a thick growth of alder brush, across brooks, but always kept in the valley of the main stream, on each side of which were hills with the bare rocks peering from among the yellowing foliage. after three hours' tramp, we turned up a little side valley, and soon came upon a claim that was being worked by a number of miners. this was the only active one on this creek, and with the exception of mynook's claim on another small branch, the only one being exploited on mynook creek as a whole. several other men, however, had staked claims and were engaged in building log cabins, preparatory to the winter's prospecting. here i dismissed my indian, telling him by signs to come back again on the next day. during the two days he and i were out together, we did not utter an articulate sound in trying to communicate with one another. it was of no use, for he could not understand the english any better than i yukon. so in this case i looked at him fixedly and silently, and pointed to the miner's cabin, laid my head on my hand and shut my eyes, signifying that i intended to sleep there. then with my finger i followed in the sky the course the sun would take on the following day, halting at a point midway in the afternoon; then, pointing to him, i imitated the motion of a man carrying a pack, and with a rapid movement of the finger indicated the trail back to the mouth of the creek; finally with a comprehensive gesture i gave him to understand that he might do as he pleased in the meantime. he disappeared immediately, coming back at night to beg for food from my hosts; failing in that, he bivouacked at a camp-fire, with a few other indians who were working on the creek, in front of the miner's log cabin, and before we were up in the morning had disappeared again. at exactly the appointed time the next day, however, he returned, ready for the harness, as red-eyed, dumb and vicious-looking as ever. the sign language of all these yukon indians is wonderfully clever; it is also very complicated, and i have seen two natives conversing fluently behind a trader's back, using their faces and hands in rapid movements which, however, conveyed no idea to the uninitiated observer as to their meaning. some of their signs which i have understood are remarkable for the clever selection of a distinguishing characteristic to designate a given object. for example, a white man was expressed by stroking the chin as if it were bearded. in this wild country razors were unknown and even scissors a rarity, so that all white men wore thick and usually bushy beards, while the natives had very little or no hair on their faces. since i wore spectacles, i was described in sign language first by a gesture of stroking the beard, which indicated that i was a white man, and then by bending the thumb and forefinger in a circle, and peering through this circle, thereby sufficiently identifying me among others. at the cabin where i spent the night was a man who had been on the exploring expedition of lieutenant allen some years before, when that young officer accomplished such a splendid journey under such great difficulties, through a barren and unknown country, ascending the copper river, descending the tanana, exploring the koyukuk, and finally returning to st. michael's by way of the yukon. on learning that i was in the government service, this man insisted on my becoming his guest. he slept and ate in a little log cabin of his own, where he had a bed built of hewn wood, which was pretty exactly proportioned to his own length and breadth. by a little careful manipulation, however, we both managed to stretch out on it and as the night was frosty and our covering none of the thickest, neither of us objected to the proximity of the other, although we were so crowded that when one turned over the other had to do so at the same time. in the morning my "pardner," as he might fitly be called, had a savory breakfast well under way when i opened my eyes. after our meal my host went to his work, while i undertook a journey a little further up the main stream to a tributary gulch. here one man was engaged in prospecting--oliver miller, one of the remarkable prospectors of early alaskan times. he had been in this region many years already, always prospecting, often lucky in finding, but never resting or stopping to reap the benefits of his discoveries, and always pushing restlessly onwards towards new and unexplored fields. in the early eighties he had been among the first who had come to the forty mile district from stewart river and the other affluents of the yukon above the international boundary. he discovered the creek still known by his name--miller creek,--which really lies at the headwaters of sixty mile creek, but is separated only by a low dividing ridge from the gold-producing gulches at the head of forty mile creek, and is therefore usually reckoned as a part of the forty mile district. miller creek was one of the richest creeks in the district and was soon staked out by eager prospectors; but miller himself got restless, and saying the place was getting too crowded for him, sold his claim one day for what he could get, and investing the amount in "grub" and outfit, started out over the hills alone, prospecting. in the birch creek district, which was discovered later, he found gold again, but as soon as miners came in he sold out and went further. now after many wanderings he was in mynook creek, and it was characteristic of the man that instead of being industriously engaged in washing gold in one of the already prospected tributaries nearer the yukon, he had vanished into the brush, out of reach of the sound of pick and shovel, and was nosing around among the rocks and panning gravel. according to directions, i left the trail, which indeed ran no further, and followed the bank of the main stream, working my way through the brush, till i came to a little brook, then went up along this nearly to where it emerged from a rocky gorge in the hills. at this point i came upon a grassy nook under the birches, where a fire was smouldering; and under a tree a man's heavy blankets were spread on a bed of green boughs, as if he had just stepped out. a couple of kettles were standing near the fire, and a coat was lying on the ground, while an axe was sticking in the tree above the blankets. there was no tent or any superfluities whatever, and it was evident that this camping outfit was one of those which a man may take on his back and wander over hill and dale with. not hearing or seeing any sign of life, i sat down and waited, but no one appearing after half an hour, i began following a man's trail from the camp up the gorge, tracing him by the bent grass and broken twigs. after having gone a short distance, i heard the thumping of a pick on a rocky wall in front and above me, and gave a hail. the prospector came down very slowly, his manner not being so much that of a man who was sorry to see one--on the contrary, he was pleasant and cordial--as that of one who is reluctantly dragged away from a favorite employment. we went back to his camp under the birches and as it was now noon he invited me to dinner with him. it was a sunny day, and the grass was warm and bright, with the shadow of the delicate leaves falling upon it; the mosquitoes had disappeared in this period of frosty nights and chilly days, so that the sylvan camp was ideal. some boiled beans, boiled dried apples, and bread, baked before an open fire, constituted the meal; yet i remember to this day the flavor of each article, so delicious they appeared to my sharp appetite. miller was embarrassed somewhat about dishes. he had by good luck two kettle covers, which served as plates for us, and he was, he explained, in the habit of using his sheath-knife to manage the rest, for he had neither table-knife, fork, nor spoon. i produced my own sheath-knife and assured him that i was born with it in my mouth, so to speak, and we set to eating cheerfully. for a professional recluse, i found miller very cordial and communicative. he travelled alone, he told me, not because he would not have been glad of company, but because it was hard to find any one to go with him, and almost impossible that two "pardners," even when at first agreeable, should remain very long without quarrelling; so he had decided, as the simplest solution, to carry out his ideas alone. he was in the habit of exploring the most remote parts of the territory, searching for minerals. he had tramped over the mountains between the yukon and the tanana, back and forth; and had been a thousand miles up the koyukuk, to where it headed in a high range, climbing which, he had looked out upon the arctic ocean. on returning down the river, he had been knocked out of his boat by a "sweeper" (a log which extends out from a bank over a stream, two or three feet above the water). the current was so rapid where he met with the accident that when he rose to the surface his boat was some distance ahead of him. he struck out swimming to catch up with it, but, as if animated with a perverse living spirit, the boat moved off on a swifter current toward the centre of the river. soon he was in danger of being benumbed in the icy water, and he was exhausted from his efforts, yet he knew if he should swim to the banks and lose his boat he would eventually perish in the wilderness, without resource and hundreds of miles from the nearest human being. so he swam desperately, and when on the point of giving up and sinking, a check in the current ahead slackened the speed of the boat so that by an effort he was able to reach it and grasp the gunwale. but it was some time before he gathered strength enough to pull himself aboard. the history of the prospectors in any new country, especially in alaska, would be a record of intensely interesting pioneering. unfortunately these men leave no record, and their hardships, lonely exploring tours and daring deeds, performed with a heroism so simple that it seems almost comical, have no chronicler. they penetrate the deserts, they climb the mountains, they ascend the streams, they dare with the crudest preparation the severest danger of nature. some of them die, others return to civilization and become sailors or car-conductors or janitors; but they are of the stuff that keeps the nation alive. by that i do not mean the false or imitation prospector, who has no courage or patience, but only the greed of gold. thousands of such poured into alaska after the klondike boom, and many of them turned back at the first sight of chilkoot pass, which is nothing to frighten a strong boy of twelve. many more got enough of alaska in floating down the yukon, and kept on straight to st. michael's, scarcely stopping in any of the mining regions; thereby benefiting the transportation companies greatly, and adding much to the territory's sudden apparent prosperity. but before the klondike rush nearly all the alaskans were of the hardy true pioneer type i write about. in the afternoon i returned, and finding my indian punctually on hand at the appointed time, we went back to the yukon together. chapter viii. the lower yukon. the next day we broke camp, and floating down the river, soon entered the main range of the rampart mountains. they were not high, but picturesque, and the lower parts and the valleys were gay with green and gold. it was a perfect day, cool and clear. we stopped for the night below the so-called rapids, which at this time of low water were hardly noticeable. an indian came to our camp from his village across the river, and we traded a can of condensed milk with him for a silver salmon. i got into his little narrow birch canoe, and managed to paddle it with the feather-like paddle, thanks to my experience in rowing a racing-shell; but it required infinite care in balancing. i could not help admiring the ease with which the indian managed the delicate boat when he left us for home again, and wondering how these people catch salmon out of canoes like these. [illustration: a yukon canoe.] [illustration: indian fish-traps.] all this day and the next we passed many indian villages, made up of white tents, with red dried salmon hung up on frames in front. although these natives are classed as indians, (belonging to the group of athabascans) and although they show certain traits of physiognomy like them, yet in their general nature they are entirely different. unlike the stoical sioux or arapahoe of the united states, these people are childlike and open in their manners. they chatter freely in their own language, whether it is understood or not; they are anxious to give and get information; and they seize the slightest excuse for a joke to giggle convulsively. they are fine boatmen, and good hunters and fishermen. all along the river could be seen their traps of stakes, set in some eddy near a bend of the river, and in the early frosty mornings the squaws would come down to the traps in their canoes,--which are broader than those of the men, and managed by a wider paddle--propelling them swiftly and rhythmically along, crooning a song. they are an intelligent, good-humored people, already a little spoiled in their manners and ideas by contact with whites who were hardly fitted to teach the untutored savage. yet they are on the whole far from disagreeable people to deal with, and although their habits did not always seem up to the civilized standard, yet in contrast to the eskimos whom we saw further down the river, they were models of cleanliness. there is no lack of variety in their faces, and in one camp i saw a woman whose dark beauty would have ornamented the finest drawing-room. whether or not she had some share of white blood i do not know. these indians, as a rule, have no chief, but live in the most complete independence, the only authority over them being that of the _shaman_ or medicine man, who attains his ascendency by his cleverness in duping others to believe he has supernatural gifts, such as prophecy. it is the custom for any one who aspires to high position to make prediction as to the weather, when the next steamboat will arrive, and so on. when his predictions become true frequently, he gradually obtains influence. great travellers are the alaskan indians too, and at a trading post along this part of the yukon one may see, besides the yukon indians, others from the koyukuk, the tanana, and even the kuskokwim; but one rarely sees eskimos, who are not such great wanderers, and when they make voyages visit only the regions peopled by their own race. those indians who live on the flats of the river frequently go to the mountains a long distance off to hunt. dr. dall, in his "alaska and its resources," gives the following translation of a song which he heard a koyukuk woman singing to her infant. "the wind blows over the yukon. my husband hunts the deer on the koyukun mountains. ahmi, ahmi, sleep, little one. "there is no wood for the fire. the stone axe is broken, my husband carries the other. where is the sun-warmth? hid in the dam of the beaver, waiting the springtime? ahmi, ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not! "look not for ukali,[2] old woman. long since the cache was emptied, and the crow does not light on the ridge-pole! long since my husband departed. why does he wait on the mountains? ahmi, ahmi, sleep, little one, softly. "where is my own? does he lie starving on the hillside? why does he linger? comes he not soon, i will seek him among the mountains. ahmi, ahmi, sleep, little one, sleep. "the crow has come, laughing. his beak is red, his eyes glisten, the false one. 'thanks for a good meal to kuskokala the shaman. on the sharp mountain quietly lies your husband.' ahmi, ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not. "twenty deer's tongues tied to the pack on his shoulders; not a tongue in his mouth to call to his wife with. wolves, foxes, and ravens are tearing for morsels. tough and hard are the sinews; not so the child in your bosom. ahmi, ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not! "over the mountain slowly staggers the hunter. two bucks' thighs on his shoulders, with bladders of fat between them. twenty deer's tongues in his belt. go gather wood, old woman! off flew the crow,--liar, cheat, and deceiver! wake, little sleeper, wake, and call to your father! "he brings you back fat, marrow, and venison fresh from the mountains. tired and worn, he has carved a toy of the deer's horn, while he was sitting and waiting long for the deer on the hillside. wake, and see the crow, hiding himself from the arrow! wake, little one, wake, for here is your father." although we saw fish in front of all the tents and apparent contentment in every face, yet we were told that the catch had not been nearly so great as usual that summer, and that there must inevitably be much suffering during the winter. "yes," said mynook, at mynook creek, philosophically, "goin' be hard winter; tink old people all die." we asked him why just the old people, and he explained that the old people had not been able to gather so much provisions as the young and vigorous ones, and would therefore sooner starve. we told him that in our country we cared for the old first, and he seemed to think such a custom very unjust, observing that the old who had lived should die if there was any famine, and make room for the younger ones who could live yet a long time if they could get food. it is starvation, one may add, which keeps the indian population of the whole alaskan interior within very meagre limits. on the 3d of september we came to the mouth of the tanana, a large tributary which enters the yukon on the left side; the country around its mouth is low, and the river itself splits into many channels, forming a delta. on the bank of the yukon opposite the mouth of the tanana we found a trading post with two white men and a host of indians. when we landed at the store we were met by the indians, the white men having not yet observed us. the first was evidently a shaman or medicine man, a copper-colored old fellow with cross eyes and a cunning wrinkle around his mouth. he ceremoniously pulled off his buckskin gloves before offering his hand to shake; then pointing his finger to the sky he began a long speech in his own language, with many gestures. we all listened very gravely, and when he got through and looked at me with an air of self-satisfaction and triumph, i placed both hands on my stomach, and rolled my eyes, then thumbed my nose at him, and finally began to quote to him the immortal soliloquy of hamlet "to be or not to be," with much emphasis and many variations. everybody listened with evident delight, especially the shaman, and when we were through they conducted us up to the trading post. an old fellow was smoking a curiously carved wooden pipe, which filled the soul of one of our party with the desire to obtain it, since it seemed such a remarkable bit of native work. he offered five dollars for it as a starter, and the old fellow, astounded but willing to accept the gifts of the gods without questioning, handed over the pipe with an alacrity that made goodrich examine it a little more before parting with his money. on the bottom of the bowl was stamped in the wood "smith & co., new york," and on closer inspection it was evident that the apparent carving was in reality pressed, and that the pipe was worth in the neighborhood of twenty-five cents in the states. we were welcomed by the trader, and after a lunch with him floated down the river about eight miles to the mission below. there our eyes were delighted by a neat little building with a belfry and bell, and actually two dormer windows. it was the work of the pioneer mike hess, from whom the stream entering the yukon above mynook creek had been named. the missionary was absent in a parochial call five hundred miles away, but his wife and child and a nurse were there. the missionary published the only paper on the yukon at that time; it appeared once a year, and consisted of four small pages, printed on a hand-press. the items were from all over the country, and many of them were very interesting and amusing. from here we kept on travelling with the current down the yukon, helping our speed by continuous rowing. there being three of us, "tricks" of one hour were arranged, so each man steered for an hour, rowed an hour, and then sat in the stern for an hour, regarding the landscape and making notes. it grew so chilly that often the time for resting was hardest to endure, for the skin would cool and the teeth would chatter even with all the clothes we could get on, and we would be glad to get a little vigorous exercise again. storms were frequent, and we often had the pleasure of sitting in the driving rain all day long. we covered over our outfit as well as we could and even rigged up a sort of awning of sail-cloth on a frame-work of boughs, which kept the rain off the steersman, while the man who was resting crawled under a tarpaulin, and the oarsman rowed and got wet; so that under these conditions the position of steersman was most coveted. the wind blew with such violence that sometimes we took water over the bow and stern of our boat, and the steerman had to exert skill to keep from swamping. when the weather was clear, however, it was cool, and we enjoyed life more at such times than we had before done. [illustration: in a tent beneath spruce trees.] to wake up on a gloriously bright morning, in a tent pitched beneath spruce trees, and to look out lazily and sleepily for a moment from the open side of the tent, across the dead camp-fire of the night before, to the river, where the light of morning rests and perhaps some early-rising native is gliding in his birch canoe; to go to the river and freshen one's self with the cold water, and yell exultingly to the gulls and hell-divers, in the very joy of living; or to wake at night, when you have rolled in your blankets in the frost-stricken dying grass without a tent, and to look up through the leaves above to the dark sky and the flashing stars, and hear far off the call of a night bird or the howl of a wolf: this is the poetry, the joy of a wild and roving existence, which cannot come too often. no one need look for such moments during mosquito time in alaska. but the pests were over now, and men and animals who had been fighting them all summer rested and drew deep draughts of peace, and strengthened themselves for the stinging cold of the winter, likewise hard on the temper and on the vital powers. in our downward journey we passed close by mountains whose tops were beginning to be snow-covered, and were higher than those of the rampart mountains, which we had crossed above the tanana; yet they were further from the river, with level country between. leaving these behind we came to flats similar to the great yukon flats above the ramparts, but not so extensive. here the river split into many channels, enclosing low green islands. the clay banks were fifty or a hundred feet high, and as we followed the current it took us against the side which it was engaged in cutting away. we had to avoid getting too close, for one never knew when a portion, undermined by the stream, would topple over with a tremendous splash; and if such a mass should strike the boat it would bear it to the bottom of the river and bury it so deeply and easily that when the dust of the fall should clear away, the circles on the water would be as regular as usual. the banks showed on the upper parts, deposits of black peat, twenty or thirty feet thick, and it was evident that the accumulations are going on at the surface yet. alaska is, like other arctic regions, densely covered with moss, which grows alike in the swamps and on the steep hillsides; and the successive generations of mosses, one rearing itself on the remains of the others, bring about in time a deposit of peat which one can find nearly everywhere, if he digs down. it is well known that such vegetable accumulations, after having been transformed into peat, may by further change become a lignite or sort of brown coal, and when much altered by the heat or pressure attending the uneasy movement of the earth's crust may even become anthracite. in many regions the crust, apparently still, is in reality constantly moving, although so slowly that we do not notice it; yet in the course of ages the most stupendous changes have been brought about. we are accustomed to picture coal as originating in tropical swamps of the carboniferous period, with enormous trees bearing leaves many feet long, and bullfrogs as big as men squatting in the background, while the air is so heavily laden with carbonic acid that it would put out a candle; but here, at the arctic circle, the formation of coal is evidently going on rapidly, and future generations may derive benefit from it. beds of vegetable matter belonging to a past age are abundant all along the yukon, but the coal is as yet only a black shiny lignite, for it has not been altered much; and leaves found in it show that the vegetation of the period when the beds accumulated was not far different from what it is to-day, and had nothing to do with gigantic tadpoles and malaria. one of the most interesting of the high clay bluffs which we passed lies on the left-hand side of the river, not far below the tanana. it has been called by some early travellers the palisades, and this name appears on the map, but the miners and traders know it by the name of the boneyard, from the fact that there are buried in the silts near the top (which is about two hundred feet high) many bones of large animals, which come down to the river as portions of the bluff are undermined and fall. we stopped at this place, and, slumping through the mud to the foot of the bluff, we came across the tusk of a mammoth, which probably weighed over a hundred and fifty pounds. it was as thick as a man's leg at its larger end, but the whole of it was evidently not there. further on we found a smaller tusk with the end worn off as if the animal had been using it severely for some purpose. afterwards we saw other bones,--leg bones, fragments of the backbone, etc.,--in great abundance. our little boat was too small to carry these gigantic relics, but we preserved a huge molar tooth from a mammoth, measuring several inches across, and we sawed off portions of one of the tusks. the extinct hairy elephant, or mammoth, inhabited alaska at a time previous to the memory of man, yet not very ancient, geologically speaking. remains of these animals are also abundant in arctic america and siberia. it was at first supposed that the climate was tropical when they existed, since it is well known that the elephant is a native of hot countries, and the bones are almost exactly like those of the elephants of the tropics. the discovery of some of these remains in the river lena in siberia was one of the most interesting of modern scientific events. from some reason or the other, many mammoth had been caught in the ice of the river and had been frozen in, the ice never melting through all the thousands of years that followed. so well preserved were they at the time of their discovery that it is said they furnished food for dogs; but what amazed scientists most was to find that this elephant was covered with very long hair or fur, forming a protection against the cold such as few creatures possess. the fur and much of the skin of one of these mammoth may be seen in the museum at st. petersburg. we know from geologic evidence that alaska, firm and solid land though it appears to be, is really slowly rising out of the sea, and we also know that this rising motion has been going on for a very long time. at a period which must have been many hundred years ago, the country was covered with a multitude of shallow lakes, many of them large, and some of immense size--rivalling our great lakes of the st. lawrence river system. most of these lakes are now drained and we have, as records of them, only broad flats composed of fine clays and silts which accumulated as sediments in the lake bottoms. through this vast lake region roamed the mammoth in herds, and so far as we can tell the climate was much the same as it is now; but with the elevation of the land and the draining of the lakes the mammoth has disappeared--the reason no one is able to tell. the eskimos carve the mammoth tusks into ornaments, pipes, and other ivory articles. they are familiar, in fancy, with the animal, and have a special name for it, as well as for its ivory as distinguished from walrus ivory. they also have some vague legends about it, which the traveller may learn through an interpreter. at st. michael's a mahlemut eskimo told me that a long time ago, when the whole country was full of lakes and darker than it is now, these animals were alive, and in the time of their fathers they were said to still exist, far in the interior, on the shores of a great lake; and that their fathers never went near this lake, hunting, for fear of this beast. it is more than likely, however, knowing what we do of the eskimo habits and character, that this was simply fancy, which grew out of finding the tusks and the bones; or an invention, gotten up to satisfy the white man's curiosity, for the eskimo is so willing to please that he always tells exactly what he thinks will be appreciated, whether or not it is the truth. moreover, so far as i have been able to judge from other things, the eskimo tradition does not run nearly so far back as it needs must to extend to the time of the mammoth. breaking camp one morning, just as the smoke was beginning to curl from the camp of our siwash neighbors on the other bank of the river, we ran rapidly down stream, and by the early afternoon passed the mouth of the koyukuk. this is a large stream of clear water contrasting sharply with the muddy roily waters of the yukon, from which it is separated almost by a distinct line. above the rivers at the point of junction rises a beautiful sharp cliff, probably a thousand feet high and nearly perpendicular to the top. on reaching this place we were met by heavy winds which tossed the surface of the river into waves, and where it blew against the current made a chop sea, so that the skookum took in a good deal of water. soon we were unable to make any headway at all against the wind, so we landed, and tracking our boat along the bank till we came to a little "slough" or shallow side channel where the water, protected by trees which grew on both sides, was smooth, we made camp. it was a flat smooth place, and the ground was covered thickly with fuzzy bright green plants of the horse-tail family, which made everything look so downy that one felt like rolling in it. these beautiful plants are easily crushed under foot, and a little tramping around had the effect of pressing out the water with which the sand was filled, and transforming all into a very soft mud. we had to keep our heavy boots on, therefore, especially around the fire, which is the most frequented spot in a pioneer's camp; and finally we had to lay poles along the path between the camp and the boat, to prevent slumping too deeply. to add to our discomforts, the rain came down in torrents that night, piercing our somewhat service-worn tent, so that by morning most of our outfit, including blankets, was more or less wet. starting out again, we found, soon after leaving our sheltered nook, that the wind was still blowing, and in stretches of the river where the wind was ahead we could move only very slowly, while on other curves we went at a high rate of speed. so we moved along by jerks till about noon, when we were brought to a standstill by an increase in the wind, and after an effort to proceed further, which resulted in our being blown back a little up the river, we landed, waited an hour and lunched; after this, the wind having gone down somewhat, we proceeded. we passed several native villages, both winter and summer camps, the former with their clumsily built log houses and attendant log caches, the latter with their white tents and lines of fish drying on frames in front. the inhabitants shouted out vociferous greetings to us as we passed, which we did not understand; but we responded quite as cordially in our own tongue. at about five o'clock we reached the native village of nulato, one of the largest on the river, with a population of several hundred, and a small trading post, at that time kept by a half-breed trader. our first question on landing was whether the steamer had passed down the yukon for st. michael's. this steamer would be the last which would make connections with seattle or san francisco, so if we missed it we would be obliged to remain all winter in the country. we knew approximately when the boat would leave circle city, and from time to time, as we had been floating down the river, we had inquired at trading posts whether she had yet passed us, for this would be very easy by day in the many channels of the flats, and still easier by night, especially as the river, even when confined in a single channel, is often several miles wide in this lower part, and a steamer passing on one side would hardly be observed from our camp on the other bank. we had last heard at the station opposite the mouth of the tanana that she had not yet passed, though she was daily expected--but that was several days ago. of course we would have been able to lie by at any of these posts and camp until the steamer should arrive; but so great was our desire to make the best possible use of every minute we had to stay in alaska that we preferred to take the risk of being left all winter, with an opportunity of building a log hut and laying in fire-wood till spring, rather than lose the last part of our journey in the skookum. but we were relieved by the trader at nulato, who told us that the steamer had not arrived. we were then given the use of a log cabin, with glass windows, which was sumptuously furnished with a stove, a hewn-wood bed, a table and a three-legged stool. after supper we made the tour of the village, crawling into the little cabins of the natives, where the women sat cross-legged in groups, occupied in their sewing. they were making gloves of moose-skin trimmed with beaver, caps of the ground squirrel or marmot fur, and high boots of the hair seal with bottoms of walrus hide. most of them used steel needles, though many still kept to those of pierced bone, which seemed in skillful hands to serve the purpose quite as well. our curiosity was soon satisfied, for each dwelling was much like every other; so after we had made bargains for some of the articles, we went back to our cabin and turned in. the joy of having a roof over our heads as a protection against the rain which was now pelting down was so great that i lay awake some little time staring gloatingly up at the logs. in the morning the one whose turn it was to cook rose early, and soon large kettles were full of beans, dried apples and rice, and all were boiling merrily away, while the bacon sizzled and smoked in the frying-pan. the other two of us lay lazily in our blankets, and sniffed the delicious odors, turning now and then from side to side when the hewn logs upon which we were lying grew conspicuously hard. suddenly the door was burst open and a deaf-and-dumb indian who had made himself useful the night before, bringing us wood and water in consideration of a square meal afterwards, rushed in, and with many gestures began to try to make us understand something. we had seen a surprisingly large number of deaf mutes among the natives, and they were always more easy to understand than the others, who had the habit of sputtering and choking away in their own tongue, although they knew very well that we did not understand a word of it; while the deaf mutes immediately enlightened us by some of the signs they were so practiced in making. this one, by energetic revolutions of his hands around one another, recalled to us immediately the stern-wheel of a steamboat, while the puffing he made with his mouth took away all doubt as to his meaning. then he pointed up the river, and gesticulated violently. we all turned out on the double quick, and, sure enough, the steamer was not more than a half a mile away. she was due to stop at nulato a half hour to get wood, and so heavy was the traffic on the river at this time of the year and so important every hour in making connections with the ocean steamer that we knew she could not be got to stay longer. so we began hasty and energetic preparations, first rolling our blankets and strapping them with our personal outfit into the pack-sacks which we had carried throughout the trip, then hurriedly bundling together tents, specimens, and whatever else we deemed necessary and practicable to take out of alaska with us. many of the more cumbersome articles we abandoned, as they were much worn, and it would cost more than the original price to carry them back to the united states at the extraordinary prices for freight then prevailing. the natives soon became aware of our hurry and hung around in numbers, eager to help, but generally getting in the way; each had his eye on some article which he hoped to fall heir to. to many of these natives, poor beyond our ordinary conception of poverty, a nicked camp-axe is a substantial private fortune, and one siwash to whom this article was awarded for general good conduct marched off in great happiness. another fell heir to our boat--the faithful old skookum, who had carried us two thousand miles, and now was somewhat battered and leaky as the result of her travels. meanwhile the steamer had swung in close to the flat high bank, the gang planks had been dropped down, and scores of natives, partly those of the village and partly those who had come on the steamer, scampered back and forth carrying wood on board in the most clumsy and ridiculous fashion, but still accomplishing much work by reason of their numbers. miners, with whom the boat was crowded, came ashore and strolled around the village; they walked into our cabin and pestered us with idle and aimless questions, as we were working hard to get our stuff ready to take on board. at the last moment, when sufficient wood had been gotten in, the whistle was blown; we grabbed our pack-sacks and gave the remaining burdens to the natives to carry, and hurried on board. we had left some things, others than those mentioned. i felt then a keen regret, which occurs to me whenever i think of it, at being obliged to abandon all the good "grub" which had been boiling and frying away so merrily on the stove when our deaf-and-dumb friend had roused us from our dream. none of us being enthusiastic cooks, it had been our custom to prepare large amounts of the stock articles of diet at a time, in order that one cooking, with some few additions, might last most of each man's allotted time of three days; so the quantity we left behind was ample to feed quite a number of siwash, and i have no doubt they gorged themselves, and had lively times trying to see who could eat the most and the quickest. the steamer was packed. miners who had intended to go to the "outside" this year, had waited as late as they dared, so as to work their claim and bring out as much as possible, and then had taken this last boat. we found every sleeping accommodation taken, and not until late in the afternoon did the steward's resources find us a place. the only available space left under cover was that occupied by the tables in the steerage division. after supper was eaten, these tables were taken out, and the floor-room thus gained was allotted us. the rest of the floor was already occupied, and we had to exercise great care to keep from rolling over into another man's preserves. we spread our rubber blankets on the deck to protect us from tobacco juice and other unpleasant things, and spread our woollen blankets on these. lights were put out at about ten o'clock, and after that there was considerable stumbling around. on the forward deck in front of the steerage department an active poker game, conducted by a professional gambler, was continually in progress, under a sail which had been rigged up as a cover. this game always wore on until midnight and attracted many interested spectators as well as players, all crowding around the table on which stacks of gold pieces were piled, under the light of a lantern tied overhead. when the men finally started to bed, they lost their bearings in the almost complete darkness and wandered far and wide, stumbling over the prostrate sleepers, whose loud and heartfelt oaths disturbed the peace almost as much as the hobnailed boots on one's stomach. at the first glimmer of dawn--_i.e._, about three in the morning--we were routed out and made to roll up our blankets out of the way in order that the tables might be set up for a seven o'clock breakfast; so on the whole our sleep was light and short. yet we had paid first-class fares on boarding the boat. i have since taken a comfortable two-weeks' voyage on a transatlantic steamer to germany for the same price as i paid for this passage to st. michael's, occupying four or five days. the next day we stopped at the native village of anvik. by this time we had left the land of the indians or ingeliks, which reaches down the river below nulato, and had reached that of the innuits or eskimos. anvik was the first eskimo village i had seen and the impression i carried away with me was one of extreme disgust. the whole place was a human sty, from which arose an overpowering stink. the houses were mere shacks built of poles laid close together, with holes in the centre to allow the smoke to escape. all around the houses, in front, behind, and along the paths, was ordure. most of the people whom we saw had the appearance of being diseased: whole rows of the maimed, the halt, the blind, and the scrofulous, sunned themselves in front of the huts. others sat huddled in their long fur shirts or parkas (which constitute their only garment), and coughed constantly, too sick to show much interest in the white visitors. a little apart, in front of the houses, a woman squatted, sobbing, while beside her crouched an old crone with a mouth like a fish, who crooned incessantly a weird, monotonous and mournful chant, to which the sobbing woman made brief responses at intervals. other women sat around in their doors, all looking sad, and many sobbing. a young indian boy from the steamer, who had picked up some english in a mission school, explained the scene to us. "that woman's baby die," he said. "everybody all day cry." we were glad to turn away from the most dismal and degraded set of human beings it had ever been my lot to see; on our way back to the steamer we passed a building of sawed boards used as a mission, and met the missionary, who was properly attired in a suit of clerical black, with white linen and tie. he had a book in his hand. i had rather seen him dressed in a parka, with an axe over his shoulder. below anvik a short distance, we came to the holy cross mission, a catholic station located at another eskimo village. the village was only a little better than that of anvik to look at, but somewhat better to smell of. the mission itself, however, was a model. the buildings were well-built and clean, and there was a flourishing garden, containing potatoes, rutabagas, cabbages and lettuce, the whole surrounded by a rail fence; and in another little enclosure there was a real live cow, almost as much a novelty to us as to the natives from further up the river, who left the steamboat and pressed around the strange animal with wondering eyes, as children view the elephant at their first circus. we saw many little girls, pupils of the school, spotlessly arrayed in new calico dresses, with gay silk or cotton handkerchiefs on their heads. they made quite a pretty picture, and the contrast of the little maidens with their relatives at anvik was something almost startling. these children had been taken away from their parents by the sisters who teach at the mission and were being brought up by them, to be sent away again only when grown. between the holy cross mission and the yukon delta the river grows continually wider till it is in places fully five miles from bank to bank, without islands. the banks themselves become low and very flat, and the timber disappears almost entirely, leaving the swampy plains known as tundra. along here the only fuel is driftwood; and this the natives had stacked up in places ready for the steamer. landing to take on wood was always the opportunity for a run on shore, dickering with the natives for curiosities, and general hilarity. the people here were wonderfully different from those on the yukon from nulato to the headwaters, being round and rosy, rather small in stature, and with a certain mongolian appearance. they are childlike in look and action, with round wondering eyes, and mouths always ready to smile broadly and unreservedly at any hint of a joke. they were dressed in the eskimo parka, made of furs of various sorts, especially squirrel, mink, reindeer, or muskrat. the whole sustenance of the people in this barren tundra district appeared to be fish, and many of them had been obliged to make their parkas and leggings out of the fish skins, which were sewn together with much neatness and taste, and were ornamented with red ochre. in wet weather they wore long shirts made of the entrails of animals, split open and sewn together; these had tight-fitting hoods and sleeves, and were practically watertight. the eskimo kayak or covered boat, made by stretching seal or walrus skins over a wooden frame, makes its appearance along here, although the birch canoe is still to be seen. in the houses of these people we saw sealskins full of oil laid up as a provision against the winter. [illustration: three-hatch skin boat, or bidarka.] at a mission further up the river a russian priest of the greek catholic church had gotten on board. he wore the plain black gown, full beard and long hair of men of his class, and spoke broken english. he seemed well acquainted with the country, however, and assured us that these people were distinct both from the kolchane or indians, who were found all along the yukon above nulato, and from the mahlemut eskimos. these middle people he called kwikpaks; but i am sure they are really eskimos, with perhaps some peculiarities, due to their position on the border-line of two races differing so greatly as do the eskimos and the indians. the same day we left the yukon for good, emerging from the northern or ap-hoon mouth, (for the yukon forms a delta which spreads out many miles and includes many channels) out on the open sea. we were struck with the color of the clear green water, after so long viewing the muddy brown yukon or the clear black of some of its tributaries. before us the country was barren, untimbered, and black, with volcanic cones rising here and there. as we advanced, low islands rose out of the sea around these cones,--fields of lava, covered with swamps and ponds,--while we left behind us the dead level untimbered tundra of the yukon delta. we anchored under the lee of an island that night, and as usual we were roused from our sleeping places before daylight the next morning by the cook. the sun rose gloriously from behind the low black volcanic hills and just as we were getting around to breakfast at the fourth table we steamed into st. michael's. footnote: [2] dried salmon. chapter ix. st. michael's and san francisco. st. michael's is the usual port for the yukon, though seventy miles from its mouth. the russians had a fort and garrison at this place before they sold the territory to the united states, and since then the commercial companies have had posts here. the chief part of the population, however, consists of eskimos. these people are very expert in carving. from stone they make axes, lamps, skin-scrapers and many other implements; and from bone, and especially from the walrus and mammoth ivory, they carve many things, among them polished pipes. these pipes are evidently modelled after the opium pipes of the east, with a peculiar shaped bowl having only a very small cavity in it, and a long stem. they are ornamented with many figures scratched on the ivory with a sharp knife, and then colored by having charcoal and grease rubbed into the scratches; these figures, of which there may be several hundred on a single pipe, represent the eskimo in his daily occupations, especially his hunting of deer, wolf, and whale, his dancing in the _kashim_, or his travelling in his kayak. [illustration: eskimo houses at st. michael's.] [illustration: a native doorway.] strolling around the village, and peering into the _barabarras_, or private houses, i ran across an old savage who was handling an object which immediately attracted my attention; when he saw my curiosity he explained by signs that it was an apparatus for making fire, and at my request he actually performed the feat. it was the old plan of rubbing two sticks of wood together, such as we have often read that savages do; yet i had never known any one who knew exactly how it was done, although as a boy i had often worn myself out in vain endeavors to make fire in this way. so far as i know, no one had ever satisfactorily explained how the alaskan natives get their fire, one writer having even supposed that they brought it from volcanoes in the first place; and from the extraordinary care which they take in preserving hot coals and often in carrying them considerable distances, one does not often see them in the process of obtaining a new supply. the apparatus which i saw here used was simple and ingenious. in a thoroughly dry stick of spruce were cut a number of little grooves,--this was the wood destined to catch fire. the other piece of wood was a rounded stick of some very hard variety, which the eskimo told me was picked up in the driftwood along the shore: it was very likely a foreign wood. the point of the hard stick was set upright in one of the grooves of the soft dry piece and by means of a leather thong was made to revolve rapidly in it, the hard upright piece being kept in place by a stone socket set in a piece of wood, which was held in the mouth of the operator. after vigorously twirling the stick by means of the thong for about a minute the soft wood began to smoke; a moment afterwards a faint spark was visible. then the eskimo stopped revolving the stick and heaping all the fine dust of the soft wood which had been worn off by the grinding on the spark, and blew it carefully till it grew to larger dimensions; then he placed a blade of dry grass on the spark, and, blowing again, it burst into flame. the whole process had lasted about three minutes. the old man explained also that in boring the holes in stone, bone or ivory, they used the same device, employing a stone drill instead of the wooden stick. there was great commotion among the natives at st. michael's the morning after we arrived, and the men all dragged their kayaks into the water and getting into them paddled out into the harbor, where a number of small whales were seen disporting themselves. when they neared the school the men separated, and when a whale would sound they spread themselves out so as to be nearly at the spot where he should come up. each man had several of the light spears they used for capturing fish; these weapons are perhaps three and a half feet long, and weigh about a pound, the shaft being slender and of light wood and the tip of a barbed piece of bone. to each of these they had fastened by a long thong, as they were paddling out, a blown-up bladder. as soon as a whale rose the eskimo who happened to be near sent his little spear with great force deeply into its flesh. the wound was of course insignificant, and the animal, taking alarm, sank into the water again; but when after some time he was forced to return to the surface, he encountered several hunters again, and received several more spears with attached bladders. this time the buoyancy of the bladders made it difficult for him to sink, and he rose soon afterwards, only to be filled with so many spears that the bladders kept him from sinking at all; then the natives drew near and with all kinds of weapons cut and slashed and worried the creature till he finally gave up from loss of blood, and died. then he was towed ashore amid great excitement and with rejoicing, not only by the hunters, but by the women, children and old men who flocked down to the beach as it came in. the next thing was to cut up and divide the carcass, and this was done thoroughly, everybody in the village coming in for a share. nothing was wasted. even the blood was carefully saved and divided, and the sinews were given to the women, who would dry and make them into threads for sewing. soon all the fires in the village were burning, and the smell of boiling whale-flesh came from many pots, into which the women peered expectantly. one old lady whom i noticed doing this showed in her dress some of the effects of civilization, which is a rare thing with the eskimo, as they dress by preference in their squirrel or muskrat-skin parkas; her flowing garment was made of flour-sacks sewn together, and one might read the legend, inscribed many times and standing in many attitudes, that the wearer (presumably) was anchor brand. st. michael's is made up of volcanic rock, and has been lifted from the sea in recent geologic times. the natives know this, and say that they find lines of driftwood marking the ancient limit of the waves, at places far above where the highest water now reaches; on the other hand, they say that the island has been thrice submerged since the memory of man. out of the general swampy level of the land around the village rise, further back, broken cones with old craters at their tops; these were very likely under the level of the sea when they were active. we had time to spend a few days wandering over this country, climbing through the rocky craters, and looking down on the numberless swamp lakes which cover the southeast side of the island. one day, however, we received sudden word that the steamer on which we had engaged passage was about to sail, and we hurried on board. that night we were far out on behring sea, tossing in a strong wind which soon increased to a terrific gale. [illustration: the captured whale.] we lay several days "hove to" in this gale, with oil casks over the bows to break the great waves which threatened more than once to smash us and often seemed about to roll us over and over. finally, however, it quieted enough to let the seasick ones drop asleep, while the sailors made things taut again, and before long we were in harbor at the island of unalaska--one of the great chain of aleutian islands which reaches from america to asia, and the chief stopping point for nearly all boats between the yukon mouth and the coast of the united states proper. unalaska is a country of chaotically wild scenery. the streams in turn meander over level benches and then tumble in waterfalls over steep cliffs to the next bench, and so on till they reach the sea; such a cataract we saw on the right as we entered the harbor. in the village here we found the aleuts semi-civilized from their long contact with white men, for here the russians held direct control long before the territory was sold to the united states; they live in neat wooden houses, and if one peeps in by night he may even see here and there lace curtains and rocking-chairs. seventeen days after leaving st. michael's we finally reached san francisco. it was a clear, fine sunday when we passed through the golden gate, tingling with excitement which we had felt since seeing the first land on the california coast. the sight of the multitude of houses on the hillside, the smoke of the city, the craft of all kinds going back and forth, had in it something very strange and discomposing for us. it was only when the ship was at the dock, and we had gone ashore, that we realized, from the way the curious crowd formed a circle around us and stared in open-mouthed wonder, that our appearance was unusual for a city. we had not taken much baggage through the yukon country, and our camp clothes were very shabby. none of us had had opportunity to have hair and beard trimmed since we left--with the result that we had a mane reaching to the shoulders and fierce bushy buccaneer whiskers, inches deep all around. two of us wore ancient high leather boots and the third wore a kind of moccasin. we all had heavy "mackinaw" trousers of blanket-cloth, with belted coats of the same material, while coarse flannel shirts and dilapidated felt hats, burned with the sparks of many a camp-fire and seamed with the creases of many a night's sleep, completed our costume. finding the attention of the crowd embarrassing, we took a carriage for the grand hotel, and as we were driving through the streets i noticed that if one so much as caught a glimpse of our faces through the carriage window, he would turn and stare after the cab till it was out of sight. it was sunday afternoon, and the streets were filled with smartly dressed men and women. for our part, the sight of all this correct and conventional dressing made a disagreeable impression on us, after so long a period of free and easy life; the white collars and cuffs of the men, in particular, obtruded themselves on my attention and irritated me. we had left our "store clothes" in seattle and had to telegraph to get them. it took a couple of days for this, and in the meantime we had only to wait. we had been looking forward to going to the theatre as soon as we should arrive in san francisco, and when our clothes did not arrive, were disappointed, till we suddenly braced up in defiance of the whole city, and said, "let's go anyhow." we had not had time to get our hair and beard trimmed, and our costume was in all respects the same as when we left circle city, but we sallied out bravely. we were late at the theatre, and the play had already begun; it was a popular one, and the only seats left were some in the "bald-headed" row. although we had by this time the idea forced on us that our appearance was unusual, we were by no means prepared for the commotion which we brought about, as we walked up the broad aisle to our seats. there was a hum and a sizzle of whispers throughout the house, which changed to laughter and exclamations; and the actors on the stage, catching sight of us, got "rattled" and forgot to go on. up in the peanut gallery the gods began to indulge in catcalls and make personal inquiries. we hurried to our seats to escape this storm, and meeting an usher thrust our tickets into his hand. he looked at us with a puzzled air and a broad grin, as if he thought it all some huge joke, but we were getting nervous, and gave him a glare which made him indicate our seats for us. the audience evidently believed we were part of the show; many were standing by this time, waiting to see what the next would be, but after a while the buzz subsided and the play went on. there was a constant current of conversation about us, however; behind us a young fellow was excitedly asking his companion "who are they, who are they?" "don't know," said the other. "sailors, i guess." after a while we felt like returning to the solitude of our hotel rooms; the play, too, did not please us, so in the middle of an act we got up, and having remarked very audibly "dis is a rotten show," we went. as we started down the aisle the commotion grew louder than ever, and we slipped quickly out and down a side street. finis. transcriber's notes obvious punctuation errors repaired. hyphen removed: "network" (p. 123), "sawmill" (p. 130), "thronduc" (p. 106). hyphen added: "wood-box" (p. 73). both "nigger-head" and "niggerhead" are used and have not been changed. p. 13: "comtemplate" changed to "contemplate" (contemplate in their suddenly awakened fancies). p. 18: "synonomous" changed to "synonymous" (he used it as synonymous with "tenderfeet"). p. 93: "bottow" changed to "bottom" (the bottom of the scow). p. 183: "caribon" changed to "caribou" (he had shot three bears, seven caribou, and a moose). p. 222: "read" changed to "reap" (reap the benefits of his discoveries). note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 19527-h.htm or 19527-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/5/0/19527/19527-h/19527-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/5/0/19527/19527-h.zip) +-------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original | | document have been preserved. | | | +-------------------------------------------------------+ the yukon trail a tale of the north by william macleod raine author of wyoming, bucky o'connor, etc. with illustrations by george ellis wolfe [illustration: now he caught her by the shoulders (_see page 108_)] new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, 1917, by william macleod raine all rights reserved published may 1917 to my brother edgar c. raine who knew the lights of dawson when they were a magnet to the feet of those answering the call of adventure, who mushed the yukon trail from its headwaters to bering sea, who still finds in the frozen north the romance of the last frontier. contents i. going "in" 1 ii. enter a man 10 iii. the girl from drogheda 23 iv. the crevasse 34 v. across the traverse 49 vi. sheba sings--and two men listen 58 vii. wally gets orders 71 viii. the end of the passage 82 ix. gid holt goes prospecting 93 x. the rah-rah boy functions 109 xi. gordon invites himself to dinner--and does not enjoy it 125 xii. sheba says "perhaps" 137 xiii. diane and gordon differ 144 xiv. genevieve mallory takes a hand 156 xv. gordon buys a revolver 170 xvi. ambushed 181 xvii. "god save you kindly" 193 xviii. gordon spends a busy evening 201 xix. sheba does not think so 210 xx. gordon finds himself unpopular 217 xxi. a new way of leaving a house 227 xxii. gid holt comes to kusiak 232 xxiii. in the dead of night 241 xxiv. macdonald follows a clue 247 xxv. in the blizzard 256 xxvi. hard mushing 268 xxvii. two on the trail 275 xxviii. a message from the dead 286 xxix. "don't touch him! don't you dare touch him!" 292 xxx. holt frees his mind 301 xxxi. sheba digs 308 xxxii. diane changes her mind 318 illustrations now he caught her by the shoulders _frontispiece_ "so you think i'm a 'fraid-cat, mr. elliot?" 44 the situation was piquant, even though it was at her expense 236 for him the beauty of the night lay largely in her presence 322 the yukon trail chapter i going "in" the midnight sun had set, but in a crotch between two snow-peaks it had kindled a vast caldron from which rose a mist of jewels, garnet and turquoise, topaz and amethyst and opal, all swimming in a sea of molten gold. the glow of it still clung to the face of the broad yukon, as a flush does to the soft, wrinkled cheek of a girl just roused from deep sleep. except for a faint murkiness in the air it was still day. there was light enough for the four men playing pinochle on the upper deck, though the women of their party, gossiping in chairs grouped near at hand, had at last put aside their embroidery. the girl who sat by herself at a little distance held a magazine still open on her lap. if she were not reading, her attitude suggested it was less because of the dusk than that she had surrendered herself to the spell of the mysterious beauty which for this hour at least had transfigured the north to a land all light and atmosphere and color. gordon elliot had taken the boat at pierre's portage, fifty miles farther down the river. he had come direct from the creeks, and his impressions of the motley pioneer life at the gold-diggings were so vivid that he had found an isolated corner of the deck where he could scribble them in a notebook while still fresh. but he had not been too busy to see that the girl in the wicker chair was as much of an outsider as he was. plainly this was her first trip in. gordon was a stranger in the yukon country, one not likely to be over-welcome when it became known what his mission was. it may have been because he was out of the picture himself that he resented a little the exclusion of the young woman with the magazine. certainly she herself gave no evidence of feeling about it. her long-lashed eyes looked dreamily across the river to the glowing hills beyond. not once did they turn with any show of interest to the lively party under the awning. from where he was leaning against the deckhouse elliot could see only a fine, chiseled profile shading into a mass of crisp, black hair, but some quality in the detachment of her personality stimulated gently his imagination. he wondered who she could be. his work had taken him to frontier camps before, but he could not place her as a type. the best he could do was to guess that she might be the daughter of some territorial official on her way in to join him. a short, thick-set man who had ridden down on the stage with elliot to pierre's portage drifted along the deck toward him. he wore the careless garb of a mining man in a country which looks first to comfort. "bound for kusiak?" he asked, by way of opening conversation. "yes," answered gordon. the miner nodded toward the group under the awning. "that bunch lives at kusiak. they've got on at different places the last two or three days--except selfridge and his wife, they've been out. guess you can tell that from hearing her talk--the little woman in red with the snappy black eyes. she's spillin' over with talk about the styles in new york and the cabarets and the new shows. that pot-bellied little fellow in the checked suit is selfridge. he is colby macdonald's man friday." elliot took in with a quickened interest the group bound for kusiak. he had noticed that they monopolized as a matter of course the best places on the deck and in the dining-room. they were civil enough to outsiders, but their manner had the unconscious selfishness that often regulates social activities. it excluded from their gayety everybody that did not belong to the proper set. "that sort of thing gets my goat," the miner went on sourly. "those women over there have elected themselves society with a capital s. they put on all the airs the four hundred do in new york. and who the hell are they anyhow?--wives to a bunch of grafting politicians mostly." from the casual talk that had floated to him, with its many little allusions punctuating the jolly give-and-take of their repartee, elliot guessed that their lives had the same background of tennis, dinners, hops, official gossip, and business. they evidently knew one another with the intimacy that comes only to the segment of a small community shut off largely from the world and forced into close social relations. no doubt they had loaned each other money occasionally, stood by in trouble, and gossiped back and forth about their shortcomings and family skeletons even as society on the outside does. "that's the way of the world, isn't it? our civilization is built on the group system," suggested elliot. "maybeso," grumbled the miner. "but i hate to see alaska come to it. me, i saw this country first in '97--packed an outfit in over the pass. every man stood on his own hind legs then. he got there if he was strong--mebbe; he bogged down on the trail good and plenty if he was weak. we didn't have any of the artificial stuff then. a man had to have the guts to stand the gaff." "i suppose it was a wild country, mr. strong." the little miner's eyes gleamed. "best country in the world. we didn't stand for anything that wasn't on the level. it was a poor man's country--wages fifteen dollars a day and plenty of work. everybody had a chance. anybody could stake a claim and gamble on his luck. now the big corporations have slipped in and grabbed the best. it ain't a prospector's proposition any more. instead of faro banks we've got savings banks. the wide-open dance hall has quit business in favor of moving pictures. and, as i said before, we've got society." "all frontier countries have to come to it." "hmp! in the days i'm telling you about that crowd there couldn't 'a' hustled meat to fill their bellies three meals. parasites, that's what they are. they're living off that bunch of roughnecks down there and folks like 'em." with a wave of his hand strong pointed to a group of miners who had boarded the boat with them at pierre's portage. there were about a dozen of the men, for the most part husky, heavy-set foreigners. they had been drinking, and were in a sullen humor. elliot gathered from their talk that they had lost their jobs because they had tried to organize an incipient strike in the frozen gulch district. "roughnecks and booze-fighters--that's all they are. but they earn their way. not that i blame macdonald for firing them, mind you," continued the miner. "were they working for macdonald?" "yep. his superintendent up there was too soft. these here swedes got gay. mac hit the trail for frozen gulch. he hammered his big fist into the bread-basket of the ringleader and said, 'git!' that fellow's running yet, i'll bet. then mac called the men together and read the riot act to them. he fired this bunch on the boat and was out of the camp before you could bat an eye. it was the cleanest hurry-up job i ever did see." "from what i've heard about him he must be a remarkable man." "he's the biggest man in alaska, bar none." this was a subject that interested gordon elliot very much. colby macdonald and his activities had brought him to the country. "do you mean personally--or because he represents the big corporations?" "both. his word comes pretty near being law up here, not only because he stands for the consolidated, but because he's one man from the ground up. i ain't any too strong for that new york bunch of capitalists back of mac, but i've got to give it to him that he's all there without leaning on anybody." "i've heard that he's a domineering man--rides roughshod over others. is that right, mr. strong?" "he's a bear for getting his own way," grinned the little miner. "if you won't get out of his road he peels your hide off and hangs it up to dry. but i can't help liking him. he's big every way you take him. he'll stand the acid, mac will." "do you mean that he's square--honest?" "you've said two things, my friend," answered strong dryly. "he's square. if he tells you anything, don't worry because he ain't put down his john hancock before a notary. he'll see it through to a finish--to a fighting finish if he has to. don't waste any time looking for fat or yellow streaks in mac. they ain't there. nobody ever heard him squeal yet and what's more nobody ever will." "no wonder men like him." "but when you say honest--hell, no! not the way you define honesty down in the states. he's a grabber, mac is. better not leave anything valuable around unless you've got it spiked to the floor. he takes what he wants." "what does he look like?" asked gordon. "oh, i don't know." strong hesitated, while he searched for words to show the picture in his mind. "big as a house--steps out like a buck in the spring--blue-gray eyes that bore right through you." "how old?" "search me. you never think of age when you're looking at him. forty-five, mebbe--or fifty--i don't know." "married?" "no-o." hanford strong nodded in the direction of the kusiak circle. "they say he's going to marry mrs. mallory. she's the one with the red hair." it struck young elliot that the miner was dismissing mrs. mallory in too cavalier a fashion. she was the sort of woman at whom men look twice, and then continue to look while she appears magnificently unaware of it. her hair was not red, but of a lustrous bronze, amazingly abundant, and dressed in waves with the careful skill of a coiffeur. half-shut, smouldering eyes had met his for an instant at dinner across the table and had told him she was a woman subtle and complex. slightest shades of meaning she could convey with a lift of the eyebrow or an intonation of the musical voice. if she was already fencing with the encroaching years there was little evidence of it in her opulent good looks. she had manifestly specialized in graceful idleness and was prepared to meet with superb confidence the competition of débutantes. the elusive shadow of lost illusions, of knowledge born of experience, was the only betrayal of vanished youth in her equipment. chapter ii enter a man the whistle of the hannah blew for the tatlah cache landing while strong and elliot were talking. wally selfridge had just bid three hundred seventy and found no help in the widow. he pushed toward each of the other players one red chip and two white ones. "can't make it," he announced. "i needed a jack of clubs." the men counted their chips and settled up in time to reach the deck rail just as the gangplank was thrown out to the wharf. the crew transferred to the landing a pouch of mail, half a ton of sacked potatoes, some mining machinery, and several boxes containing provisions and dry goods. a man came to the end of the wharf carrying a suitcase. he was well-set, thick in the chest, and broad-shouldered. he came up the gangplank with the strong, firm tread of a man in his prime. looking down from above, gordon elliot guessed him to be in the early thirties. mrs. mallory was the first to recognize him, which she did with a drawling little shout of welcome. "oh you, mr. man. i knew you first. i speak for you," she cried. the man on the gangplank looked up, smiled, and lifted to her his broad gray stetson in a wave of greeting. "how do you do, mrs. mallory? glad to see you." the miners from frozen gulch were grouped together on the lower deck. at sight of the man with the suitcase a sullen murmur rose among them. those in the rear pushed forward and closed the lane leading to the cabins. one of the miners was flung roughly against the new passenger. with a wide, powerful sweep of his arm the man who had just come aboard hurled the miner back among his companions. "gangway!" he said brusquely, and as he strode forward did not even glance in the direction of the angry men pressing toward him. "here. keep back there, you fellows. none of that rough stuff goes," ordered the mate sharply. the big cornishman who had been tossed aside crouched for a spring. he launched himself forward with the awkward force of a bear. the suitcase described a whirling arc of a circle with the arm of its owner as the radius. the bag and the head of the miner came into swift impact. like a bullock which has been pole-axed the man went to the floor. he turned over with a groan and lay still. the new passenger looked across the huge, sprawling body at the group of miners facing him. they glared in savage hate. all they needed was a leader to send them driving at him with the force of an avalanche. the man at whom they raged did not give an inch. he leaned forward slightly, his weight resting on the balls of his feet, alert to the finger tips. but in his eyes a grim little smile of derisive amusement rested. "next," he taunted. then the mate got busy. he hustled his stevedores forward in front of the miners and shook his fist in their faces as he stormed up and down. if they wanted trouble, by god! it was waiting for 'em, he swore in apoplectic fury. the hannah was a river boat and not a dive for wharf rats. no bunch of roughnecks could come aboard a boat where he was mate and start anything. they could not assault any passengers of his and make it stick. the man with the suitcase did not wait to hear out his tirade. he followed the purser to his stateroom, dropped his baggage beside the berth, and joined the kusiak group on the upper deck. they greeted him eagerly, a little effusively, as if they were anxious to prove themselves on good terms with him. the deference they paid and his assured acceptance of it showed him to be a man of importance. but apart from other considerations, he dominated by mental and physical virility the circle of which he instantly became the center. only mrs. mallory held her own, and even she showed a quickened interest. her indolent, half-disdainful manner sheathed a soft sensuousness that held the provocation of sex appeal. "what was the matter?" asked selfridge. "how did the trouble start?" the big man shrugged his shoulders. "it didn't start. some of the outfit thought they were looking for a row, but they balked on the job when trelawney got his." turning to mrs. mallory, he changed the subject abruptly. "did you have a good time down the river?" gordon, as he watched from a little distance, corrected earlier impressions. this man had passed the thirties. salt and pepper sprinkled the temples of his strong, lean head. he had the thick neck and solid trunk of middle life, but he carried himself so superbly that his whole bearing denied that years could touch his splendid physique. the suit he wore was a wrinkled corduroy, with trouser legs thrust into high-laced boots. an outdoor tan had been painted upon his face and neck, from the point where the soft flannel shirt fell away to show the fine slope of the throat line to the shoulders. strong had stepped to the wharf to talk with an old acquaintance, but when the boat threw out a warning signal he made a hurried good-bye and came on board. he rejoined elliot. "well, what d'you think of him? was i right?" the young man had already guessed who this imperious stranger was. "i never saw anybody get away with a hard job as easily as he did that one. you could see with half an eye that those fellows meant fight. they were all primed for it--and he bluffed them out." "bluffed them--huh! if that's what you call bluffing. i was where i could see just what happened. colby macdonald wasn't even looking at trelawney, but you bet he saw him start. that suitcase traveled like a streak of light. you'd 'a' thought it weighed about two pounds. that ain't all either. mac used his brains. guess what was in that grip." "the usual thing, i suppose." "you've got another guess--packed in among his socks and underwear was about twenty pounds of ore samples. the purser told me. it was that quartz put trelawney to sleep so thorough that he'd just begun to wake up when i passed a minute ago." the young man turned his eyes again upon the big canadian scotchman. he was talking with mrs. mallory, who was leaning back luxuriously in a steamer chair she had brought aboard at st. michael's. it would have been hard to conceive a contrast greater than the one between this pampered heiress of the ages and the modern business berserk who looked down into her mocking eyes. he was the embodiment of the dominant male,--efficient to the last inch of his straight six feet. what he wanted he had always taken, by the sheer strength that was in him. back of her smiling insolence lay a silken force to match his own. she too had taken what she wanted from life, but she had won it by indirection. manifestly she was of those women who conceive that charm and beauty are tools to bend men to their wills. was it the very width of the gulf between them that made the appeal of the clash in the sex duel upon which they had engaged? the dusky young woman with the magazine was the first of those on the upper deck to retire for the night. she flitted so quietly that gordon did not notice until she had gone. mrs. selfridge and her friends disappeared with their men folks, calling gay good-nights to one another as they left. macdonald and mrs. mallory still talked. after a time she too vanished. the big promoter leaned against the deck rail, where he was joined by selfridge. for a long time they talked in low voices. the little man had most to say. his chief listened, but occasionally interrupted to ask a sharp, incisive question. elliot, sitting farther forward with strong, judged that selfridge was making a report of his trip. once he caught a fragment of their talk, enough to confirm this impression. "did winton tell you that himself?" demanded the scotchman. the answer of his employee came in a murmur so low that the words were lost. but the name used told gordon a good deal. the commissioner of the general land office at washington signed his letters harold b. winton. strong tossed the stub of his cigarette overboard and nodded good-night. a glance at his watch told elliot that it was past two o'clock. he rose, stretched, and sauntered back to his stateroom. the young man had just taken off his coat when there came the hurried rush of trampling feet upon the hurricane deck above. almost instantly he heard a cry of alarm. low voices, quick with suppressed excitement, drifted back to him. he could hear the shuffling of footsteps and the sound of heavy bodies moving. some one lifted a frightened shout. "help! help!" the call had come, he thought, from selfridge. gordon flung open the door of his room, raced along the deck, and took the stairs three at a time. a huddle of men swayed and shifted heavily in front of him. so close was the pack that the motion resembled the writhing of some prehistoric monster rather than the movements of individual human beings. in that half-light tossing arms and legs looked like tentacles flung out in agony by the mammoth reptile. its progress was jerky and convulsive, sometimes tortuous, but it traveled slowly toward the rail as if by the impulsion of an irresistible pressure. even as he ran toward the mass, elliot noticed that the only sounds were grunts, stertorous breathings, and the scraping of feet. the attackers wanted no publicity. the attacked was too busy to waste breath in futile cries. he was fighting for his life with all the stark energy nature and his ancestors had given him. two men, separated from the crowd, lay on the deck farther aft. one was on top of the other, his fingers clutching the gullet of his helpless opponent. the agony of the man underneath found expression only in the drumming heels that beat a tattoo on the floor. the spasmodic feet were shod in oxford tans of an ultra-fashionable cut. no doubt the owner of the smart footwear had been pulled down as he was escaping to shout the alarm. the runner hurdled the two in his stride and plunged straight at the struggling tangle. he caught one man by the shoulders from behind and flung him back. he struck hard, smashing blows as he fought his way to the heart of the mêlée. heavy-fisted miners with corded muscles landed upon his face and head and neck. the strange excitement of the battle lust surged through his veins. he did not care a straw for the odds. the sudden attack of elliot had opened the pack. the man battling against a dozen was colby macdonald. the very number of his foes had saved him so far from being rushed overboard or trampled down. in their desire to get at him they hindered each other, struck blows that found the wrong mark. his coat and shirt were in rags. he was bruised and battered and bleeding from the chest up. but he was still slogging hard. they had him pressed to the rail. a huge miner, head down, had his arms around the waist of the scotchman and was trying to throw him overboard. macdonald lashed out and landed flush upon the cheek of a man attempting to brain him with a billet of wood. he hammered home a short-arm jolt against the ear of the giant who was giving him the bear grip. the big miner grunted, but hung on like a football tackler. with a jerk he raised macdonald from the floor just as three or four others rushed him again. the rail gave way, splintered like kindling wood. the scotchman and the man at grips with him went over the side together. clear and loud rang the voice of elliot. "man overboard!" the wheelsman had known for some minutes that there was trouble afoot. he signaled to the engine room to reverse and blew short, sharp shrieks of warning. already deckhands and officers, scantily clad, were appearing from fore and aft. "men overboard--two of 'em!" explained elliot in a shout from the boat which he was trying to lower. the first mate and another man ran to help him. the three of them lowered and manned the boat. gordon sat in the bow and gave directions while the other two put their backs into the stroke. quite casually elliot noticed that the man in the waist had a purple bruise on his left cheek bone. the young man himself had put it there not three minutes since. across the water came a call for help. "i'm sinking--hurry!" the other man in the river was a dozen yards from the one in distress. with strong, swift, overhand strokes he shot through the water. "all right," he called presently. "i've got him." the oarsmen drew alongside the swimmer. with one hand macdonald caught hold of the edge of the boat. the other clutched the rescued man by the hair of his head. "look out. you're drowning him," the mate warned. "am i?" macdonald glanced with mild interest at the head that had been until that moment submerged. "shows how absent-minded a man gets. i was thinking about how he tried to drown me, i expect." they dragged the miner aboard. "go ahead. i'll swim down," macdonald ordered. "better come aboard," advised the mate. "no. i'm all right." the scotchman pushed himself back from the boat and fell into an easy stroke. nevertheless, there was power in it, for he reached the hannah before the rescued miner had been helped to the deck. a dozen passengers, crowded on the lower deck, pushed forward eagerly to see. among them was selfridge, his shirt and collar torn loose at the neck and his immaculate checked suit dusty and disheveled. he was wearing a pair of up-to-date oxford tans. the scotch-canadian shook himself like a newfoundland dog. he looked around with sardonic amusement, a grin on his swollen and disfigured face. "quite a pleasant welcome home," he said ironically, his cold eyes fixed on a face that looked as if it might have been kicked by a healthy mule. "eh, trelawney?" the cornishman glared at him, and turned away with a low, savage oath. "are you hurt, mr. macdonald?" asked the captain. "hurt! not at all, captain. i cut myself while i was shaving this morning--just a scratch," was the ironic answer. "there's been some dirty work going on. i'll see the men are punished, sir." "forget it, captain. i'll attend to that little matter." his jaunty, almost insolent glance made the half-circle again. "sorry you were too late for the party, gentlemen,--most of you. i see three or four of you who were 'among those present.' it was a strictly exclusive affair. and now, if you don't mind, i'll say good-night." he turned on his heel, went up the stairway to the deck above, and disappeared into his stateroom. the rescued miner, propped against the cabin wall where he had been placed, broke into sudden excited protest. "ach! he tried to drown me. mein head--he hold it under the water." "ain't that just like a swede?" retorted the mate in disgust. "mac saves his life. then the roughneck kicks because he got a belly full of yukon. sure mac soused him some. why shouldn't he?" "i ain't no swede," explained the big miner sullenly. the mate did not think it worth his while to explain that "swede" was merely his generic term of contempt for all foreigners. chapter iii the girl from drogheda gordon elliot was too much of a night owl to be an early riser, but next morning he was awakened by the tramp of hurried feet along the deck to the accompaniment of brusque orders, together with frequent angry puffing and snorting of the boat. from the quiver of the walls he guessed that the hannah was stuck on a sandbar. the mate's language gave backing to this surmise. divided in mind between his obligation to the sleeping passengers and his duty to get the boat on her way, that officer spilled a good deal of subdued sulphurous language upon the situation. "all together now. get your back into it. why are you running around like a chicken without a head, reeves?" he snapped. evidently the deck hands were working to get the hannah off by poling. elliot tried to settle back to sleep, but after two or three ineffectual efforts gave it up. he rose and did one or two setting-up exercises to limber his joints. the first of these flashed the signal to his brain that he was stiff and sore. this brought to mind the fight on the hurricane deck, and he smiled. his face was about as mobile as if it were in a plaster cast. it hurt every time he twitched a muscle. the young man stepped to the looking-glass. both eyes were blacked, his lip had been cut, and there was a purple weal well up on his left cheek. he stopped himself from grinning only just in time to save another twinge of pain. "some party while it lasted. i never saw more willing mixers. everybody seemed anxious to sit in except mr. wally selfridge," he explained to his reflection. "but macdonald is the class. he's there with both right and left. that uppercut of his is vicious. don't ever get in the way of it, gordon elliot." he examined his injuries more closely in the glass. "some one landed a peach on my right lamp and the other is in mourning out of sympathy. oh, well, i ain't the only prize beauty on board this morning." the young man forgot and smiled. "ouch! don't do that, gordon. yes, son. 'there's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine.' now isn't that the truth?" he bathed, dressed, and went out on the deck. early though he was, one passenger at least was up before him. the young woman he had noticed last evening with the magazine was doing a constitutional. a slight breeze was stirring, and as she moved against it the white skirt clung first to one knee and then the other, moulding itself to the long lines of her limbs with exquisite grace of motion. it was as though her walk were the expression of a gallant and buoyant personality. irish he guessed her when the deep-blue eyes rested on his for an instant as she passed, and fortified his conjecture by the coloring of the clear-skinned face and the marks of the celtic race delicately stamped upon it. the purser came out of his room and joined elliot. he smiled at sight of the young man's face. "your map's a little out of plumb this morning, sir," he ventured. "but you ought to see the other fellow," came back gordon boyishly. "i've seen him--several of him. we've got the best collection of bruises on board i ever clapped eyes on. i've got to give it to you and mr. macdonald. you know how to hit." "oh, i'm not in his class." gordon elliot meant what he said. he was himself an athlete, had played for three years left tackle on his college eleven. more than one critic had picked him for the all-america team. he could do his hundred in just a little worse than ten seconds. but after all he was a product of training and of the gymnasiums. macdonald was what nature and a long line of fighting highland ancestors had made him. his sinewy, knotted strength, his massive build, the breadth of shoulder and depth of chest--mushing on long snow trails was the gymnasium that had contributed to these. the purser chuckled. "he's a good un, mac is. they say he liked to have drowned northrup after he had saved him." elliot was again following with his eyes the lilt of the girl's movements. apparently he had not heard what the officer said. at least he gave no answer. with a grin the purser opened another attack. "don't blame you a bit, mr. elliot. she's the prettiest colleen that ever sailed from dublin bay." the young man brought his eyes home. they answered engagingly the smile of the purser. "who is she?" "the name on the books is sheba o'neill." "from dublin, you say." "oh, if you want to be literal, her baggage says drogheda. ireland is ireland to me." "where is she bound for?" "kusiak." the young woman passed them with a little nod of morning greeting to the purser. fine and dainty though she was, miss o'neill gave an impression of radiant strength. "been with you all the way up the river?" asked elliot after she had passed. "yep. she came up on the skagit from seattle." "what is she going to do at kusiak?" again the purser grinned. "what do they all do--the good-looking ones?" "get married, you mean?" "surest thing you know. girls coming up ask me what to bring by way of outfit. i used to make out a long list. now i tell them to bring clothes enough for six weeks and their favorite wedding march." "is this girl engaged?" "can't prove it by me," said the officer lightly. "but she'll never get out of alaska a spinster--not that girl. she may be going in to teach, or to run a millinery store, or to keep books for a trading company. she'll stay to bring up kiddies of her own. they all do." three children came up the stairway, caught sight of miss o'neill, and raced pell-mell across the deck to her. the young woman's face was transformed. it was bubbling with tenderness, with gay and happy laughter. flinging her arms wide, she waited for them. with incoherent cries of delight they flung themselves upon her. her arms enveloped all three as she stooped for their hugs and kisses. the two oldest were girls. the youngest was a fat, cuddly little boy with dimples in his soft cheeks. "i dwessed myself, aunt sheba. didn't i, gwen?" "not all by yourself, billie?" inquired the irish girl, registering a proper amazement. he nodded his head slowly and solemnly up and down. "honeth to goodness." sheba stooped and held him off to admire. "all by yourself--just think of that." "we helped just the teeniest bit on the buttons," confessed janet, the oldest of the small family. "and i tied his shoes," added gwendolen, "after he had laced them." "billie will be such a big man daddie won't know him." and sheba gave him another hug. gwendolen snuggled close to miss o'neill. "you always smell so sweet and clean and violety, aunt sheba," she whispered in confidence. "you're spoiling me, gwen," laughed the young woman. "you've kissed the blarney stone. it's a good thing you're leaving the boat to-day." miss gwen had one more confidence to make in the ear of her friend. "i wish you'd come too and be our new mamma," she begged. a shell-pink tinge crept into the milky skin of the irish girl. she was less sure of herself, more easily embarrassed, than the average american of her age and sex. occasionally in her manner was that effect of shyness one finds in the british even after they have escaped from provincialism. "are all your things gathered ready for packing, janet?" she asked quietly. the purser gave information to elliot. "they call her aunt sheba, but she's no relative of theirs. the kids are on their way in to their father, who is an engineer on one of the creeks back of katma. their mother died two months ago. miss o'neill met them first aboard the skagit on the way up and she has mothered them ever since. some women are that way, bless 'em. i know because i've been married to one myself six months. she's back there at st. michael's, and she just grabs at every baby in the block." the eyes of elliot rested on miss o'neill. "she loves children." "she sure does--no bluff about that." an imp of mischief sparkled in the eye of the supercargo. "not married yourself, are you, mr. elliot?" "no." "hmp!" that was all he said, but gordon felt the blood creep into his face. this annoyed him, so he added brusquely,-"and not likely to be." when the call for breakfast came miss o'neill took her retinue of youngsters with her to the dining-room. looking across from his seat at an adjoining table, elliot could see her waiting upon them with a fine absorption in their needs. she prepared an orange for billie and offered to the little girls suggestions as to ordering that were accepted by them as a matter of course. unconsciously the children recognized in her the eternal mother. before they had been long in the dining-room macdonald came in carrying a sheaf of business papers. he glanced around, recognized elliot, and made instantly for the seat across the table from him. on his face and head were many marks of the recent battle. "trade you a cauliflower ear for a pair of black eyes, mr. elliot," he laughed as he shook hands with the man whose name he had just learned from the purser. the grip of his brown, muscular hand was strong. it was in character with the steady, cool eyes set deep beneath the jutting forehead, with the confident carriage of the deep, broad shoulders. he looked a dynamic american, who trod the way of the forceful and fought for his share of the spoils. "you might throw in several other little souvenirs to boot and not miss them," suggested elliot with a smile. macdonald nodded indifferently. "i gave and i took, which was as it should be. but it's different with you, mr. elliot. this wasn't your row." "i hadn't been in a good mix-up since i left college. it did me a lot of good." "much obliged, anyhow." he turned his attention to a lady entering the dining-room. "'mornin', mrs. selfridge. how's wally?" she threw up her hands in despair. "he's on his second bottle of liniment already. i expect those ruffians have ruined his singing voice. it's a mercy they didn't murder both him and you, mr. macdonald. when i think of how close you both came to death last night--" "i don't know about wally, but i had no notion of dying, mrs. selfridge. they mussed us up a bit. that was all." "but they _meant_ to kill you, the cowards. and they almost did it too. look at wally--confined to his bed and speaking in a whisper. look at you--a wreck, horribly beaten up, almost drowned. we must drive the villains out of the country or send them to prison." mrs. selfridge always talked in superlatives. she had an enthusiasm for the dramatics of conversation. her supple hands, her shrill, eager voice, the snapping black eyes, all had the effect of startling headlines to the story she might be telling. "am i a wreck?" the big scotchman wanted to know. "i feel as husky as a well-fed malamute." "oh, you _talk_. but we all know you--how brave and strong you are. that's why this outrage ought to be punished. what would alaska do if anything happened to you?" "i hadn't thought of that," admitted macdonald. "the north would have to go out of business, i suppose. but you're right about one thing, mrs. selfridge. i'm brave and strong enough at the breakfast table. steward, will you bring me a double order of these shirred eggs--and a small steak?" "well, i'm glad you can still joke, mr. macdonald, after such a terrible experience. all i can say is that i hope wally isn't permanently injured. he hasn't your fine constitution, and one never can tell about internal injuries." mrs. selfridge sighed and passed to her place. the eyes of the big man twinkled. "our little fracas has been a godsend to mrs. selfridge. wally and i will both emerge as heroes of a desperate struggle. you won't even get a mention. but it's a pity about wally's injuries--and his singing voice." the younger man agreed with a gravity back of which his amusement was apparent. the share of selfridge in the battle had been limited to leg work only, but this had not been good enough to keep him from being overhauled and having his throat squeezed. elliot finished breakfast first and left macdonald looking over a long typewritten document. he had it propped against a water-bottle and was reading as he ate. the paper was a report selfridge had brought in to him from a clerk in the general land office. the big canadian and the men he represented were dealing directly with the heads of the government departments, but they thought it the part of wisdom to keep in their employ subordinates in the capacity of secret service agents to spy upon the higher-ups. chapter iv the crevasse for an hour before the hannah reached katma miss o'neill was busy getting her little brood ready. in that last half-day she was a creature of moods to them. they, too, like sheba herself, were adventuring into a new world. somehow they represented to her the last tie that bound her to the life she was leaving. her heart was tender as a madonna to these lambs so ill-fitted to face a frigid waste. their mother had been a good woman. she could tell that. but she had no way of knowing what kind of man their father might be. sheba gave janet advice about where to keep her money and when to wear rubbers and what to do for billie's cold. she put up a lunch for them to take on the stage. when they said their sniffling good-byes at katma she was suspiciously bright and merry. soon the children were laughing again with her. one glance at their father, who introduced himself to miss o'neill as john husted, relieved her mind greatly. his spontaneous delight at seeing them again and his choking gratitude to her for having looked after them were evidence enough that this kind-eyed man meant to be both father and mother to his recovered little folks. his emotion was too poignant for him to talk about his wife, but sheba understood and liked him better for it. her temporary family stood on the end of the wharf and called good-byes to the girl. "tum soon and see us, aunt sheba," billie shouted from his seat on the shoulder of his father. the children waved handkerchiefs as long as she could be distinguished by them. when they turned away she went directly to her room. elliot was passing forward when miss o'neill opened her stateroom door to go in. the eyes of the young woman were blind with tears and she was biting her lip to keep back the emotion that welled up. he knew she was very fond of the motherless children, but he guessed at an additional reason for her sobs. she too was as untaught as a child in the life of this frontier land. whatever she found here--how much of hardship or happiness, of grief or woe--she knew that she had left behind forever the safe harborage of quiet waters in which her life craft had always floated. it came on to rain in the afternoon. heavy clouds swept across from the mountains, and the sodden sky opened like a sluice-box. the kusiak contingent, driven indoors, resorted to bridge. miss o'neill read. gordon elliot wrote letters, dawdled over magazines, and lounged alternately in the ladies' parlor and the smoking-room, where macdonald, strong, a hardware merchant from fairbanks, and a pair of sour-dough miners had settled themselves to a poker game that was to last all night and well into the next day. of the two bridge tables all the players were old-timers except mrs. mallory. most of them were young enough in years, but they had been of the north long enough to know the gossip of the country and its small politics intimately. they shared common hopes of the day when alaska would be thrown open to industry and a large population. but mrs. mallory had come in over the ice for the first time last winter. the other women felt that she was a bird of passage, that the frozen arctic could be no more than a whim to her. they deferred a little to her because she knew the great world--new york, vienna, london, paris. great names fell from her lips casually and carelessly. she referred familiarly to princes and famous statesmen, as if she had gossiped with them tête-à-tête over the teacups. she was full of spicy little anecdotes about german royalty and the british aristocracy. it was no wonder, gordon elliot thought, that she had rather stunned the little social set of kusiak. through northrup and trelawney a new slant on macdonald was given to gordon. he had fallen into casual talk with them after dinner on the fore deck. it was still raining, but all three were equipped with slickers or mackintoshes. to his surprise the young man discovered that they bore him no grudge at all for his interference the night before. "but we ain't through with colby macdonald yet," trelawney explained. "mind, i don't say we're going to get him. nothing like that. he knocked me cold with that loaded suitcase of his. by the looks of him i'm even for that. good enough. but here's the point. we stand for labor. he stands for capital. see? things ain't what they used to be in alaska, and it's because of colby macdonald and his friends. they're grabbers--that's what they are. they want the whole works. a hell of a roar goes up from them when the government stops their combines, but all the time they're bearing down a little harder on us workingmen. understand? it's up to us to fight, ain't it?" later elliot put this viewpoint before strong. "there's something in it," the miner agreed. "wages have gone down, and it's partly because the big fellows are consolidating interests. alaska ain't a poor man's country the way it was. but mac ain't to blame for that. he has to play the game the way the cards are dealt out." the sky was clear again when the hannah drew in to the wharf at moose head to unload freight, but the mud in the unpaved street leading to the business section of the little frontier town was instep deep. many of the passengers hurried ashore to make the most of the five-hour stop. macdonald, with mrs. mallory and their kusiak friends, disappeared in a bus. elliot put on a pair of heavy boots and started uptown. at the end of the wharf he passed miss o'neill. she wore no rubbers and she had come to a halt at the beginning of the mud. after a momentary indecision she returned slowly to the boat. the young man walked up into the town, but ten minutes later he crossed the gangplank of the hannah again with a package under his arm. miss o'neill was sitting on the forward deck making a pretense to herself of reading. this was where elliot had expected to find her, but now that the moment of attack had come he had to take his fear by the throat. when he had thought of it first there seemed nothing difficult about offering to do her a kindness, yet he found himself shrinking from the chance of a rebuff. he moved over to where she sat and lifted his hat. "i hope you won't think it a liberty, miss o'neill, but i've brought you some rubbers from a store uptown. i noticed you couldn't get ashore without them." gordon tore the paper wrapping from his package and disclosed half a dozen pairs of rubbers. the girl was visibly embarrassed. she was not at all certain of the right thing to do. where she had been brought up young men did not offer courtesies of this sort so informally. "i--i think i won't need them, thank you. i've decided not to leave the boat," she answered shyly. elliot had never been accused of being a quitter. having begun this, he proposed to see it out. he caught sight of the purser superintending the discharge of cargo and called to him by name. the officer joined them, a pad of paper and a pencil in his hand. "i'm trying to persuade miss o'neill that she ought to go ashore while we're lying here. what was it you told me about the waterfall back of the town?" "finest thing of its kind in alaska. they're so proud of it in this burg that they would like to make it against the law for any one to leave without seeing it. every one takes it in. we won't get away till night. you've plenty of time if you want to see it." "now, will you please introduce me to miss o'neill formally?" the purser went through the usual formula of presentation, adding that elliot was a government official on his way to kusiak. having done his duty by the young man, the busy supercargo retired. "i'm sure it would do you good to walk up to the waterfall with me, miss o'neill," urged elliot. she met a little dubiously the smile that would not stay quite extinguished on his good-looking, boyish face. why shouldn't she go with him, since it was the american way for unchaperoned youth to enjoy itself naturally? "if they'll fit," the girl answered, eyeing the rubbers. gordon dropped to his knee and demonstrated that they would. as they walked along the muddy street she gave him a friendly little nod of thanks. "good of you to take the trouble to look out for me." he laughed. "it was myself i was looking out for. i'm a stranger in the country and was awfully lonesome." "is it that this is your first time in too?" she asked shyly. "you're going to kusiak, aren't you? do you know anybody there?" replied elliot. "my cousin lives there, but i haven't seen her since i was ten. she's an american. eleven years ago she visited us in ireland." "i'm glad you know some one," he said. "you'll not be so lonesome with some of your people living there. i have two friends at kusiak--a girl i used to go to school with and her husband." "are you going to live at kusiak?" "no; but i'll be stationed in the territory for several months. i'll be in and out of the town a good deal. i hope you'll let me see something of you." the fine irish coloring deepened in her cheeks. he had a way of taking in his stride the barriers between them, but it was impossible for her to feel offended at this cheery, vigorous young fellow with the winning smile and the firm-set jaw. she liked the warmth in his honest brown eyes. she liked the play of muscular grace beneath his well-fitting clothes. the sinuous ease of his lean, wide-shouldered body stirred faintly some primitive instinct in her maiden heart. sheba did not know, as her resilient muscles carried her forward joyfully, that she was answering the call of youth to youth. gordon respected her shyness and moved warily to establish his contact. he let the talk drift to impersonal topics as they picked their way out from the town along the mossy trail. the ground was spongy with water. on either side of them ferns and brakes grew lush. sheba took the porous path with a step elastic. to the young man following she seemed a miracle of supple lightness. the trail tilted up from the lowlands, led across dips, and into a draw. a little stream meandered down and gurgled over rocks worn smooth by ages of attrition. alders brushed the stream and their foliage checkered the trail with sunlight and shadow. they were ascending steadily now along a pathway almost too indistinct to follow. the air was aromatic with pine from a grove that came straggling down the side of a gulch to the brook. "do you know, i have a queer feeling that i've seen all this before," the irish girl said. "of course i haven't--unless it was in my dreams. naturally i've thought about alaska a great deal because my father lived here." "i didn't know that." "yes. he came in with the klondike stampeders." she added quietly: "he died on bonanza creek two years later." "was he a miner?" "not until he came north. he had an interest in a claim. it later turned out worthless." a bit of stiff climbing brought them to a boulder field back of which rose a mountain ridge. "we've got off the trail somehow," elliot said. "but i don't suppose it matters. if we keep going we're bound to come to the waterfall." beyond the boulder field the ridge rose sharply. gordon looked a little dubiously at sheba. "are you a good climber?" as she stood in the sunpour, her cheeks flushed with exercise, he could see that her spirit courted adventure. "i'm sure i must be," she answered with a smile adorable. "i believe i could do the matterhorn to-day." well up on the shoulder of the ridge they stopped to breathe. the distant noise of falling water came faintly to them. "we're too far to the left--must have followed the wrong spur," elliot explained. "probably we can cut across the face of the mountain." presently they came to an impasse. the gulch between the two spurs terminated in a rock wall that fell almost sheer for two hundred feet. the color in the cheeks beneath the eager eyes of the girl was warm. "let's try it," she begged. the young man had noticed that she was as sure-footed as a mountain goat and that she could stand on the edge of a precipice without dizziness. the surface of the wall was broken. what it might be beyond he could not tell, but the first fifty feet was a bit of attractive and not too difficult rock traverse. now and again he made a suggestion to the young woman following him, but for the most part he trusted her to choose her own foot and hand holds. her delicacy was silken strong. if she was slender, she was yet deep-bosomed. the movements of the girl were as certain as those of an experienced mountaineer. the way grew more difficult. they had been following a ledge that narrowed till it ran out. jutting knobs of feldspar and stunted shrubs growing from crevices offered toe-grips instead of the even foothold of the rock shelf. as gordon looked down at the dizzy fall beneath them his judgment told him they had better go back. he said as much to his companion. the smile she flashed at him was delightfully provocative. it served to point the figure she borrowed from gwen. "so you think i'm a 'fraid-cat, mr. elliot?" his inclination marched with hers. it was their first adventure together and he did not want to spoil it by undue caution. there really was not much danger yet so long as they were careful. gordon abandoned the traverse and followed an ascending crack in the wall. the going was hard. it called for endurance and muscle, as well as for a steady head and a sure foot. he looked down at the girl wedged between the slopes of the granite trough. she read his thought. "the old guard never surrenders, sir," was her quick answer as she brushed in salute with the tips of her fingers a stray lock of hair. the trough was worse than elliot had expected. it had in it a good deal of loose rubble that started in small slides at the least pressure. "be very careful of your footing," he called back anxiously. a small grassy platform lay above the upper end of the trough, but the last dozen feet of the approach was a very difficult bit. gordon took advantage of every least projection. he fought his way up with his back against one wall and his knees pressed to the other. three feet short of the platform the rock walls became absolutely smooth. the climber could reach within a foot of the top. "are you stopped?" asked sheba. "looks that way." a small pine projected from the edge of the shelf out over the precipice. it might be strong enough to bear his weight. it might not. gordon unbuckled his belt and threw one end over the trunk of the dwarf tree. gingerly he tested it with his weight, then went up hand over hand and worked himself over the edge of the little plateau. "all right?" the girl called up. "all right. but you can't make it. i'm coming down again." "i'm going to try." "i wouldn't, miss o'neill. it's really dangerous." "i'd like to try it. i'll stop if it's too hard," she promised. the strength of her slender wrists surprised him. she struggled up the vertical crevasse inch by inch. his heart was full of fear, for a misstep now would be fatal. he lay down with his face over the ledge and lowered to her the buckled loop of his belt. twice she stopped exhausted, her back and her hands pressed against the walls of the trough angle for support. "better give it up," he advised. "i'll not then." she smiled stubbornly as she shook her head. presently her fingers touched the belt. [illustration: "so you think i'm a 'fraid-cat, mr. elliot?"] gordon edged forward an inch or two farther. "put your hand through the loop and catch hold of the leather above," he told her. she did so, and at the same instant her foot slipped. the girl swung out into space suspended by one wrist. the muscles of elliot hardened into steel as they responded to the strain. his body began to slide very slowly down the incline. in a moment the acute danger was past. sheba had found a hold with her feet and relieved somewhat the dead pull upon elliot. she had not voiced a cry, but the face that looked up into his was very white. "take your time," he said in a quiet, matter-of-fact way. with his help she came close enough for him to reach her hand. after that it was only a moment before she knelt on the plateau beside him. "touch and go, wasn't it?" sheba tried to smile, but the colorless lips told the young man she was still faint from the shock. he knew he was going to reproach himself bitterly for having led her into such a risk, but he could not just now afford to waste his energies on regrets. nor could he let her mind dwell on past dangers so long as there were future ones to be faced. "you might have sprained your wrist," he said lightly as he rose to examine the cliff still to be negotiated. her dark eyes looked at him with quick surprise. "so i might," she answered dryly. but his indifferent tone had the effect upon her of a plunge into cold water. it braced and stiffened her will. if he wanted to ignore the terrible danger through which she had passed, certainly she was not going to remind him of it. between where they stood and the summit of the cliff was another rock traverse. a kind of rough, natural stairway led down to a point opposite them. but before this could be reached thirty feet of granite must be crossed. the wall looked hazardous enough in all faith. it lay in the shade, and there were spots where a thin coating of ice covered the smooth slabs. but there was no other way up, and if the traverse could be made the rest was easy. gordon was mountaineer enough to know that the climb up is safer than the one back. the only possible way for them to go down the trough was for him to lower her by the belt until she found footing enough to go alone. he did not quite admit it to himself, but in his heart he doubted whether she could make it safely. the alternative was the cliff face. chapter v across the traverse elliot took off his shoes and turned toward the traverse. "think i'll see if i can cross to that stairway. you had better wait here, miss o'neill, until we find out if it can be done." his manner was casual, his voice studiously light. sheba looked across the cliff and down to the boulder bed two hundred feet below. "you can never do it in the world. isn't there another way up?" "no. the wall above us slopes out. i've got to cross to the stairway. if i make it i'm going to get a rope." "do you mean you're going back to town for one?" "yes." her eyes fastened to his in a long, unspoken question. she read the answer. he was afraid to have her try the trough again. to get back to town by way of their roundabout ascent would waste time. if he was going to rescue her before night, he must take the shortest cut, and that was across the face of the sheer cliff. for the first time she understood how serious was their plight. "we can go back together by the trough, can't we?" but even as she asked, her heart sank at the thought of facing again that dizzy height. the moment of horror when she had thought herself lost had shaken her nerve. "it would be difficult." the glance of the girl swept again the face of the wall he must cross. it could not be done without a rope. her fear-filled eyes came back to his. "it's my fault. i made you come," she said in a low voice. "nonsense," he answered cheerfully. "there's no harm done. if i can't reach the stairway i can come back and go down by the trough." sheba assented doubtfully. it had come on to drizzle again. the rain was fine and cold, almost a mist, and already it was forming a film of ice on the rocks. "i can't take time to go back by the trough. the point is that i don't want you camped up here after night. there has been no sun on this side of the spur and in the chill of the evening it must get cold even in summer." he was making his preparations as he talked. his coat he took off and threw down. his shoes he tied by the laces to his belt. "i'll try not to be very long," he promised. "it's god's will then, so it is," she sighed, relapsing into the vernacular. her voice was low and not very steady, for the heart of the girl was heavy. she knew she must not protest his decision. that was not the way to play the game. but somehow the salt had gone from their light-hearted adventure. she had become panicky from the moment when her feet had started the rubble in the trough and gone flying into the air. the gayety that had been the note of their tramp had given place to fears. elliot took her little hand in a warm, strong grip. "you're not going to be afraid. we'll work out all right, you know." "yes." "it's not just the thing to leave a lady in the rain when you take her for a walk, but it can't be helped. we'll laugh about it to-morrow." would they? she wondered, answering his smile faintly. her courage was sapped. she wanted to cry out that he must not try the traverse, but she set her will not to make it harder for him. he turned to the climb. "you've forgotten your coat," she reminded. "i'm traveling light this trip. you'd better slip it on before you get chilled." sheba knew he had left it on purpose for her. her fascinated eyes followed him while he moved out from the plateau across the face of the precipice. his hand had found a knob of projecting feldspar and he was feeling with his right foot for a hold in some moss that grew in a crevice. he had none of the tools for climbing--no rope, no hatchet, none of the support of numbers. all the allies he could summon were his bare hands and feet, his resilient muscles, and his stout heart. to make it worse, the ice film from the rain coated every jutting inch of quartz with danger. but he worked steadily forward, moving with the infinite caution of one who knows that there will be no chance to remedy later any mistake. a slight error in judgment, the failure in response of any one of fifty muscles, would send him plunging down. occasionally he spoke to sheba, but she volunteered no remarks. it was her part to wait and watch while he concentrated every faculty upon his task. he had come to an impasse after crossing a dozen feet of the wall and was working up to get around a slab of granite which protruded, a convex barrier, from the surface of the cliff. it struck the girl that from a distance he must look like a fly on a pane of glass. even to her, close as she was, that smooth rock surface looked impossible. her eye left him for an instant to sweep the gulf below. she gave a little cry, ran to his coat, and began to wave it. for the first time since elliot had begun the traverse she took the initiative in speech. "i see some people away over to the left, mr. elliot. i'm going to call to them." her voice throbbed with hope. but it was not her shouts or his, which would not have carried one tenth the distance, that reached the group in the valley. one of them caught a glimpse of the wildly waving coat. there was a consultation and two or three fluttered handkerchiefs in response. presently they moved on. sheba could not believe her eyes. "they're not leaving us surely?" she gasped. "that's what they're doing," answered gordon grimly. "they think we're calling to them out of vanity to show them where we climbed." "oh!" she strangled a sob in her throat. her heart was weighted as with lead. "i'm going to make it. i think i see my way from here," her companion called across to her. "a fault runs to the foot of the stairway, if i can only do the next yard or two." he did them, by throwing caution to the winds. an icy, rounded boulder projected above him out of reach. he unfastened his belt again and put the shoes, tied by the laces, around his neck. there was one way to get across to the ledge of the fault. he took hold of the two ends of the belt, crouched, and leaned forward on tiptoes toward the knob. the loop of the belt slid over the ice-coated boss. there was no chance to draw back now, to test the hold he had gained. if the leather slipped he was lost. his body swung across the abyss and his feet landed on the little ledge beyond. his shout of success came perhaps ten minutes later. "i've reached the stairway, miss o'neill. i'll try not to be long, but you'd better exercise to keep up the circulation. don't worry, please. i'll be back before night." "i'm so glad," she cried joyfully. "i was afraid for you. and i'll not worry a bit. good-bye." elliot made his way up to the summit and ran along a footpath which brought him to a bridge across the mountain stream just above the falls. the trail zigzagged down the turbulent little river close to the bank. before he had specialized on the short distances gordon had been a cross-country runner. he was in fair condition and he covered the ground fast. about a mile below the falls he met two men. one of them was colby macdonald. he carried a coil of rope over one shoulder. the big alaskan explained that he had not been able to get it out of his head that perhaps the climbers who had waved at his party had been in difficulties. so he had got a rope from the cabin of an old miner and was on his way back to the falls. the three climbed to the falls, crossed the bridge, and reached the top of the cliff. "you know the lay of the land down there, mr. elliot. we'll lower you," decided macdonald, who took command as a matter of course. gordon presently stood beside sheba on the little plateau. she had quite recovered from the touch of hysteria that had attacked her courage. the wind and the rain had whipped the color into her soft cheeks, had disarranged a little the crinkly, blue-black hair, wet tendrils of which nestled against her temples. the health and buoyancy of the girl were in the live eyes that met his eagerly. "you weren't long," was all she said. "i met them coming," he answered as he dropped the loop of the rope over her head and arranged it under her shoulders. he showed her how to relieve part of the strain of the rope on her flesh by using her hands to lift. "all ready?" macdonald called from above. "all ready," elliot answered. to sheba he said, "hold tight." the girl was swung from the ledge and rose jerkily in the air. she laughed gayly down at her friend below. "it's fun." gordon followed her a couple of minutes later. she was waiting to give him a hand over the edge of the cliff. "miss o'neill, this is mr. macdonald," he said, as soon as he had freed himself from the rope. "you are fellow passengers on the hannah." macdonald was looking at her straight and hard. "your father's name--was it farrell o'neill?" he asked bluntly. "yes." "i knew him." the girl's eyes lit. "i'm glad, mr. macdonald. that's one reason i wanted to come to alaska--to hear about my father's life here. will you tell me?" "sometime. we must be going now to catch the boat--after i've had a look at the cliff this young man crawled across." he turned away, abruptly it struck elliot, and climbed down the natural stairway up which the young man had come. presently he rejoined those above. macdonald looked at elliot with a new respect. "you're in luck, my friend, that we're not carrying you from the foot of the cliff," he said dryly. "i wouldn't cross that rock wall for a hundred thousand dollars in cold cash." "nor i again," admitted gordon with a laugh. "but we had either to homestead that plateau or vacate it. i preferred the latter." miss o'neill's deep eyes looked at him. she was about to speak, then changed her mind. chapter vi sheba sings--and two men listen elliot did not see miss o'neill next morning until she appeared in the dining-room for breakfast. he timed himself to get through so as to join her when she left. they strolled out to the deck together. "did you sleep well?" he asked. "after i fell asleep. it took me a long time. i kept seeing you on the traverse." he came abruptly to what was on his mind. "i have an apology to make, miss o'neill. if i made light of your danger yesterday, it was because i was afraid you might break down. i had to seem unsympathetic rather than risk that." she smiled forgiveness. "all you said was that i might have sprained my wrist. it was true too. i might have--and i did." sheba showed a white linen bandage tied tightly around her wrist. "does it pain much?" "not so much now. it throbbed a good deal last night." "your whole weight came on it with a wrench. no wonder it hurt." sheba noticed that the hannah was drawing up to a wharf and the passengers were lining up with their belongings. "is this where we change?" "those of us going to kusiak transfer here. but there's no hurry. we wait at this landing two hours." gordon helped sheba move her baggage to the other boat and joined her on deck. they were both strangers in the land. their only common acquaintance was macdonald and he was letting mrs. mallory absorb his attention just now. left to their own resources the two young people naturally drifted together a good deal. this suited elliot. he found his companion wholly delightful, not the less because she was so different from the girls he knew at home. she could be frank, and even shyly audacious on occasion, but she held a little note of reserve he felt bound to respect. her experience of the world had clearly been limited. she was not at all sure of herself, of the proper degree of intimacy to permit herself with a strange and likable young man who had done her so signal a service. macdonald left the boat twenty miles below kusiak with mrs. mallory and the selfridges. a chauffeur with a motor-car was waiting on the wharf to run them to town, but he gave the wheel to macdonald and took the seat beside the driver. the little miner strong grinned across to elliot, who was standing beside miss o'neill at the boat rail. "that's mac all over. he hires a fellow to run his car--brings him up here from seattle--and then takes the wheel himself every time he rides. i don't somehow see mac sitting back and letting another man run the machine." it was close to noon before the river boat turned a bend and steamed up to the wharf at kusiak. the place was an undistinguished little log town that rambled back from the river up the hill in a hit-or-miss fashion. its main street ran a tortuous course parallel to the stream. half of the town, it seemed, was down to meet the boat. "are you going to the hotel or direct to your cousin's?" gordon asked miss o'neill. "to my cousin's. i fancy she's down here to meet me. it was arranged that i come on this boat." there was much waving of handkerchiefs and shouting back and forth as the steamer slowly drew close to the landing. elliot caught a glimpse of the only people in kusiak he had known before coming in, but though he waved to them he saw they did not recognize him. after the usual delay about getting ashore he walked down the gangway carrying the suitcases of the irish girl. sheba followed at his heels. on the wharf he came face to face with a slender, well-dressed young woman. "diane!" he cried. she stared at him. "you! what in heaven's name are you doing here, gordon elliot?" she demanded, and before he could answer had seized both hands and turned excitedly to call a stocky man near. "peter--peter! guess who's here?" "hello, paget!" grinned gordon, and he shook hands with the husband of diane. elliot turned to introduce his friend, but she anticipated him. "cousin diane," she said shyly. "don't you know me?" mrs. paget swooped down upon the girl and smothered her in her embrace. "this is sheba--little sheba that i have told you so often about, peter," she cried. "glory be, i'm glad to see you, child." and diane kissed her again warmly. "you two met on the boat, of course, coming in, i hope you didn't let her get lonesome, gordon. look after sheba's suitcases, peter. you'll come to dinner to-night, gordon--at seven." "i'm in the kind hands of my countrywoman," laughed gordon. "i'll certainly be on hand." "but what in the world are you doing here? you're the last man i'd have expected to see." "i'm in the service of the government, and i've been sent in on business." "well, i'm going to say something original, dear people," mrs. paget replied. "it's a small world, isn't it?" while he was dressing for dinner later in the day, elliot recalled early memories of the pagets. he had known diane ever since they had been youngsters together at school. he remembered her as a restless, wiry little thing, keen as a knife-blade. she had developed into a very pretty girl, alive, ambitious, energetic, with a shrewd eye to the main chance. always popular socially, she had surprised everybody by refusing the catch of the town to marry a young mining engineer without a penny. gordon was in college at the time, but during the next long vacation he had fraternized a good deal with the peter pagets. the young married people had been very much in love with each other, but not too preoccupied to take the college boy into their happiness as a comrade. diane always had been a manager, and she liked playing older sister to so nice a lad. he had been on a footing friendly enough to drop in unannounced whenever he took the fancy. if they were out, or about to go out, the freedom of the den, a magazine, and good tobacco had been his. then the arctic gold-fields had claimed paget and his bride. that had been more than ten years ago, and until to-day gordon had not seen them since. while elliot was brushing his dinner coat before the open window of the room assigned him at the hotel, somebody came out to the porch below. the voice of a woman floated faintly to him. "seen diane's irish beauty yet, ned?" "yes," a man answered. the woman laughed softly. "mrs. mallory came up on the same boat with her." the inflection suggested that the words were meant not to tell a fact, but some less obvious inference. "oh, you women!" the man commented good-naturedly. "she's wonderfully pretty, and of course diane will make the most of her. but mrs. mallory is a woman among ten thousand." "i'd choose the girl if it were me," said the man. "but it isn't you. we'll see what we'll see." they were moving up the street and gordon heard no more. what he had heard was not clear to him. why should any importance attach to the fact that mrs. mallory and sheba o'neill had come up the river on the same boat? yet he was vaguely disturbed by the insinuation that in some way diane was entering her cousin as a rival of the older woman. he resented the idea that the fine, young personality of the irish girl was being cheapened by management on the part of diane paget. elliot was not the only dinner guest at the paget home that evening. he found colby macdonald sitting in the living-room with sheba. she came quickly forward to meet the newly arrived guest. "mr. macdonald has been telling me about my father. he knew him on frenchman creek where they both worked claims," explained the girl. the big mining man made no comment and added nothing to what she said. there were times when his face was about as expressive as a stone wall. except for a hard wariness in the eyes it told nothing now. the dinner went off very well. diane and peter had a great many questions to ask gordon about old friends. by the time these had been answered macdonald was chatting easily with sheba. the man had been in many out-of-the-way corners of the world, had taken part in much that was dramatic and interesting. if the experience of the irish girl had been small, her imagination had none the less gone questing beyond the narrow bars of her life upon amazing adventure. she listened with glowing eyes to the strange tales this man of magnificent horizons had to tell. never before had she come into contact with any one like him. the others too succumbed to his charm. he dominated that little dining-room because he was a sixty-horse-power dynamo. for all his bulk he was as lean as a panther and as sinewy. there was virility in the very economy of his motions, in the reticence of his speech. not even a fool could have read weakness there. when he followed sheba into the living-room, power trod in his long, easy stride. paget was superintendent of the lucky strike, a mine owned principally by macdonald. the two talked business for a few minutes over their cigars, but diane interrupted gayly to bring them back into the circle. adroitly she started macdonald on the account of a rescue of two men lost in a blizzard the year before. he had the gift of dramatizing his story, of selecting only effective details. there was no suggestion of boasting. if he happened to be the hero of any of his stories the fact was of no importance to him. it was merely a detail of the picture he was sketching. gordon interrupted with a question a story he was telling of a fight he had seen between two bull moose. "did you say that was while you were on the way over to inspect the kamatlah coal-fields for the first time?" the eyes of the young man were quick with interest. "yes." "four years ago last spring?" macdonald looked at him with a wary steadiness. some doubt had found lodgment in his mind. before he could voice it, if, indeed, he had any such intention, elliot broke in swiftly,-"don't answer that question. i asked it without proper thought. i am a special agent of the general land office sent up to investigate the macdonald coal claims and kindred interests." slowly the rigor of the big scotchman's steely eyes relaxed to a smile that was genial and disarming. if this news hit him hard he gave no sign of it. and that it was an unexpected blow there could be no doubt. "glad you've come, mr. elliot. we ask nothing but fair play. tell the truth, and we'll thank you. the men who own the macdonald group of claims have nothing to conceal. i'll answer that question. i meant to say two years ago last spring." his voice was easy and his gaze unwavering as he made the correction, yet everybody in the room except sheba knew he was deliberately lying to cover the slip. for the admission that he had inspected the kamatlah field just before his dummies had filed upon it would at least tend to aggravate suspicion that the entries were not _bona-fide_. it was rather an awkward moment. diane blamed herself because she had brought the men together socially. why had she not asked gordon more explicitly what his business was? peter grinned a little uncomfortably. it was sheba who quite unconsciously relieved the situation. "but what about the big moose, mr. macdonald? what did it do then?" the alaskan went back to his story. he was talking for sheba alone, for the young girl with eager, fascinated eyes which flashed with sympathy as they devoured selected glimpses of his wild, turbulent career. her clean, brave spirit was throwing a glamour over the man. she saw him with other eyes than elliot's. the government official admired him tremendously. macdonald was an empire-builder. he blazed trails for others to follow in safety. but gordon could guess how callously his path was strewn with brutality, with the effects of an ethical color-blindness largely selfish, though even he did not know that the man's primitive jungle code of wolf eat wolf had played havoc with sheba's young life many years before. diane, satisfied that macdonald had scored, called upon sheba. "i want you to sing for us, dear, if you will." sheba accompanied herself. the voice of the girl had no unusual range, but it was singularly sweet and full of the poignant feeling that expresses the haunting pathos of her race. "it's well i know ye, shevè cross, ye weary, stony hill, an' i'm tired, och, i'm tired to be looking on ye still. for here i live the near side an' he is on the far, an' all your heights and hollows are between us, so they are. och anee!" gordon, as he listened, felt the strange hunger of that homesick cry steal through his blood. he saw his own emotions reflected in the face of the scotch-canadian, who was watching with a tense interest the slim, young figure at the piano, the girl whose eyes were soft and dewy with the mysticism of her people, were still luminous with the poetry of the child in spite of the years that heralded her a woman. elliot intercepted the triumphant sweep of diane's glance from macdonald to her husband. in a flash it lit up for him the words he had heard on the hotel porch. diane, an inveterate matchmaker, intended her cousin to marry colby macdonald. no doubt she thought she was doing a fine thing for the girl. he was a millionaire, the biggest figure in the northwest. his iron will ran the town and district as though the people were chattels of his. back of him were some of the biggest financial interests in the united states. but the gorge of elliot rose. the man, after all, was a law-breaker, a menace to civilization. he was a survivor by reason of his strength from the primitive wolf-pack. already the special agent had heard many strange stories of how this man of steel had risen to supremacy by trampling down lesser men with whom he had had dealings, of terrible battles from which his lean, powerful body had emerged bloody and battered, but victorious. the very look of his hard, gray eyes was dominant and masterful. he would win, no matter how. it came to gordon's rebel heart that if macdonald wanted this lovely irish girl,--and the young man never doubted that the scotchman would want her,--he would reach out and gather in sheba just as if she were a coal mine or a placer prospect. all this surged through the mind of the young man while the singer was on the first line of the second stanza. "but if 't was only shevè cross to climb from foot to crown, i'd soon be up an' over that, i'd soon be runnin' down. then sure the great ould sea itself is there beyont the bar, an' all the windy wathers are between us, so they are. och anee!" the rich, soft, young voice with its irish brogue died away. the little audience paid the singer the tribute of silence. she herself was the first to speak. "'divided' is the name of it. a namesake of mine, moira o'neill, wrote it," she explained. "it's a beautiful song, and i thank ye for singing it," macdonald said simply. "it minds me of my own barefoot days by the tay." later in the evening the two dinner guests walked back to the hotel together. the two subjects uppermost in the minds of both were not mentioned by either. they discussed casually the cost of living in the north, the raising of strawberries at kusiak, and the best way to treat the mosquito nuisance, but neither of them referred to the macdonald coal claims or to sheba o'neill. chapter vii wally gets orders macdonald, from his desk, looked up at the man in the doorway. selfridge had come in jauntily, a cigar in his mouth, but at sight of the grim face of his chief the grin fled. "come in and shut the door," ordered the scotchman. "i sent for you to congratulate you, wally. you did fine work outside. you told me, didn't you, that it was all settled at last--that our claims are clear-listed for patent?" the tubby little man felt the edge of irony in the quiet voice. "sure. that's what winton told me," he assented nervously. "then you'll be interested to know that a special field agent of the land department sat opposite me last night and without batting an eye came across with the glad news that he was here to investigate our claims." selfridge bounced up like a rubber ball from the chair into which he had just settled. "what!" "pleasant surprise, isn't it? i've been wondering what you were doing outside. of course i know you had to take in the shows and cabarets of new york. but couldn't you edge in an hour or two once a week to attend to business?" wally's collar began to choke him. the cool, hard words of the big scotchman pelted like hail. "must be a bluff, mac. the muckrake magazines have raised such a row about the guttenchild crowd putting over a big steal on the public that the party leaders are scared stiff. i couldn't pick up a newspaper anywhere without seeing your name in the headlines. it was fierce." selfridge had found his glib tongue and was off. "i understand that, wally. what i don't get is how you came to let them slip this over on you without even a guess that it was going to happen." that phase of the subject selfridge did not want to discuss. "bet you a hat i've guessed it right--just a grand-stand play of the administration to fool the dear people. this fellow has got his orders to give us a clean bill of health. sure. that must be it. i suppose it's this man elliot that came up on the boat with us." "yes." "well, that's easy. if he hasn't been seen we can see him." macdonald looked his man friday over with a scarcely veiled contempt. "you have a beautiful, childlike faith in every man's dishonesty, wally. did it ever occur to you that some people are straight--that they won't sell out?" "all he gets is a beggarly two thousand or so a year. we can fix him all right." "you've about as much vision as a breed trader. unless i miss my guess elliot isn't that kind. he'll go through to a finish. what i'd like to know is how his mind works. if he sees straight we're all right, but if he is a narrow conservation fanatic he might go ahead and queer the whole game." "you wouldn't stand for that." the quick glance of selfridge asked a question. the lips of the scotchman were like steel traps and his eyes points of steel. "we'll cross that bridge if we come to it. our first move is to try to win him to see this thing our way. i'll have a casual talk with him before he leaves for kamatlah and feel him out." "what's he doing here at all? if he's investigating the kamatlah claims, why does he go hundreds of miles out of his way to come in to kusiak?" asked selfridge. macdonald smiled sardonically. "he's doing this job right. elliot as good as told me that he's on the job to look up my record thoroughly. so he comes to kusiak first. in a few days he'll leave for kamatlah. that's where you come in, wally." "how do you mean?" "you're going to start for kamatlah to-morrow. you'll arrange the stage before he gets there--see all the men and the foremen. line them up so they'll come through with the proper talk. if you have any doubts about whether you can trust some one, don't take any chances. fire him out of the camp. offer elliot the company hospitality. load him down with favors. take him everywhere. show him everything. but don't let him get any proofs that the claims are being worked under the same management." "but he'll suspect it." "you can't help his suspicions. don't let him get proof. cover all the tracks that show company control." "i can fix that," he said. "but what about holt? the old man won't do a thing but tell all he knows, and a lot more that he suspects. you know how bitter he is--and crazy. he ought to be locked away with the flitter-mice." "you mustn't let elliot meet holt." "how the deuce can i help it? no chance to keep them apart in that little hole. it can't be done." "can't it?" something in the quiet voice rang a bell of alarm in the timid heart of selfridge. "you mean--" "a man who works for me as my lieutenant must have nerve, wally. have you got it? will you take orders and go through with them?" his hard eyes searched the face of the plump little man. this was a job he would have liked to do himself, but he could not get away just now. selfridge was the only man about him he could trust with it. wally nodded. his lips were dry and parched. "go to it. what am i to do?" "get holt out of the way while elliot is at kamatlah." "but, good lord, i can't keep the man tied up a month," protested the leading tenor of kusiak. "it isn't doing holt any good to sit tight clamped to that claim of his! he needs a change. besides, i want him away so that we can contest his claim. run him up into the hills. or send him across to siberia on a whaler. or, better still, have him arrested for insanity and send him to nome. i'll get judge landor to hold him a while." "that would give him an alibi for his absence and prevent a contest." "that's right. it would." "leave it to me. the old man is going on a vacation, though he doesn't know it yet." "good enough, wally. i'll trust you. but remember, this fight has reached an acute stage. no more mistakes. the devil of it is we never seem to land the knockout punch. we've beaten this bunch of reform idiots before winton, before the secretary of the interior, before the president, and before congress. now they're beginning all over again. where is it to end?" "this is their last kick. probably guttenchild agreed to it so as to let the party go before the people at the next election without any apologies. entirely formal investigation, i should say." this might be true, or it might not. macdonald knew that just now the american people, always impulsive in its thinking, was supporting strongly the movement for conservation. a searchlight had been turned upon the kamatlah coal-fields. magazines and newspapers had hammered it home to readers that the guttenchild and allied interests were engaged in a big steal from the people of coal, timber, and power-site lands to the value of more than a hundred million dollars. the trouble had originated in a department row, but it had spread until the macdonald claims had become a party issue. the officials of the land office, as well as the national administration, were friendly to the claimants. they had no desire to offend one of the two largest money groups in the country. but neither did they want to come to wreck on account of the guttenchilds. they found it impossible to ignore the charge that the entries were fraudulent and if consummated would result in a wholesale robbery of the public domain. superficial investigations had been made and the claimants whitewashed. but the clamor had persisted. though he denied it officially, macdonald made a present to the public of the admission that the entries were irregular. laws, he held, were made for men and should be interpreted to aid progress. bad ones ought to be evaded. the facts were simple enough. macdonald was the original promoter of the kamatlah coal-field. he had engaged dummy entrymen to take up one hundred and sixty acres each under the homestead act. later he intended to consolidate the claims and turn them over to the guttenchilds under an agreement by which he was to receive one eighth of the stock of the company formed to work the mines. the entries had been made, the fee accepted by the land office, and receipts issued. in course of time macdonald had applied for patents. before these were issued the magazines began to pour in their broadsides, and since then the papers had been held up. the conscience of macdonald was quite clear. the pioneers in alaska were building out of the arctic waste a new empire for the united states, and he held that a fair government could do no less than offer them liberal treatment. to lock up from present use vast resources needed by alaskans would be a mistaken policy, a narrow and perverted application of the doctrine of conservation. the territory should be thrown open to the world. if capital were invited in to do its share of the building, immigration would flow rapidly northward. within the lives of the present generation the new empire would take shape and wealth would pour inevitably into the united states from its frozen treasure house. the view held by macdonald was one common to the whole pacific coast. seattle, portland, san francisco were a unit in the belief that the government had no right to close the door of alaska and then put a padlock upon it. feminine voices drifted from the outer office. macdonald opened the door to let in mrs. selfridge and mrs. mallory. the latter lady, paris-shod and gloved, shook hands smilingly with the scotch-canadian. "of course we're intruders in business hours, though you'll tell us we're not," she suggested. he was not a man to surrender easily to the spell of woman, but when he looked into her deep-lidded, smouldering eyes something sultry beat in his blood. "business may fly out of the window when mrs. mallory comes in at the door," he answered. "how gallant of you, especially when i've come with an impertinent question." her gay eyes mocked him as she spoke. "then i'll probably tell you to mind your own business," he laughed. "let's have your question." "i've just been reading the 'transcontinental magazine.' a writer there says that you are a highway robber and a gambler. i know you're a robber because all the magazines say so. but are you only a big gambler?" he met her raillery without the least embarrassment. "sure i gamble. every time i take a chance i'm gambling. so does everybody else. when you walk past the flatiron building you bet it won't fall down and crush you. we've got to take chances to live." "how true, and i never thought of it," beamed mrs. selfridge. "what a philosopher you are, mr. macdonald." the scotchman went on without paying any attention to her effervescence. "i've gambled ever since i was a kid. i bet i could cross death valley and get out alive. that time i won. i bet it would rain once down in arizona before my cattle died. i lost. another time i took a contract to run a tunnel. in my bid i bet i wouldn't run into rock. my bank went broke that trip. when i joined the klondike rush i was backing my luck to stand up. same thing when i located the kamatlah field. the coal might be a poor quality. maybe i couldn't interest big capital in the proposition. perhaps the government would turn me down when i came to prove up. i was betting my last dollar against big odds. when i quit gambling it will be because i've quit living." "and i suppose i'm a gambler too?" mrs. mallory demanded with a little tilt of her handsome head. he looked straight at her with the keen eyes that had bored through her from the first day they had met, the eyes that understood the manner of woman she was and liked her none the less. "of all the women i know you are the best gambler. it's born in you." "why, mr. macdonald!" screamed mrs. selfridge in her high staccato. "i don't think that's a compliment." mrs. mallory did not often indulge in the luxury of a blush, but she changed color now. this big, blunt man sometimes had an uncanny divination. did he, she asked herself, know what stake she was gambling for at kusiak? "you are too wise," she laughed with a touch of embarrassment very becoming. "but i suppose you are right. i like excitement." "we all do. the only man who doesn't gamble is the convict in stripes, and the only reason he doesn't is that his chips are all gone. it's true that men on the frontier play for bigger stakes. they back their bets with all they have got and put their lives on top for good measure. but kids in the cradle all over the united states are going to live easier because of the gamblers at the dropping-off places. that writer fellow hit the nail on the head about me. my whole life is a gamble." she moved with slow grace toward the door, then over her shoulder flashed a sudden invitation at him. "mrs. selfridge and i are doing a little betting to-day, big chief gambler. we're backing our luck that you two men will eat lunch with us at the blue bird inn. do we win?" macdonald reached for his hat promptly. "you win." chapter viii the end of the passage wally selfridge was a reliable business subordinate, even though he had slipped up in the matter of the appointment of elliot. but when it came to facing the physical hardships of the north he was a malingerer. the kamatlah trip had to be taken because his chief had ordered it, but the little man shirked the journey in his heart just as he knew his soft muscles would shrink from the aches of the trail. his idea of work was a set of tennis on the outdoor wooden court of the kusiak clubhouse, and even there his game was not a hard, smashing one, but an easy foursome with a girl for partner. he liked better to play bridge with attendants at hand to supply drinks and cigars. by nature he was a sybarite. the call of the frontier found no response in his sophisticated soul. the part of the journey to be made by water was not so bad. left to his own judgment, he would have gone to st. michael's by boat and chartered a small steamer for the long trip along the coast through bering sea. but this would take time, and macdonald did not mean to let him waste a day. he was to leave the river boat at the big bend and pack across country to kamatlah. it would be a rough, heavy trail. the mosquitoes would be a continual torment. the cooking would be poor. and at the end of the long trek there awaited him monotonous months in a wretched coal camp far from all the comforts of civilization. no wonder he grumbled. but though he grumbled at home and at the club and on the street about his coming exile, selfridge made no complaints to macdonald. that man of steel had no sympathy with the yearnings for the fleshpots. he was used to driving himself through discomfort to his end, and he expected as much of his deputies. wherefore wally took the boat at the time scheduled and waved a dismal farewell to wife and friends assembled upon the wharf. elliot said good-bye to the pagets and miss o'neill ten days later. diane was very frank with him. "i hear you've been sleuthing around, gordon, for facts about colby macdonald. i don't know what you have heard about him, but i hope you've got the sense to see how big a man he is and how much this country here owes him." gordon nodded agreement. "yes, he's a big man." "and he's good," added sheba eagerly. "he never talks of it, but one finds out splendid things he has done." the young man smiled, but not at all superciliously. he liked the stanch faith of the girl in her friend, even though his investigations had not led him to accept goodness as the outstanding quality of the scotchman. "i don't know what we would do without him," diane went on. "give him ten years and a free hand and alaska will be fit for white people to live in. these attacks on him by newspapers and magazines are an outrage." "it's plain that you are a partisan," charged gordon gayly. "i'm against locking up alaska and throwing away the key, if that is what you mean by a partisan. we need this country opened up--the farms settled, the mines worked, the coal-fields developed, railroads built. it is one great big opportunity, the country here, and the narrow little conservation cranks want to shut it up tight from the people who have energy and foresight enough to help do the building." "the kusiak chamber of commerce ought to send you out as a lecturer to change public opinion, diane. you are one enthusiastic little booster for freedom of opportunity," laughed the young man. "oh, well!" diane joined in his laughter. it was one of her good points that she could laugh at herself. "i dare say i do sound like a real estate pamphlet, but it's all true anyhow." gordon left kusiak as reluctantly as wally selfridge had done, though his reasons for not wanting to go were quite different. they centered about a dusky-eyed young woman whom he had seen for the first time a fortnight before. he would have denied even to himself that he was in love, but whenever he was alone his thoughts reverted to sheba o'neill. at the big bend gordon left the river boat for his cross-country trek. near the roadhouse was an indian village where he had expected to get a guide for the journey to kamatlah. but the fishing season had begun, and the men had all gone down river to take part in it. the old frenchman who kept the trading-post and roadhouse advised gordon not to attempt the tramp alone. "the trail it ees what you call dangerous. feefty-mile swamp ees a monster that swallows men alive, monsieur. you wait one week--two week--t'ree week, and some one will turn up to take you through," he urged. "but i can't wait. and i have an official map of the trail. why can't i follow it without a guide?" elliot wanted to know impatiently. the post-trader shrugged. "maybeso, monsieur--maybe not. feefty-mile--it ees one devil of a trail. no chechakoes are safe in there without a guide. i, baptiste, know." "selfridge and his party went through a week ago. i can follow the tracks they left." "but if it rains, monsieur, the tracks will vaneesh, n'est ce pas? lose the way, and the little singing folk will swarm in clouds about monsieur while he stumbles through the swamp." elliot hesitated for the better part of a day, then came to an impulsive decision. he knew the evil fame of fifty-mile swamp--that no trail in alaska was held to be more difficult or dangerous. he knew too what a fearful pest the mosquitoes were. peter had told him a story of how he and a party of engineers had come upon a man wandering in the hills, driven mad by mosquitoes. the traveler had lost his matches and had been unable to light smudge fires. day and night the little singing devils had swarmed about him. he could not sleep. he could not rest. every moment for forty-eight hours he had fought for his life against them. within an hour of the time they found him the man had died a raving maniac. but elliot was well equipped with mosquito netting and with supplies. he had a reliable map, and anyhow he had only to follow the tracks left by the selfridge party. he turned his back upon the big river and plunged into the wilderness. there came a night when he looked up into the stars of the deep, still sky and knew that he was hundreds of miles from any other human being. never in all his life had he been so much alone. he was not afraid, but there was something awesome in a world so empty of his kind. sometimes he sang, and the sound of his voice at first startled him. it was like living in a world primeval, this traverse of a land so void of all the mechanism that man has built about him. the tracks of the selfridge party grew fainter after a night of rain. more rain fell, and they were obliterated altogether. gordon fished. he killed fresh game for his needs. often he came on the tracks of moose and caribou. sometimes, startled, they leaped into view quite close enough for a shot, but he used his rifle only to meet his wants. a huge grizzly faced him on the trail one afternoon, growled its menace, and went lumbering into the big rocks with awkward speed. the way led through valley and morass, across hills and mountains. it wandered in a sort of haphazard fashion through a sun-bathed universe washed clean of sordidness and meanness. always, as he pushed forward, the path grew more faint and uncertain. elk runs crossed it here and there, so that often gordon went astray and had to retrace his steps. the maddening song of the mosquitoes was always with him. only when he slept did he escape from it. the heavy gloves, the netting, the smudge fires were at best an insufficient protection. it was the seventh night out that elliot suspected he was off the trail. rain sluiced down in torrents and next day continued to pour from a dun sky. his own tracks were blotted out and he searched for the trail in vain. before the rain stopped, he was thoroughly disturbed in mind. it would be a serious business if he should be lost in the bad lands of the bogs. even though he knew the general direction he must follow, there was no certainty that he would ever emerge from this swamp into which he had plunged. before he knew it he was entangled in fifty-mile. his map showed him the morass stretched for fifty miles to the south, but he knew that it had been charted hurriedly by a surveying party which had made no extensive explorations. a good deal of this country was _terra incognita_. it ran vaguely into a no man's land unknown to the prospector. the going was heavy. gordon had to pick his way through the mossy swamp, leading the pack-horse by the bridle. sometimes he was ankle-deep in water of a greenish slime. again he had to drag the animal from the bog to a hummock of grass which gave a spongy footing. this would end in another quagmire of peat through which they must plough with the mud sucking at their feet. it was hard, wearing toil. there was nothing to do but keep moving. the young man staggered forward till dusk. utterly exhausted, he camped for the night on a hillock of moss that rose like an island in the swamp. after he had eaten he fed his fire with green boughs that raised a dense smoke. he lay on the leeward side where the smoke drifted over him and fought mosquitoes till a shift of the wind lessened the plague. toward midnight he rigged up a net for protection and crawled into his blankets. instantly he fell sound asleep. elliot traveled next day by the compass. he had food for three days more, but he knew that no living man had the strength to travel for so long in such a morass. it was near midday when he lost his horse. the animal had bogged down several times and gordon had wasted much time and spent a good deal of needed energy in dragging it to firmer footing. this time the pony refused to answer the whip. its master unloaded pack and saddle. he tried coaxing; he tried the whip. "come, old-timer. one plunge, and you'll make it yet," he urged. the pack-horse turned upon him dumb eyes of reproach, struggled to free its limbs from the mud, and sank down helplessly. it had traveled its last yard on the long alaska trails. after the sound of the shot had died away, gordon struggled with the pack to the nearest hummock. he cut holes in a gunny-sack to fit his shoulders and packed into it his blankets, a saucepan, the beans, the coffee, and the diminished handful of flour. into it went too the three slices of bacon that were left. he hoisted the pack to his back and slipped his arms through the slits he had made. painfully he labored forward over the quivering peat. every weary muscle revolted at the demands his will imposed upon it. he drew on the last ounce of his strength and staggered forward. sometimes he stumbled and went down into the oozing mud, minded to stay there and be done with the struggle. but the urge of life drove him to his feet again. it sent him pitching forward drunkenly. it carried him for weary miles after he despaired of ever covering another hundred yards. with old, half-forgotten signals from the football field he spurred his will. perhaps his mind was already beginning to wander, though through it all he held steadily to the direction that alone could save him. he clapped his hands feebly and stooped for the plunge at the line of the enemy. "'attaboy, gord--'attaboy--nine, eleven, seventeen. hit 'er low, you elliot." when at last he went down to stay it was in an exhaustion so complete that not even his indomitable will could lash him to his feet again. for an hour he lay in a stupor, never stirring even to fight the swarm of mosquitoes that buzzed about him. toward evening he sat up and undid the pack from his back. the matches, in a tin box wrapped carefully with oilskin, were still perfectly dry. soon he had a fire going and coffee boiling in the frying-pan. from the tin cup he carried strung on his belt he drank the coffee. it went through him like strong liquor. he warmed some beans and fried himself a slice of bacon, sopping up the grease with a cold biscuit left over from the day before. again he slept for a few hours. he had wound his watch mechanically and it showed him four o'clock when he took up the trail once more. in seattle and san francisco people were still asleep and darkness was heavy over the land. here it had been day for a long time, ever since the summer sun, hidden for a while behind the low, distant hills, had come blazing forth again in a saddle between two peaks. gordon had reduced his pack by discarding a blanket, the frying-pan, and all the clothing he was not wearing. his rifle lay behind him in the swamp. he had cut to a minimum of safety what he was carrying, according to his judgment. but before long his last blanket was flung aside. he could not afford to carry an extra pound, for he knew he was running a race, the stakes of which were life and death. a cloud of mosquitoes moved with him. he carried in his hand a spruce bough for defense against them. his hands were gloved, his face was covered with netting. but in spite of the best he could do they were an added torture. afternoon found him still staggering forward. the swamps were now behind him. he had won through at last by the narrowest margin possible. the ground was rising sharply toward the mountains. across the range somewhere lay kamatlah. but he was all in. with his food almost gone, a water supply uncertain, reserve strength exhausted, the chances of getting over the divide to safety were practically none. he had come, so far as he could see, to the end of the passage. chapter ix gid holt goes prospecting as soon as selfridge reached kamatlah he began arranging the stage against the arrival of the government agent. his preparations were elaborate and thorough. a young engineer named howland had been in charge of the development work, but wally rearranged his forces so as to let each dummy entryman handle the claim entered in his name. one or two men about whom he was doubtful he discharged and hurried out of the camp. selfridge had been given a free hand as to expenses and he oiled his way by liberal treatment of the men and by a judicious expenditure. he let them know pretty plainly that if the agent on his way to kamatlah suspected corporate ownership of the claims, the government would close down all work and there would be no jobs for them. the company boarding-house became a restaurant, above which was suspended a newly painted sign with the legend, "san francisco grill, j. glynn, proprietor." the store also passed temporarily into the hands of its manager. miners moved from the barracks that had been built by macdonald into hastily constructed cabins on the individual claims. wally had always fancied himself as a stage manager for amateur theatricals. now he justified his faith by transforming kamatlah outwardly from a company camp to a mushroom one settled by wandering prospectors. gideon holt alone was outside of all these activities and watched them with suspicion. he was an old-timer, sly but fearless, who hated colby macdonald with a bitter jealousy that could not be placated and he took no pains to hide the fact. he had happened to be in the vicinity prospecting when macdonald had rushed his entries. partly out of mere perversity and partly by reason of native shrewdness, old holt had slipped in and located one of the best claims in the heart of the group. nor had he been moved to a reasonable compromise by any amount of persuasion, threats, or tentative offers to buy a relinquishment. he was obstinate. he knew a good thing when he had it, and he meant to sit tight. the adherents of the company might charge that holt was cracked in the upper story, but none of them denied he was sharp as a street arab. he guessed that all this preparation was not for nothing. kamatlah was being dressed up to impress somebody who would shortly arrive. the first thought of holt was that a group of big capitalists might be coming to look over their investment. but he rejected this surmise. there would be no need to try any deception upon them. mail from seattle reached camp once a month. holt sat down before his stove to read one of the newspapers he had brought from the office. it was the "p.-i." on the fifth page was a little boxed story that gave him his clue. elliot to investigate macdonald coal claims the reopening of the controversy as to the macdonald claims, which had been clear-listed for patent by harold b. winton, the commissioner of the general land office, takes on another phase with the appointment of gordon elliot as special field agent to examine the validity of the holdings. the new field agent won a reputation by his work in unearthing the oklahoma "gold brick" land frauds. elliot leaves seattle in the queen city thursday for the north, where he will make a thorough investigation of the whole situation with a view to clearing up the matter definitely. if his report is favorable to the claimants, the patents will be granted without further delay. this was too good to keep. holt pulled on his boots and went out to twit such of the enemy as he might meet. it chanced that the first of them was selfridge, whom he had not seen since his arrival, though he knew the little man was in camp. "how goes it, holt? fine and dandy, eh?" inquired wally with the professional geniality he affected. the old miner shook his head dolefully. "i done bust my laig, mr. selfish," he groaned. it was one of his pleasant ways to affect a difficulty of hearing and a dullness of understanding, so that he could legitimately call people by distorted versions of their names. "the old man don't amount to much nowadays. onct a man or a horse gits stove up i don't reckon either one pans out much pay dust any more." "nothing to that, gid. you're younger than you ever were, judging by your looks." "then my looks lie to beat hell, mr. selfish." "my name is selfridge," explained wally, a trifle irritated. holt put a cupped hand to his ear anxiously. "shellfish, did you say? tha' 's right. howcome i to forget? the old man's going pretty fast, mr. shellfish. no more memory than a jackrabbit. say, mr. shellfish, what's the idee of all this here back-to-the-people movement, as the old sayin' is?" "i don't know what you mean. and my name is selfridge, i tell you," snapped the owner of that name. "'course i ain't got no more sense than the law allows. i'm a buzzard haid, but me i kinder got to millin' it over and in respect to these here local improvements, as you might say, i'm doggoned if i _sabe_ the whyfor." there was an imp of malicious deviltry in the black, beady eyes sparkling at selfridge from between narrowed lids. "just some business changes we're making." holt showed his tobacco-stained teeth in a grin splenetic. "oh. that's all. i didn't know but what you might be expecting a visitor." selfridge flashed a sharp sidelong glance at him. "what do you mean--a visitor?" "i just got a notion mebbe you might be looking for one, mr. pelfrich. but i don't know sic' 'em. like as not you ain't fixing up for this gordon elliot a-tall." wally had no come-back, unless it was one to retort in ironic admiration. "you're a wonder, holt. pity you don't start a detective bureau." the old man went away cackling dryly. if selfridge had held any doubts before, he discarded them now. holt would wreck the whole enterprise, were he given a chance. it would never do to let elliot meet and talk with him. he knew too much, and he was eager to tell all he knew. macdonald's lieutenant got busy at once with plans to abduct holt. that it was very much against the law did not disturb him much so long as his chief stood back of him. the unsupported word of the old man would not stand in court, and if he became obstreperous they could always have him locked up as a lunatic. the very pose of the old miner--the make-believe pretension that he was half a fool--would lend itself to such a charge. "we'll send the old man off on a prospecting trip with some of the boys," explained selfridge to rowland. "that way we'll kill two birds. he's back on his assessment work. the time limit will be up before he returns and we'll start a contest for the claim." howland made no comment. he was an engineer and not a politician. in his position it was impossible for him not to know that a good deal about the legal status of the macdonald claims was irregular. but he was a firm believer in a wide-open alaska, in the use of the territory by those who had settled it. the men back of the big scotchman were going to spend millions in development work, in building railroads. it would help labor and business. the whole north would feel a healthful reaction from the kamatlah activities. so, on the theory that the end sometimes justifies doubtful means, he shut his eyes to many acts that in his own private affairs he would not have countenanced. "better arrange it with big bill, then, but don't tell me anything about it. i don't want to know the details," he told selfridge. big bill macy accepted the job with a grin. there was double pay in it both for him and the men he chose as his assistants. he had never liked old holt anyhow. besides, they were not going to do him any harm. holt was baking a batch of sour-dough bread that evening when there came a knock at the cabin door. at sight of big bill and his two companions the prospector closed the oven and straightened with alert suspicion. he was not on visiting terms with any of these men. why had they come to see him? he asked point-blank the question in his mind. "we're going prospecting up wild-goose creek, and we want you to go along, gid," explained macy. "you're an old sour-dough miner, and we-all agree we'd like to have you throw-in with us. what say?" the old miner's answer was direct but not flattering. "what do i want to go on a wild-goose mush with a bunch of bums for?" he shrilled. bill macy scratched his hook nose and looked reproachfully at his host. at least holt thought he was looking at him. one could not be sure, for bill's eyes did not exactly track. "that ain't no kind o' way to talk to a fellow when he comes at you with a fair proposition, gid." "you tell selfridge i ain't going to leave kamatlah--not right now. i'm going to stay here on the job till that land office inspector comes--and then i'm going to have a nice, long, confidential chat with him. see?" "what's the use of snapping at me like a turtle? durden says wild-goose looks fine. there's gold up there--heaps of it." "let it stay there, then. i ain't going. that's flat." holt turned to adjust the damper of his stove. "oh, i don't know. i wouldn't say that," drawled bill insolently. the man at the stove caught the change in tone and turned quickly. he was too late. macy had thrown himself forward and the weight of his body flung holt against the wall. before the miner could recover, the other two men were upon him. they bore him to the floor and in spite of his struggles tied him hand and foot. big bill rose and looked down derisively at his prisoner. "better change your mind and go with us, holt. we'll spend a quiet month up at the headquarters of wild-goose. say you'll come along." "you'll go to prison for this, bill macy." "guess again, gid, and mebbe you'll get it right this time." macy turned to his companions. "george, you bring up the horses. dud, see if that bread is cooked. might as well take it along with us--save us from baking to-morrow." "what are you going to do with me?" demanded holt. "i reckon you need a church to fall on you before you can take a hint. didn't i mention wild-goose creek three or four times?" jeered his captor. "every step you take will be one toward the penitentiary. get that into your cocoanut," the old miner retorted sharply. "nothing to that idee, gid." "i'll scream when you take me out." "go to it. then we'll gag you." holt made no further protest. he was furious, but at present quite helpless. however it went against the grain, he might as well give in until rebellion would do some good. ten minutes later the party was moving silently along the trail that led to the hills. the pack-horses went first, in charge of george holway. the prisoner walked next, his hands tied behind him. big bill followed, and the man he had called dud brought up the rear. they wound up a rising valley, entering from it a cañon with precipitous walls that shut out the late sun. it was by this time past eleven o'clock and dusk was gathering closer. the winding trail ran parallel with the creek, sometimes through thickets of young fir and sometimes across boulder beds that made traveling difficult and slow. they went in single file, each of them with a swarm of mosquitoes about his head. macy had released the hands of his prisoner so that he might have a chance to fight the singing pests, but he kept a wary eye upon him and never let him move more than a few feet from him. the trail grew steeper as it neared the head of the cañon till at last it climbed the left wall and emerged from the gulch to an uneven mesa. the leader of the party looked at his watch. "past midnight. we'll camp here, george, and see if we can't get rid of the 'skeeters." they built smudge fires of green wood and on the lee side of these another one of dry sticks. dud made coffee upon this and cooked bacon to eat with the fresh bread they had taken from the oven of holt. while george chopped wood for the fires and boughs of small firs for bedding, big bill sat with a rifle across his knees just back of the prisoner. "gid's a shifty old cuss, and i ain't taking any chances," he explained aloud to dud. holt was beginning to take the outrage philosophically. he sat close to a smudge and smoked his pipe. "i wouldn't either if i were you. sometime when you ain't watching, i'm liable to grab that gun and shoot a hole in the place where your brains would be if you had any," countered the old man. he slept peacefully while they took turns watching him. just now there would be no chance to escape, but in a few days they would become careless. the habit of feeling that they had him securely would grow upon them. then, reasoned holt, his opportunity would come. one of the guards would take a chance. perhaps he might even fall asleep on duty. it was not reasonable to suppose that in the next week or two he would not catch them napping once for a short ten seconds. there was, of course, just the possibility that they intended to murder him, but holt could not associate selfridge with anything so lawless. the man was too soft of fiber to carry through such a programme, and as yet there was need of nothing so drastic. no, this little kidnapping expedition would not run to murder. he would be set free in a few weeks, and if he told the true story of where he had been his foes would spread the report that he was insane in his hatred of macdonald and imagined all sorts of persecutions. they followed wild-goose creek all next day, getting always closer to its headwaters near the divide. on the third day they crossed to the other side of the ridge and descended into a little mountain park. they were in a country where prospectors never came, one deserted even by trappers at this season of the year. the country was so much a primeval wilderness that a big bull moose stalked almost upon their camp before discovering the presence of a strange biped. big bill snatched up a rifle and took a shot which sent the intruder scampering. from somewhere in the distance came a faint sound. "what was that?" asked george. "sounded like a shot. mebbe it was an echo," returned dud. "came too late for an echo," big bill said. again faintly from some far corner of the basin the sound drifted. it was like the pop of a scarcely heard firecracker. the men looked at one another and at their prisoner. their eyes consulted once more. "think we better break camp and drift?" asked dud. "no. we're in a little draw here--as good a hiding-place as we'd be likely to find. drive the horses into the brush, george. we'll sit tight." "got the criminals guessing," holt contributed maliciously. "you lads want to take the hide offen macy if he lands you in the pen through that fool shot of his. wonder if i hadn't better yell." "i'll stop your clock right then if you do," threatened big bill with a scowl. dud had been busy stamping out the camp-fire while holway was driving the horses into the brush. "mebbe you had better get the camp things behind them big rocks," macy conceded. even as he spoke there came the crack of a revolver almost at the entrance to the draw. one of the men swore softly. the gimlet eyes of the old miner fastened on the spot where in another moment his hoped-for rescuers would appear. a man staggered drunkenly into view. he reeled halfway across the mouth of the draw and stopped. his eyes, questing dully, fell upon the camp. he stared, as if doubtful whether they had played him false, then lurched toward the waiting group. "lost, and all in," holway said in a whisper to dud. the other man nodded. neither of them made a move toward the stranger, who stopped in front of their camp and looked with glazed eyes from one to another. his face was drawn and haggard and lined. extreme exhaustion showed in every movement. he babbled incoherently. "seven--eighteen--ninety-nine. 'atta-boy," he said thickly. "don't you see he's starving and out of his head?" snapped holt brusquely. "get him grub, _pronto_." the old man rose and moved toward the suffering man. "come, pard. tha' 's all right. sit down right here and go to it, as the old sayin' is." he led the man to a place beside big bill and made him sit down. "better light a fire, boys, and get some coffee on. don't give him too much solid grub at first." the famished man ate what was given him and clamored for more. "coming up soon, pardner," holt told him soothingly. "now tell us howcome you to get lost." the man nodded gravely. "hit that line low, gord. hit 'er low. only three yards to gain." "plumb bughouse," commented dud, chewing tobacco stolidly. "out of his head--that's all. he'll be right enough after he's fed up and had a good sleep. but right now he's sure some exhibit a. look at the bones sticking through his cheeks," big bill commented. "come, old-timer. get down in your collar to it. once more now. don't lie down on the job. all together now." the stranger clucked to an imaginary horse and made a motion of lifting with his hands. "looks like his hawss bogged down in fifty-mile swamp," suggested holt. "looks like," agreed dud. the old miner said no more. but his eyes narrowed to shining slits. if this man had come through fifty-mile swamp he must have started from the river. that probably meant that he had come from kusiak. he was a young man, talking the jargon of a college football player. without doubt he was, in the old phrasing of the north, a chechako. his clothing, though much soiled and torn, had been good. his voice held the inflections of the cultured world. gideon holt's sly brain moved keenly to the possibility that he could put a name to this human derelict they had picked up. he began to see it as more than a possibility, as even a probability, at least as a fifty-fifty chance. a sardonic grin hovered about the corners of his grim mouth. it would be a strange freak of irony if wally selfridge, to prevent a meeting between him and the government land agent, had sent him a hundred miles into the wilderness to save the life of gordon elliot and so had brought about the meeting that otherwise would never have taken place. chapter x the rah-rah boy functions big bill grumbled a good deal at the addition to the party. it would be decidedly awkward if this stranger should become rational and understand the status of the camp he had joined. the word of old holt alone might be negligible, but supported by that of a disinterested party it would be a very different matter. still, there was no help for it. they would have to take care of the man until he was able to travel. perhaps he would go in with them as an additional guard. at the worst big bill could give him a letter to selfridge explaining things and so pass the buck to that gentleman. gid holt had, with the tacit consent of his guards, appointed himself as a sort of nurse to the stranger. he lit a smudge fire to the windward side of him, fed him small quantities of food at intervals, and arranged a sleeping-place for him with mosquito netting for protection. early in the evening the sick man fell into a sound sleep from which he did not awake until morning. george was away looking after the pack-horses, dud was cooking breakfast, and big bill, his rifle close at hand, was chopping young firs fifty feet back of the camp. the cook also had a gun, loaded with buckshot, lying on a box beside him, so that they were taking no chances with their prisoner. he could not have covered twenty yards without being raked by a cross-fire. the old miner turned from rearranging the boughs of green fir on the smudge to see that his patient was awake and his mind normal. the quiet, steady eyes resting upon him told that the delirium had passed. "pretty nearly all in, wasn't i?" the young man said. the answer of gid holt was an odd one. "yep. seven--eleven--fifteen. take 'er easy, old man," he said in his shrill, high voice as he moved toward the man in the blankets. then, in a low tone, while he pretended to arrange the bedding over the stranger, he asked a quick question. "are you elliot?" "yes." "don't tell them. talk football lingo as if you was still out of your haid." holt turned and called to dud. "says he wants some breakfast." "on the way," the cook answered. holt seemed to be soothing the delirious man. what he really said was this. "selfridge has arranged a plant for you at kamatlah. the camp has been turned inside out to fool you. they've brought me here a prisoner so as to keep me from telling you the truth. pst! tune up now." big bill had put down his axe and was approaching. he was not exactly suspicious, but he did not believe in taking unnecessary chances. "i tell you i'm out of training. played the last game, haven't we? come through with a square meal, you four-flusher," demanded elliot in a querulous voice. he turned to macy. "look here, cap. haven't i played the game all fall? don't i get what i want now we're through?" the voice of the young man was excited. his eyes had lost their quiet steadiness and roved restlessly to and fro. if big bill had held any doubts one glance dissipated them. "sure you do. hustle over and help dud with the breakfast, holt. i'll look out for our friend." elliot and holt found no more chance to talk together that morning. sometimes the young government official lay staring straight in front of him. sometimes he appeared to doze. again he would talk in the disjointed way of one not clear in the head. an opportunity came in the afternoon for a moment. "keep your eyes skinned for a chance to lay out the guard to-night and get his gun," holt said quickly. gordon nodded. "i don't know that i've got to do everything just as you say," he complained aloud for the benefit of george, who was passing on his way to the place where the horses were hobbled. "now--now! there ain't nobody trying to boss you," holt explained in a patient voice. "they'd better not," snapped the invalid. "some scrapper--that kid," said the horse wrangler with a grin. macy took the first watch that night. he turned in at two after he had roused dud to take his place. the cook had been on duty about an hour when elliot kicked holt, who was sleeping beside him, to make sure that he was ready. the old man answered the kick with another. presently gordon got up, yawned, and strolled toward the edge of the camp. "don't go and get lost, young fellow," cautioned dud. gordon, on his way back, passed behind the guard, who was sitting tailor fashion before a smudge with a muley shotgun across his knees. "this ain't no country for chechakoes to be wandering around without a keeper," the cook continued. "looks like your folks would have better sense than to let their rah-rah boy--" he got no farther. elliot dropped to one knee and his strong fingers closed on the gullet of the man so tightly that not even a groan could escape him. his feet thrashed to and fro as he struggled, but he could not shake off the grip that was strangling him. the old miner, waiting with every muscle ready and every nerve under tension, flung aside his blanket and hurled himself at the guard. it took him less time than it takes to tell to wrest the gun from the cook. he got to his feet just as big bill, his eyes and brain still fogged with sleep, sat up and began to take notice of the disturbance. "don't move," warned holt sharply. "better throw your hands up. you reach for the stars, too, holway. no monkey business, do you hear? i'd as lief blow a hole through you as not." big bill turned bitterly upon elliot. "so you were faking all the time, young fellow. we save your life and you round on us. you're a pretty slick proposition as a double-crosser." "and that ain't all," chirped up holt blithely. "let me introduce our friend to you, mr. big bill macy. this is gordon elliot, the land agent appointed to look over the kamatlah claims. selfridge gave you lads this penitentiary job so as i wouldn't meet elliot when he reached the camp. if he hadn't been so darned anxious about it, our young friend would have died here on the divide. but mr. selfridge kindly outfitted a party and sent us a hundred miles into the hills to rescue the perishing, as the old sayin' goes. consequence is, elliot and me meet up and have that nice confidential talk after all. the ways of providence is strange, as you might say, mr. macy." "your trick," conceded big bill sullenly. "now what are you going to do with us?" "not a thing--going to leave you right here to prospect wild-goose creek," answered holt blandly. "durden says there's gold up here--heaps of it." bill macy condemned durden in language profane and energetic. he didn't stop at durden. holt came in for a share of it, also elliot and selfridge. the old miner grinned at him. "you'll feel better now you've got that out of your system. but don't stop there if you'd like to say a few more well-chosen words. we got time a-plenty." "cut it out, bill. that line o' talk don't buy you anything," said holway curtly. "what's the use of beefing?" "now you're shouting, my friend," agreed old gideon. "i guess, elliot, you can loosen up on the chef's throat awhile. he's had persuading enough, don't you reckon? i'll sit here and sorter keep the boys company while you cut the pack-ropes and bring 'em here. but first i'd step in and unload all the hardware they're packing. if you don't one of them is likely to get anxious. i'd hate to see any of them commit suicide with none of their friends here to say, 'don't he look natural?'" elliot brought back the pack-ropes and cut them into suitable lengths. holt's monologue rambled on. he was garrulous and affable. not for a long time had he enjoyed himself so much. "better begin with chief big bill," he suggested. "no, i wouldn't make that move if i was you, mr. macy. this old gun is liable to go off accidental in your direction and she spatters like hell. that's the idee. be reasonable. not that i give a hoot, but a man hadn't ought to let his impulses run away with his judgment, as the old sayin' is." gordon tied the hands of big bill behind him, then roped his feet together, after which he did the same for holway. the old miner superintended the job and was not satisfied till he had added a few extra knots on his own behalf. "that'll hold them for awhile, i shouldn't wonder. now if you'll just cover friend chef with this sawed-off gat, elliot, i'll throw the diamond hitch over what supplies we'll need to get back to kamatlah. i'll take one bronch and leave the other to the convicts," said holt cheerfully. "forget that convict stuff," growled macy. "with macdonald back of us and the guttenchilds back of him, you'll have a hectic time getting anything on us." "that might be true if these folks were back of you. but are they? course i ain't any sherlock holmes, but it don't look to me like they'd play any such fool system as this." big bill opened his mouth to answer--and said nothing. he had caught a look flashed at him by holway, a look that warned him he was talking too much. after holt had packed one of the animals he turned to elliot. "i reckon we're ready." under orders from elliot, dud fixed up the smudges and arranged the mosquito netting over the bound men so as to give them all the protection possible. "we're going to take dud with us for a part of the trip. we'll send him back to you later in the day. you'll have to fast till he gets back, but outside of that you'll do very well if you don't roll around trying to get loose. do that, and you'll jar loose the mosquito netting. you know what that means," explained gordon. "it ain't likely any grizzlies will come pokin' their noses into camp. but you never can tell. any last words you want sent to relatives?" asked gideon holt. the last words they heard from big bill as they moved down the draw were sulphuric. "macy he ain't wearin' any w. j. bryan smile this glad mo'nin'," mused old holt aloud. it was three o'clock in the morning by the watch when they started. about nine they threw off for breakfast. by this time they were just across the divide and were ready to take the down trail. "i think we'll let dud go now," elliot told his partner in the adventure. "better hold him till afternoon. then they can't possibly reach us till we get to kamatlah." "what does it matter if they do? we have both rifles and have left them only one revolver. besides, i don't like to leave two bound men alone in so wild a district for any great time. no, we'll start dud on the back trail. that grizzly you promised big bill might really turn up." the two men struck the headwaters of wild-goose creek about noon and followed the stream down. they traveled steadily without haste. so long as they kept a good lookout there was nothing to be feared from the men they had left behind. they had both a long start and the advantage of weapons. if elliot had advertised for a year he could not have found a man who knew more of colby macdonald's past than gideon holt. the old man had mushed on the trail with him in the klondike days. he had worked a claim on frenchman creek with him and had by sharp practice--so at least he had come to believe--been lawed out of his rights by the shrewd scotchman. for seventeen years he had nursed a grudge against macdonald, and he was never tired of talking about him. he knew many doubtful things charged to the account of the big man as he had blazed a way to success over the failures of less fortunate people. one story in particular interested gordon. it came out the second day, as they were getting down into the foothills. "there was farrell o'neill. he was a good fellow, farrell was, but he had just one weakness. there was times when he liked the bottle too well. he'd let it alone for months and then just lap the stuff up. it was the time of the stampede to bonanza creek. men are just like sheep. they wear wool on their backs like them and have their habits. you can start 'em any fool way for no cause a-tall. don't you know it? well, the news of the strike on bonanza reached dawson and we all burnt up the trail to get to the new ground first. o'neill was one of the first. he got in about twenty below discovery, if i remember. mac wasn't in dawson, but he got there next mo'nin' and heard the news. he lit out for bonanza _pronto_." the old miner stopped, took a chew of tobacco, and looked down into the valley far below where kamatlah could just be seen, a little huddle of huts. "well?" asked elliot. it was occasionally necessary to prompt holt when he paused for his dramatic effects. he would pretend to forget that he was telling a yarn which might interest his hearer. "mac draps in and joins o'neill at night. they knew each other, y' understand, so o' course it was natural mac would put up at his camp. o'neill had a partner and they had located together. fellow named strong." "not hanford strong, a little, heavy-set man somewhere around fifty?" gordon asked quickly. "you've tagged the right man. know him?" "i've met him." "well, i never heard anything against han strong. anyway, he was off that night packing grub up while farrell held down the claim. mac had a jug of booze with him. he got farrell tanked up. you know mac--how he can put it across when he's a mind to. he's a forceful devil, and he can be a mighty likable one." elliot nodded understanding. "he's always the head of the table no matter where he sits. and there is something wonderfully attractive about him." "sure there is. but when he is friendliest you want to watch out he don't slip an upper cut at you that'll put you out of biz. he done that to farrell--and done it a-plenty." "how?" "o'neill got mellowed up till he thought mac was his best friend. he was ready to eat out of his hand. so mac works him up to sign a contract--before witnesses too; trust mac for that--exchanging his half-interest in the claim for five hundred dollars in cash and mac's no-'count lease on frenchman creek. inside of a week mac and strong struck a big pay streak. they took over two hundred thousand from the spring clean-up." "it was nothing better than robbery." "call it what you want to. anyhow, it stuck. o'neill kicked, and that's all the good it did him. he consulted lawyers at dawson. finally he got so discouraged that he plumb went to pieces--got on a long bat and stayed there till his money ran out. then one bitter night he starts up to bonanza to have it out with mac. the mercury was so low it had run into the ground a foot. farrell slept in a deserted cabin without a fire and not enough bedding. he caught pneumony. by the time he reached the claim he was a mighty sick man. next week he died. that's all mac done to o'neill. not a thing that wasn't legal either." gordon thought of sheba o'neill as she sat listening to the tales of macdonald in diane's parlor and his gorge rose at the man. "but mac had fell on his feet all right," continued holt. "he got his start off that claim. now he's a millionaire two or three times over, i reckon." they reached the outskirts of kamatlah about noon of the third day. gordon left holt at his cabin after they had eaten and went in alone to look the ground over. he met selfridge at the post-office. that gentleman was effusive in his greeting. "this _is_ a pleasant surprise, mr. elliot. when did you get in? had no idea you were coming or i'd have asked you for the pleasure of your company. i'm down on business, of course. no need to tell you that--nobody would come to this hole for any other reason. howland and his wife are the only possible people here. hope you play bridge." elliot played it, but he did not say so. it was his business not to be drawn into entangling alliances. "of course you'll put up with me as my guest," selfridge flowed on. "i've wanted to meet you again ever since we were on the hannah together." this was a little too cheeky. gordon recalled with some amusement how this tubby little man and his friends had ignored the existence of sheba o'neill and himself for several days. he answered genially. "pleasant time we had on the river, didn't we? thanks awfully for your invitation, but i've already made arrangements for putting up." "where? there's no decent place in camp except at howland's. he keeps open house for our friends." "i couldn't think of troubling him," countered gordon. "no trouble at all. we'll send for your things. where are they?" the land agent let him have it right between the eyes. "at gideon holt's. i'm staying with him on his claim." wally had struck a match to light a cigarette, but this simple statement petrified him. his jaw dropped and his eyes bulged. not till the flame burned his fingers did he come to life. "did you say you were staying--with gid holt?" he floundered weakly. gordon noticed that his florid face had lost its color. the jaunty cock-sureness of the man had flickered out like the flame of the charred match. "yes. he offered to board me," answered the young man blandly. "but--i didn't know he was here--seems to me i had heard--somewhere--that he was away." "he was away. but he has come back." gordon gave the information without even a flash of mirth in his steady eyes. selfridge could not quite let the subject alone. "seems to me i heard he went prospecting." "he did. up wild-goose creek, with big bill macy and two other men. but i asked him to come back with me--and he did." feebly wally groped for the clue without finding it. had big bill sold him out? and how had elliot got into touch with him? "just so, mr. elliot. but really, you know, howland can make you a great deal more comfortable than holt. his wife is a famous cook. i'll have a man go get your traps." "it's very good of you, but i think i won't move." "oh, but you must. holt's nutty--nobody at home, you know. everybody knows that." "is he? the old man struck me as being remarkably clear-headed. by the way, i want to thank you for sending a relief party out to find me, mr. selfridge. except for your help i would have died in the hills." this was another facer for wally. what the devil did the fellow mean? the deuce of it was that he knew all the facts and wally did not. he talked as if he meant it, but behind those cool eyes there might lie either mockery or irony. one thing alone stood out to selfridge like a sore thumb. his plans had come tumbling down like a house of cards. either big bill had blundered amazingly, or he had played traitor. in either case wally could guess pretty shrewdly whose hide macdonald would tan for the failure. the chief wanted results. he did not ask of his subordinates how they got them. and this was the second time in succession that selfridge had come to grief. chapter xi gordon invites himself to dinner--and does not enjoy it big bill and his companions reached kamatlah early next day. they reported at once to selfridge. it had been the intention of wally to vent upon them the bad temper that had been gathering ever since his talk with elliot. but his first sarcastic question drew such a snarl of anger that he reconsidered. the men were both sullen and furious. they let him know roundly that if holt made them any trouble through the courts, they would tell all they knew. the little man became alarmed. instead of reproaches he gave them soft words and promises. the company would see them through. it would protect them against criminal procedure. but above all they must stand pat in denial. a conviction would be impossible even if the state's attorney filed an indictment against them. meanwhile they would remain on the company pay-roll. gordon elliot was a trained investigator. even without holt at his side he would probably have unearthed the truth about the kamatlah situation. but with the little miner by his side to tell him the facts, he found his task an easy one. selfridge followed orders and let him talk with the men freely. all of them had been drilled till they knew their story like parrots. they were suspicious of the approaches of elliot, but they had been warned that they must appear to talk candidly. the result was that some talked too much and some not enough. they contradicted themselves and one another. they let slip admissions under skillful examination that could be explained on no other basis than that of company ownership. both selfridge and howland outdid themselves in efforts to establish close social relations. but gordon was careful to put himself under no obligations. he called on the howlands, but he laughingly explained why he could not accept the invitations of mrs. howland to dinner. "i have to tell things here as i see them, and may not have your point of view. how can i accept your hospitality and then report that i think your husband ought to be sent up for life?" she was a good, motherly woman and she laughed with him. but she did wish this pleasant young fellow could be made to take the proper view of things. within two weeks elliot had finished his work at kamatlah. "off for kusiak to-morrow," he told holt that night. the old miner went with him as a guide to the big bend. gordon had no desire to attempt again fifty-mile swamp without the help of some one who knew every foot of the trail. holt had taken the trip a dozen times. with him to show the way the swamp became merely a hard, grueling mush through boggy lowlands. weary with the trail, they reached the river at the end of a long day. an indian village lay sprawled along the bank, and through this the two men tramped to the roadhouse where they were to put up for the night. holt called to the younger man, who was at the time in the lead. "wait a minute, elliot." gordon turned. the old alaskan was offering a quarter to a little half-naked indian boy. shyly the four-year-old came forward, a step at a time, his finger in his mouth. he held out a brown hand for the coin. "what's your name, kid?" holt flashed a look at elliot that warned him to pay attention. "colmac," the boy answered bashfully. his fist closed on the quarter, he turned, and like a startled caribou he fled to a comely young indian woman standing near the trail. with gleaming eyes holt turned to elliot. "take a good look at the squaw," he said in a low voice. elliot glanced at the woman behind whose skirts the youngster was hiding. he smiled and nodded pleasantly to her. "she's not bad looking if that's what you mean," he said after they had taken up the trail again. "you ain't the only white man that has thought that," retorted the old miner significantly. "no?" gordon had learned to let holt tell things at his leisure. it usually took less time than to try to hurry him. "name of the kid mean anything to you?" "can't say it did." "hm! named for his dad. first syllable of each of his names." the land inspector stopped in his stride and wheeled upon holt. his eyes asked eagerly a question. "you don't mean colby macdonald?" "why don't i?" "but--good lord, he isn't a squawman, is he?" "not in the usual meaning of the word. she never cooked and kept house for him. just the same, little colmac is his kid. couldn't you see it sticking out all over him? he's the spit'n' image of his dad." "i see it now you've pointed it out. i was trying to think who he reminded me of. of course it was macdonald." "mac met up with meteetse when he first scouted this country for coal five years ago. so far's i know he was square enough with the girl. she never claimed he made any promises or anything like that. he sends a check down once a quarter to the trader here for her and the kid." but young elliot was not thinking about meteetse. his mind's eye saw another picture--the girl at kusiak, listening spellbound to the tales of a man whose actions translated romance into life for her, a girl swept from the quiet backwaters of an irish village to this land of the midnight sun with its amazing contrasts. and all the way up on the boat she continued to fill his mind. the slowness of the steamer fretted him. he paced up and down the deck for hours at a time worried and anxious. sometimes the jealousy in his heart flamed up like a prairie fire when it comes to a brush heap. the outrage of it set him blazing with indignation. diane ought to be whipped, he told himself, for her part in the deception. it was no less than a conspiracy. what could an innocent young girl like sheba know of such a man as colby macdonald? her imagination conceived, no doubt, an idealized vision of him. but the real man was clear outside her ken. gordon set his jaw grimly. he would have it out with diane. he would let her see she was not going to have it all her own way. by god, he would put a spoke in her wheel. sometimes, when the cool, evening breezes blew on his bare, fevered head, he laughed at himself for an idiot. how did he know that macdonald wanted sheba o'neill. all the evidence he had was that he had once seen the man watch her while she sang a sentimental song. whereas it was common talk that he would probably marry mrs. mallory, that for months he had been her almost daily companion. if the older woman had lost the sweet, supple slimness of her first youth, she had won in exchange a sophisticated grace, a seductive allure that made her the envy of all the women with whom she associated. she held at command a warm, languorous charm which had stirred banked fires in the hearts of many men. why should not macdonald woo her? gordon himself admitted her attractiveness. and why should he take it for granted that sheba was ready to drop into the arms of the big alaskan whenever he said the word? at the least he was twenty years older than she. surely she might admire him without falling in love with the man. was there not something almost insulting in the supposition that macdonald had only to speak to her in order to win? but in spite of reason he was on fire to come to his journey's end. no sooner had he reached his hotel than he called up mrs. paget. quite clearly she understood that he wanted an invitation to dinner. yet she hesitated. "my 'phone can't be working well," gordon told her gayly. "you must have asked me to dinner, but i didn't just hear it. never mind. i'll be there. seven o'clock, did you say?" diane laughed. "you're just as much a boy as you were ten years ago, gord. all right. come along. but you're to leave at ten. do you understand?" "no, i can't hear that. my 'phone has gone bad again. and if i had heard, i shouldn't think of doing anything so ridiculous as leaving at that hour. it would be an insult to your hospitality. i know when i'm well off." "then i'll have to withdraw my invitation. perhaps some other day--" "i'll leave at ten," promised elliot meekly. he could almost hear the smile in her voice as she answered. "very well. seven sharp. i'll explain about the curfew limit sometime." macdonald was with miss o'neill in the living-room when gordon arrived at the paget home. sheba came forward to greet the new guest. the welcome in her eyes was very genuine. "you and mr. macdonald know each other, of course," she said after her handshake. the scotchman nodded his lean, grizzled head, looking straight into the eyes of the field agent. there was always a certain deliberation about his manner, but it was the slowness of strength and not of weakness. "yes, i know mr. elliot--now. i'm not so sure that he knows me--yet." "i'm beginning to know you rather well, mr. macdonald," answered gordon quietly, but with a very steady look. if the alaskan wanted to declare war he was ready for it. the field agent knew that selfridge had sent reports detailing what had happened at kamatlah. up to date macdonald had offered him the velvet glove. he wondered if the time had come when the fist of steel was to be doubled. paget was frankly pleased to see gordon again. he was a simple, honest man who moved always in a straight line. he had liked elliot as a boy and he still liked him. so did diane, for that matter, but she was a little on her guard against him. she had certain plans under way that she intended to put through. she was not going to let even gordon elliot frustrate them. "did you have a successful trip, mr. elliot?" asked sheba innocently. paget grinned behind his hand. the girl's question was like a match to powder, and every one in the room knew it but she. the engineer's interests and his convictions were on the side of macdonald, but he recognized that elliot had been sent in to gather facts for the government and not to give advice to it. if he played fair, he could only tell the truth as he saw it. the eyes of diane held a spark of hostility as she leaned forward. the word had already been passed among the faithful that this young man was not taking the right point of view. "did you, gordon?" echoed his hostess. "i think so," he answered quietly. "i hear you put up with old gideon holt. is he as cracked as he used to be?" asked macdonald. "was he cracked when you used to know him on frenchman creek?" countered the young man. macdonald shot a quick, slant look at him. the old man had been talking, had he? "he was cracked and broke too," laughed the mine-owner hardily. "cracked when he came, broke when he left." "yes, that was one of the stories he told me." gordon turned to sheba. "you should meet the old man, miss o'neill. he knew your father at dawson and on bonanza." the girl was all eagerness. "i'd like to. does he ever come to kusiak?" "nonsense!" cut in diane sharply. she flashed at gordon a look of annoyance. "he's nothing but a daft old idiot, my dear." the dinner had started wrong, and though paget steered the conversation to safer ground, it did not go very well. at least three of those present were a little on edge. even sheba, who had missed entirely the point of the veiled thrusts, knew that elliot was not in harmony with either diane or macdonald. gordon was ashamed of himself. he could not quite have told what were the impulses that had moved him to carry the war into the camp of the enemy. perhaps, more than anything else, it had been a certain look of quiet assurance in the eyes of his rival when he looked at sheba. he rose promptly at ten. "must you go so soon?" diane asked. she was smiling at him with bland mockery. "i really must," answered elliot. his hostess followed him into the hall. she watched him get into his coat before saying what was on her mind. "what did you mean by telling sheba that old holt knew her father? what is he to tell her if they meet--that her father died of pneumonia brought on by drink? is that what you want?" gordon was honestly contrite. "i didn't think of that." "no, you were too busy thinking of something mean to say to mr. macdonald." he agreed, yet could not forbear one dig more. "i suppose i wanted holt to tell her that macdonald robbed her father and indirectly was the cause of his death." "absurd!" exploded diane. "you're so simple that you accept as true the gossip of every crack-brained idiot--when it suits your purpose." he smiled, boyishly, engagingly, as he held out his hand. "don't let's quarrel, di. i admit i forgot myself." "all right. we won't. but don't believe all the catty talk you hear, gordon." "i'll try to believe only the truth." he smiled, a little ruefully. "and it isn't necessary for you to explain why the curfew law applies to me and not to macdonald." she was on her dignity at once. "you're quite right. it isn't necessary. but i'm going to tell you anyhow. mr. macdonald is going away to-morrow for two or three days and he has some business he wants to talk over with sheba. he had made an appointment with her, and i didn't think it fair to let your coming interfere with it." gordon took this facer with his smile still working. "i've got a little business i want to talk over with _you_, di." she had always been a young woman of rather a hard finish. now she met him fairly, eye to eye. "any time you like, gordon." elliot carried away with him one very definite impression. diane intended sheba to marry macdonald if she could bring it about. she had as good as served notice on him that the girl was spoken for. the young man set his square jaw. diane was used to having her own way. so was macdonald. well, the elliots had a will of their own too. chapter xii sheba says "perhaps" obeying the orders of the general in command, peter took himself to his den with the excuse that he had blue-prints to work over. presently diane said she thought she heard one of the children crying and left to investigate. the scotchman strode to the fireplace and stood looking down into the glowing coals. he seemed in no hurry to break the silence and sheba glanced at his strong, brooding face a little apprehensively. her excitement showed in the color that was beating into her cheeks. she knew of only one subject that would call for so formal a private talk between her and macdonald, and any discussion of this she would very much have liked to postpone. he turned from the fire to sheba. it was characteristic of him that he plunged straight at what he wanted to say. "i've asked to see you alone, miss o'neill, because i want to make a confession and restitution--to begin with," he told her abruptly. she had a sense of suddenly stilled pulses. "that sounds very serious." the young woman smiled faintly. his face of chiseled granite masked all emotion. it kept under lock and key the insurgent impulses that moved him when he looked into the sloe eyes charged with reserve. back of them, he felt, was the mystery of purity, of maidenhood. he longed to know her better, to find out and to appropriate for himself the woman that lay behind the fine veil of flesh. she seemed to him delicate as a flame and as vivid. there would come a day when her innocent, passional nature would respond to the love of a man as a waiting harp does to skillful fingers. "my story goes away back to the klondike days. i told you that i knew your father on frenchman creek, but i didn't say much about knowing him on bonanza." "mr. strong has told me something about the days on bonanza, and i knew you would tell me more some day--when you wanted to speak about it." she was seated in a low chair and the white throat lifted toward him was round as that of a bird. "your father was among the first of those who stampeded to bonanza. he and strong took up a claim together. i bought out the interest of your father." "you told me that." his masterful eyes fastened to hers. "i didn't tell you that i took advantage of him. he was--not well. i used that against him in the bargaining. he wanted ready money, and i tempted him." "do you mean that you--wronged him?" "yes. i cheated him." he was resolved to gloss over nothing, to offer no excuses. "i didn't know there was gold on his claim, but i had what we call a hunch. i took his claim without giving value received." it was her turn now to look into the fire and think. from the letters of her father, from talks with old-timers she knew how in the stampedes every man's hand had been for himself, how keen-edged had been the passion for gold, a veritable lust that corroded the souls of men. "but--i don't understand." her brave, steady eyes looked directly into those of macdonald. "if he felt you had--done him a wrong--why did he come to you when he was ill?" "he was coming to demand justice of me. on the way he suffered exposure and caught pneumonia. the word reached us, and strong and i brought him to our cabin." "you faced a blizzard to bring him in. mr. strong told me how you risked your life by carrying him through the storm--how you wouldn't give up and leave him, though you were weak and staggering yourself. he says it was a miracle you ever got through." the big mine-owner brushed this aside as of no importance. "we don't leave sick men to die in a blizzard up north. but that's not the point." "i think it has a bearing on the matter--that you saved him from the blizzard--and took him in--and nursed him like a brother till he died." "i'm not heartless," said macdonald impatiently. "of course i did that. i had to do it. i couldn't do less." "or more," she suggested. "you may have made a hard bargain with him, but you wiped that out later." "that's just what i didn't do. don't think my conscience is troubling me. i'm not such a mush-brained fool. if it had not been for you i would never have thought of it again. but you are his daughter. what i cheated him out of belongs to you--and you are my friend." "don't use that word about what you did, please. he wasn't a child. if you got the best of him in a bargain, i don't think father would think of it that way." the difficulty was that he could not tell her the truth about her father's weakness for drink and how he had played upon it. he bridged all explanations and passed to the thing he meant to do in reparation. "the money i cleaned up from that claim belongs to you, miss o'neill. you will oblige me by taking it." from his pocket he took a folded paper and handed it to her. sheba opened it doubtfully. the paper contained a typewritten statement and to it was attached a check by means of a clip. the check was made out to her and signed by colby macdonald. the amount it called for was one hundred and eighty-three thousand four hundred and thirty-one dollars. "oh, i couldn't take this, mr. macdonald--i couldn't. it doesn't belong to me," she cried. "it belongs to you--and you're going to take it." "i wouldn't know what to do with so much." "the bank will take care of it for you until you decide. so that's settled." he passed definitely from the subject. "there's something else i want to say to you, miss o'neill." some change in his voice warned her. the girl slanted a quick, shy glance at him. "i want to know if you'll marry me, miss o'neill," he shot at her abruptly. then, without giving her time to answer, he pushed on: "i'm older than you--by twenty-five years. always i've lived on the frontiers. i've had to take the world by the throat and shake from it what i wanted. so i've grown hard and willful. all the sweet, fine things of life i've missed. but with you beside me i'm not too old to find them yet--if you'll show me the way, sheba." a wave of color swept into her face, but her eyes never faltered from his. "i'm not quite sure," she said in a low voice. "you mean--whether you love me?" she nodded. "i--admire you more than any man i ever met. you are a great man, strong and powerful,--and i am so insignificant beside you. i--am drawn to you--so much. but--i am not sure." afterward, when she thought of it, sheba wondered at the direct ease of his proposal. in the romances she had read, men were shy and embarrassed and fearful of the issue. but colby macdonald had known what he wanted to say and had said it as coolly and as readily as if it had been a business detail. she was the one that had blushed and stammered and found a difficulty in expressing herself. "i'm going away for two days. perhaps when i come back you will know, sheba. take your time. marriage is serious business. i want you to remember that my life has been very different from yours. you'll hear all sorts of things about me. some of them are true. there is this difference between a man and a good woman. he fights and falls and fights again and wins. but a good woman is finer. she has never known the failure that drags one through slime and mud. her goodness is born in her; she doesn't have to fight for it." the girl smiled a little tremulously. "doesn't she? we're not all angel, you know." "i hope you're not. there will need to be a lot of the human in you to make allowances for colby macdonald," he replied with an answering smile. when he said good-bye it was with a warm, strong handshake. "i'll be back in two days. perhaps you'll have good news for me then," he suggested. the dark, silken lashes of her eyes lifted shyly to meet his. "perhaps," she said. chapter xiii diane and gordon differ during the absence of macdonald the field agent saw less of sheba than he had expected, and when he did see her she had an abstracted manner he did not quite understand. she kept to her own room a good deal, except when she took long walks into the hills back of the town. diane had a shrewd idea that the alaskan had put his fortune to the test, and she not only let her cousin alone herself, but fended gordon from her adroitly. the third day after the dinner elliot dropped around to the pagets with intent to get sheba into a set of tennis. diane sat on the porch darning socks. "sheba is out walking with mr. macdonald," she explained in answer to a question as to the whereabouts of her guest. "oh, he's back, is he?" remarked gordon moodily. mrs. paget was quite cheerful on that subject. "he came back this morning. sheba has gone up with him to see the lucky strike." "you're going to marry her to that man if you can, aren't you?" he charged. "if i can, gordon." she slipped a darning-ball into one of little peter's stockings and placidly trimmed the edges of the hole. "it's what i call a conspiracy." "is it?" diane smiled. gordon understood her smile to mean that he was jealous. "maybe i am. that's not the point," he answered, just as if she had made her accusation in words. "suppose you tell me what the point is," she suggested, both amused and annoyed. "he isn't good enough for her. you know that perfectly well." "good enough!" she shrugged her shoulders. "what man _is_ good enough for a nice girl if you come to that? there are other things beside sugary goodness. any man who is strong can make himself good enough for the woman he loves." "generally speaking, yes. but colby macdonald is different." "thank heaven he is," she retorted impatiently. then added after a moment: "he isn't a sunday-school superintendent if that's what you mean." "that isn't what i mean at all. but there's such a thing as a difference between right and wrong, isn't there?" "oh, yes. for instance, mr. macdonald is right about the need of developing alaska and the way to do it, and you are wrong." he could not help smiling a little at the adroit way she tried to sidetrack him, even though he was angry at her. but he had no intention of letting her go without freeing his mind. "i'm talking about essential right and wrong. miss o'neill is idealizing macdonald. i don't suppose you've told her, for instance, that he made his first money in the north running a dance hall." "no, i haven't told her any such thing, because it isn't true," she replied scornfully. "he owned an opera house and brought in a company of players. i dare say they danced. that's very different, as you'd know if you didn't have astigmatism of the mind." "not the way the story was told me. but let that pass. does she know that macdonald beat her father out of one of the best claims on bonanza and was indirectly responsible for his death?" "what's the use of talking nonsense, gordon. you know you can't prove that," his friend told him sharply. "i think i can--if it is necessary." diane looked across at him with an impudent little tilt of the chin. "i don't think i like you as well as i used to." "sorry, because i'd like you just as well, diane, if you would stop trying to manage your cousin into a marriage that will spoil her life," he answered gravely. "how dare you say that! how dare you, gordon elliot!" she flung back, furious at him. "i won't have you here talking that way to me. it's an insult." the fearless, level eyes of her friend looked straight at her. "i say it because the happiness of miss o'neill is of very great importance to me." "do you mean--?" wide-eyed, she looked her question straight at him. "that's just what i mean, diane." she darned for a minute in silence. it had occurred to diane before that perhaps gordon might be in love with sheba, but she had put the thought from her because she did not want to believe it. "that's different, gordon. it explains--and in a way excuses--your coming here and trying to bully me." she stopped her work to flash a question at him. "don't you think that maybe it's only a fancy of yours? i remember you used--" he shook his head. "no chance, diane. i'm hard hit. she's the only girl i ever met that suited me. everything she does is right. every move she makes is wonderful." the eyes with which she looked at him were softer, as those of women are wont to be for the true romance. "you poor boy," she murmured, and let her hand for a moment rest on his. "meaning that i lose?" he asked quickly. "i think you do. i'm not sure." elliot leaned forward impulsively. "be a good sport, diane. let me have my chance too. why do you make it easy for macdonald and hard for me? isn't it because the glamour of his millions blinds you?" "he's a big, splendid man, but i don't like him any the less because he has the power to make life easy and comfortable for sheba," she defended sturdily. "yet you turned down arthur west, the best catch in your set, to marry peter, who was the worst," he reminded her. "have you ever been sorry for it?" "that's different. peter and i fit. it was one case out of a million." she gave him her old, friendly smile. "but i don't want to be hard on you, gord. i'll be neutral. come and see sheba as often as she'll let you." gordon beamed as he shook hands with her. "that sounds like the di paget i used to know." she recurred to the previous question. "sheba knows more about mr. macdonald than you think. and about how he got her father's claim, for instance,--she has heard all that." "you told her?" "no. colby macdonald told her. he said he practically robbed her father, and he gave her a check for nearly two hundred thousand to cover the clean-up from the claim and interest." "bully for him." on the heel of this he flung a question at her. "did macdonald ask her to marry him the night of the dinner?" a flash of whimsical amusement lit her dainty face. "you'd better ask him that. here he comes now." they were coming down the walk together, macdonald and sheba. the young woman was absorbed in his talk, and she did not know that her cousin and elliot were on the porch until she was close upon them. but at sight of the young man her eyes became warm and kind. "i'm sorry i was out yesterday when you called," she told him. "and you were out again to-day. my luck isn't very good, is it?" he laughed pleasantly, but his heart was bitter. he believed macdonald had won. some hint of proprietorship in his manner, together with her slight confusion when she saw them on the porch, had weighted his heart with lead. "we've had such a good walk." sheba went on quickly. "i wish you could have heard mr. macdonald telling me how he once had a chance to save a small esquimaux tribe during a hard winter. he carried food five hundred miles to them. it was a thrilling experience." "mr. macdonald has had a lot of very interesting experiences. you must get him to tell you about all of them," answered gordon quietly. the eyes of the two men met. the steel-gray ones of the older man answered the challenge of his rival with a long, steady look. there was in it something of triumph, something of scornful insolence. if this young fellow wanted war, he did not need to wait long for it. "time enough for that, man. miss o'neill and i have the whole arctic winter before us for stories." the muscles in the lean jaws of gordon elliot stood out like steel ropes. he turned to sheba. "am i to congratulate mr. macdonald?" the color in her cheeks grew warmer, but her shy glance met his fairly. "i think it is i that am to be congratulated, mr. elliot." diane took her cousin in her arms. "my dear, i wish you all the happiness in the world," she said softly. the irish girl fled into the house as soon as she could, but not before making an announcement. "we're to be married soon, very quietly. if you are still at kusiak we want you to be one of the few friends present, mr. elliot." macdonald backed her invitation with a cool, cynical smile. "miss o'neill speaks for us both, of course, elliot." the defeated man bowed. "thanks very much. the chances are that i'll be through my business here before then." as soon as his fiancée had gone into the house, the scotchman left. gordon sat down in a porch chair and stared straight in front of him. the suddenness of the news had brought his world tumbling about his ears. he felt that such a marriage would be an outrage against sheba's innocence. but he was not yet far enough away from the blow to ask himself how much the personal hurt influenced his opinion. though she was sorry for him, diane did not think it best to say so yet. presently he spoke thickly. "i suppose you have heard that he was a squawman." his friend joined battle promptly with him. "that's ridiculous. don't be absurd, gordon." "it's the truth. i've seen the woman. she was pointed out to me." "by old gideon holt, likely," she flashed. "one could get evidence and show it to miss o'neill," he said aloud, to himself rather than to her. diane put her point of view before him with heated candor. "_you_ couldn't. nobody but a cad would rake up old scandals about the man who has beaten him fairly for a woman's love." "you beg the question. _has_ he won fairly?" "of course he has. be a good sport, gordon. don't kick on the umpire's decision. play the game." "that's all very well. but what about her? am i to sit quiet while she is sacrificed to a code of honor that seems to me rooted in dishonor?" "she is not being sacrificed. i'm her cousin. i'm very fond of her. and i'd trust her with colby macdonald." "play fair, diane. tell her the truth about this indian woman and let your cousin decide for herself. you can't do less, can you?" mrs. paget was distinctly annoyed. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, gordon elliot. you take all the gossip of a crack-brained old idiot for gospel truth just because you want to believe the worst about mr. macdonald. don't you know that people will say anything about a man who succeeds? colby macdonald is too big and too aggressive not to have made hundreds of enemies. his life has been threatened dozens of times. but he pays no attention to it--goes right on building-up this country. yet you'd think he had a cloven hoof to hear some people talk. i've no patience with them." "the woman's name is meteetse," gordon said in an even voice, just as if he were answering a question. "she is young and good-looking for an indian. her boy is four or five years old. colmac, they call him, and he looks just like macdonald." "people are always tracing resemblances. there's nothing to that. but suppose his life _was_ irregular--years ago. this isn't boston. it used to be the fringe of civilization. men did as they pleased in the early days. we don't ask a man up here what he has been, but what he is. you ought to know that by this time." "this wasn't in the early days. it was five years ago, when macdonald was examining the kamatlah coal-field. i'm told he sends a check down the river once a month for the woman." "all the more credit to him if he does." diane rose and looked stormily down at her friend. "you're about as broad as a clam, gordon. can't you see that even if it's true, all that is done with? it is a part of his past--and it's finished--trodden under foot. it hasn't a thing to do with sheba." "i don't agree with you. a man can't cut loose entirely from his past. it is a part of him--and macdonald's past isn't good enough for sheba o'neill." diane tapped her little foot impatiently on the floor. "do you know many men whose pasts are good enough for their wives? are you a plaster-cast saint yourself? you know perfectly well that men trample down their pasts and begin again when they are married. colby macdonald is good enough for any woman alive if he loves her enough." "you don't know him." "i know him far better than you do. he is the biggest man i know, and now that he is in love with a good woman he'll rise to his chance." "she ought to be told the truth about meteetse and her boy," he insisted doggedly. "i'm not going to disturb her with a lot of old maids' gossip. that's flat." "but if i prove to you that it isn't gossip." mrs. paget lost her temper completely. "does the government pay you to mind other people's business, gordon?" she snapped. "i wouldn't be working for the government then, but for sheba o'neill." "and for gordon elliot. you'd be doing underhand work for him too. don't forget that. you can't do it. you're not that kind of a man. it isn't in you to go muckraking in the past of the man sheba is going to marry." elliot rose and looked across at the blue-ribbed mountains. his square jaw was set when he turned it back toward diane. "she isn't going to marry him if i can help it," he said quietly. he walked out of the gate and down the walk toward his hotel. a message was waiting for him there from his chief in seattle. it called him down the river on business. chapter xiv genevieve mallory takes a hand inside of an hour the news of the engagement of macdonald was all over kusiak. it was through a telephone receiver that the gossip was buzzed to mrs. mallory by a friend who owed her a little stab. the voice of genevieve mallory registered faint amusement, but as soon as she had hung up, her face fell into haggard lines. she had staked a year of her waning youth on winning the big mining man of kusiak, together with all the money that she had been able to scrape up for a campaign outfit. moreover, she liked him. it was not in the picture that she should fall desperately in love with any man. a woman of the world, she was sheathed in the plate armor of selfishness. but she was as near to loving macdonald as was possible for her. she had a great deal of admiration for his iron strength, for the grit of the man. no woman could twist him around her finger, yet it was possible to lead him a long way in the direction one wanted. mrs. mallory sat down in the hall beside the telephone, her fingers laced about one crossed knee. she knew that if sheba o'neill had not come on the scene, macdonald would have asked her to marry him. he had been moving slowly toward her for months. they understood each other and were at ease together. between them was a strong physical affinity. both were good-tempered and were wise enough to expect human imperfection. then diane paget had brought in this slim, young cousin of hers and colby macdonald had been fascinated by the mystery of her innocent youth. mrs. mallory was like steel beneath the soft and indolent surface. swiftly she mapped her plan of attack. the alaskan could not be moved, but it might be possible to startle the girl into breaking the engagement. genevieve mallory would have used the weapon at hand without scruple in any case, but she justified herself on the ground that such a marriage could result only in unhappiness. but before she made any move mrs. mallory intended to be sure of her facts. it was like her to go to headquarters for information. she got macdonald on the wire. "i've just heard something nice about you. do tell me it's true," she said, her voice warm with sympathy. macdonald laughed with an almost boyish embarrassment. "it's true, i reckon." "i'm so glad. she's a lovely girl. the sweetest thing that ever lived. i'm sure you'll be happy. i always did think you would make a perfect husband. of course, i'm simply green with envy of her." her little ripple of laughter was gay and care-free. the man at the other end of the line never had liked her better. since he was not a fool he had guessed pretty closely how things stood with her. she was a game little sport, he told himself approvingly. it appealed to him immensely that she could take such a facer and come up smiling. there were no signs of worry wrinkles on her face when the maid admitted a caller half an hour later. oliver dustin was the name on the card. he was a remittance man, a tame little parlor pet whose vocation was to fetch and carry for pretty women, and by some odd trick of fate he had been sifted into the northland. mrs. mallory had tolerated him rather scornfully, but to-day she smiled upon him. propped up by pillows, she reclined luxuriously on a lounge. a thin spiral of smoke rose like incense to the ceiling from her lips. the slow, regular rise and fall of her breathing beneath the filmy lace of her gown accented the perfect fullness of bust and throat. dustin helped himself to a cigarette and made himself comfortable. she set herself to win him. he was immensely flattered at her awakened interest. when she called him by his first name, he wagged all over like a pleased puppy. it came to him after a time that she was considering him for a confidential mission. he assured her eagerly that there was no trouble too great for him to take if he could be of any service to her. she hesitated and doubted and at last as a special favor to him accepted his offer. their heads were close in whispered talk for a few minutes, at the end of which dustin left the room with his chin in the air. he was a knight errant in the employ of the most attractive woman north of fifty-three. when elliot took the down-river boat he found oliver dustin was a fellow passenger. the little man smoked an occasional cigar with the land agent and aired his views on politics and affairs social. he left the boat at the big bend. without giving him much of his thought gordon was a little surprised that the voluble remittance man had not told him where he was going. not till a week later did elliot return up the river. he was asleep at the time the sarah passed the big bend, but next morning he discovered that selfridge and dustin had come aboard during the night. in the afternoon he came upon a real surprise when he found meteetse and her little boy colmac seated upon a box on the lower deck where freight for local points was stored. his guess was that they were local passengers, but wharf after wharf slipped behind them and the two still remained on board. they appeared to know nobody else on the sarah, though once gordon met dustin just as he was hurrying away from the indian woman. the little remittance man took the pains to explain to elliot later that he was trying to find out whether the indians knew any english. meteetse transferred with the other kusiak passengers at the river junction. the field agent was not the only one on board who wondered where she was going. selfridge was consumed with curiosity, and when she and the boy got off at kusiak, he could restrain himself no longer. gordon saw wally talking with her. meteetse showed him an envelope which evidently had an address written upon it, for the little man pointed out to her the direction in which she must go. since leaving kusiak nearly two weeks before, no word had reached gordon of sheba. as soon as he had finished dinner at the hotel, he walked out to the paget house and sent in his card. sheba came into the hall to meet him from the living-room where she had been sitting with the man she expected to marry next week. she gave a little murmur of pleasure at sight of him and held out both hands. "i was afraid you weren't going to get back in time. i'm so glad," she told him warmly. he managed to achieve a smile. "when is the great day?" "next thursday. of course, we're as busy as can be, but diane says--" a ring at the door interrupted her. sheba stepped forward and let in an indian woman with a little boy clinging to her hand. "you miss o'neill?" she asked. "yes." from the folds of her shawl she drew a letter. the girl glanced at the address, then opened and read what was written. she looked up, puzzled, first at the comely, flatfooted indian woman and afterward at the handsome little brown-faced papoose. she turned to gordon. "this letter says i am to ask this woman who is the father of her boy. what does it mean?" gordon knew instantly what it meant, though he could not guess who had dealt the blow. he hesitated for an answer, and in his embarrassment she felt that which began to ring a bell of warning in her heart. the impulse to spare her pain was stronger in him than the desire that she should know the truth. "send her away," he urged. "don't ask any questions. she has been sent to hurt you." a fawnlike fear flashed into the startled eyes. "to hurt me?" "i am afraid so." "but--why? i have done nobody any harm." she seemed to hold even her breathing in suspense. only a pulse beat wildly in her white throat like the heart of an imprisoned thrush. "perhaps some of macdonald's enemies," he suggested. and at that there came a star-flash into the soft eyes and a lifted tilt to the chin cut fine as a cameo. she turned proudly to the indian woman. "what is it that you have to tell me about this boy's father?" meteetse began to speak. at the first mention of macdonald's name sheba's eyes dilated. her smile, her sweet, glad pleasure at gordon's arrival, were already gone like the flame of a blown candle. clearly her heart was a-flutter, in fear of she knew not what. when the indian woman told how she had first crossed the path of macdonald, the color flamed into the cheeks of the irish girl, but as the story progressed, the blood ebbed even from her lips. with a swift movement of her fingers she flashed on the hall light. her gaze searched the brown, shiny face of the little chap. she read there an affidavit of the truth of his mother's tale. the boy had his father's trick of squinting a slant look at anything he found interesting. it was impossible to see him and not recognize colby macdonald reincarnated. "what is your name?" asked sheba suddenly. the youngster hung back shyly among the folds of the indian woman's skirt. "colmac," he said at last softly. "come!" sheba flung open the door of the living-room and ushered them in. macdonald, pacing restlessly up and down the room during her absence, pulled up in his stride. he stood frowning at the native woman, then his eyes passed to elliot and fastened upon him. the face of the scotchman might have been chipped from granite. it was grim as that of a hanging judge. gordon started to explain, then stopped with a shrug. what was the use? the man would never believe him in the world. "i'll remember this," the alaskan promised his rival. there was a cold glitter in his eyes, a sudden flare of the devil that was blood-chilling. "it's true, then," broke in sheba. "you're a--a squawman. you belong to this woman." "nothing of the kind," he cried roughly. "that's been ended for years." "ended?" sheba drew colmac forward by the wrist. "do you deny that this is your boy?" the big alaskan brushed this aside as of no moment. "i dare say he is. anyhow i'm paying for his keep. what of it? that's all finished and done with." "how can it be done with when--when she's the mother of your child, your wife before god?" the live eyes attacked him from the dusk that framed the oval of her pale face. standing there straight as an aspen, the beautiful bosom rising and falling quickly while the storm waves beat through her blood, sheba o'neill had never made more appeal to the strong, lawless man who desired her for his wife. "you don't understand." macdonald's big fists were clenched so savagely that the knuckles stood out white from the brown tan of the flesh. "this is a man's country. it's new--close to nature. what he wants he takes--if he's strong enough. i'm elemental. i--" "you wanted her--and you took her. now you want me--and i suppose you'll take me too." her scornful words had the sting of a whiplash. "i've lived as all men live who have red blood in them. this woman is an incident. i've been aboveboard. she can't say i ever promised more than i've given. i've kept her and the boy. it's been no secret. if you had asked, i would have told you the whole story." "does that excuse you?" "i don't need any excuse. i'm a man. that's excuse enough. you've been brought up among a lot of conventions and social lies. the one big fact you want to set your teeth into now is that i love you, that there isn't another woman on god's earth for me, and that there never will be again." her eyes flashed battle. "the one big fact i'm facing is that you have insulted me--that you insult me again when you mention love with that woman and boy in the room. you belong to them--go to them--and leave me alone." she had been fighting for self-control, to curb her growing resentment, but now it flamed passionately into words. "i hate the sight of you. why don't you go--all of you--and leave me in peace?" it was a cry of bruised pride and wounded love. elliot touched the indian woman on the shoulder. meteetse turned stolidly and walked out of the room, still leading colmac by the hand. the young man followed. macdonald closed the door behind them, then strode frowning up and down the room. the fear was growing on him that for all his great driving power he could not shake this slim girl from the view to which she clung. if the situation had not been so serious, it would have struck him as ridiculous. his relation with meteetse had been natural enough. he believed that he had acted very honorably to her. many a man would have left her in the lurch to take care of the youngster by herself. but he had acknowledged his obligation. he was paying his debt scrupulously, and because of it the story had risen to confront him. he felt that it was an unjust blow of fate. punishment was falling upon him, not for what he had done, but because he had scorned to make a secret of it. he knew that he must justify himself before sheba or lose her. as she stood in the dusk so tall and rigid, he knew her heart was steel to him. her finely chiseled face had the look of race. never had the spell of her been more upon him. he crushed back a keen-edged desire to take her supple young body into his arms and kiss her till the scarlet ran into her cheeks like splashes of wine. "you haven't the proper slant on this, sheba. alaska is the last frontier. it's the dropping-off place. you're north of fifty-three." "am i north of the ten commandments?" she demanded with the inexorable judgment of youth. "did you leave the moral code at home when you came in over the ice?" he smiled a little. "morality is the average conduct of the average man at a given time and place. it is based on custom and expediency. the rules made for drogheda won't fit dawson or nome. the laws made to protect young women in ireland would be absurd if applied to half-breed squaws in alaska. meteetse does not hold herself disgraced but honored. she counts her boy far superior to the other youngsters of the village, and he is so considered by the tribe. i am told she lords it over her sisters." a faint flush of anger had crept into her cheeks. "your view of morality puts us on a level with the animals. i will not discuss the subject, if you please." "we must discuss it. i must get you to see that meteetse and what she stood for in my life have nothing to do with us. they belong to my past. she doesn't exist for either of us--isn't in any way a part of my present or future." "she exists for me," answered sheba listlessly. she felt suddenly old and weary. "but i can't talk about it. please go. i want to be alone." again macdonald paced restlessly down the room and back. he moved with a long, easy, tireless stride. the man was one among ten thousand, dominant, virile, every ounce of him strong as tested steel. but he felt as if all his energy were caged. "why don't you go?" the girl pleaded. "it's no use to stay." he stopped in front of her. "i'm going to marry you, sheba. don't think i'll let that meddler interfere with our happiness. you're mine." "no. never!" she cried. "i'll take the boat and go home first." "you've promised to marry me. you're going to keep your word and be glad of it all your life." she shook her head. "no." "yes." macdonald had always shown remarkable restraint with her. he had kissed her seldom, and always with a kind of awe at her young purity. now he caught her by the shoulders. his eyes, deep in their sockets, mirrored the passionate desire of his heart. the color flamed into her face. she looked hot to the touch, an active volcano ready to erupt. there was an odd feeling in her mind that this big man was a stranger to her. "take your hands from me," she ordered. "do you think i'm going to give you up now--now, after i've won you--because of a damfool scruple in your pretty head? you don't know me. it's too late. i love you--and i'm going to protect both of us from your prudishness." his arms closed on her and he crushed her to him, looking down hungrily into the dark, little face. "let me go," she cried fiercely, struggling to free herself. for answer he kissed the red lips, the flaming cheeks, the angry eyes. then, coming to his senses, he pushed her from him, turned, and strode heavily from the room. chapter xv gordon buys a revolver selfridge was not eager to meet his chief, but he knew he must report at once. he stopped at his house only long enough to get into fresh clothes and from there walked down to the office. over the paget telephone he had got into touch with macdonald who told him to wait at headquarters until he came. it had been the intention of macdonald to go direct from sheba to his office, but the explosion brought about by meteetse had sent him out into the hills for a long tramp. he was in a stress of furious emotion, and until he had worked off the edge of it by hard mushing, the cramped civilization of the town stifled him. hours later he strode into the office of the company. he was dust-stained and splashed with mud. fifteen miles of stiff heel-and-toe walking had been flung behind him. wally lay asleep in a swivel chair, his fat body sagging and his head fallen sideways in such a way as to emphasize the plump folds of his double chin. his eyes opened. they took in his chief slowly. then, in a small panic, he jumped to his feet. "must 'a' been taking thirty winks," he explained. "been up nights a good deal." "what doing?" demanded the scotchman harshly. in a hurried attempt to divert the anger of macdonald, his assistant made a mistake. "say, mac! who do you think came up on the boat with me? i wondered if you knew. meteetse and her kid--" he stopped. the big man was glaring savagely at him. but macdonald said nothing. he waited, and under the compulsion of his forceful silence wally stumbled on helplessly. "--they got off here. 'course i didn't know whether you'd sent for her or not, so i stopped and kinder gave her the glad hand just to size things up." "yes." "she had the address of miss o'neill, that irish girl staying at the pagets, the one that came in--" "go on," snapped his chief. "so i directed her how she could get there and--" wally found himself lifted from the chair and hammered down into it again. his soft flesh quaked like a jelly. as he stared pop-eyed at the furious face above him, the fat chin of the little man drooped. "my god, mac, don't do that!" he whined. macdonald wheeled abruptly away, crossed the room in long strides, and came back. he had a grip on himself again. "what's the use?" he said aloud. "you're nothing but a spineless putterer. haven't you enough sense even to give me a chance to decide for myself? why didn't you keep the woman with you till you could send for me, you daft donkey?" "i swear i never thought of that." "what have you got up there in your head instead of brains? i send you outside to look after things and you fall down on the job. i give you plain instructions what to do at kamatlah and you let elliot make a monkey of you. you see him on the boat with a woman coming to make trouble for me, and the best you can do is to help her on the way. man, man, use your gumption." "if i had known--" "d'ye think you've got sense enough to take a plain, straight message as far as the hotel? because if you have, i've got one to send." wally caressed tenderly his bruised flesh. he had a childlike desire to weep, but he was afraid macdonald would kick him out of the office. "'course i'll do whatever you say, mac," he answered humbly. the scotch-canadian brushed the swivel chair and its occupant to one side, drew up another chair in front of the desk, and faced selfridge squarely. the eyes that blazed at the little man were the grimmest he had ever looked into. "go to the hotel and see this man elliot alone. tell him he's gone too far--butted into my affairs once too often. there's not a man alive i'd stand it from. my orders are for him to get out on the next boat. if he's here after that, i'll kill him on sight." the color ebbed out of the florid face of wally. he moistened his lips to speak. "good god, mac, you can't do that. he'll go out and report--" "to hell with his report. let him say what he likes. put this to him straight: that he and i can't stay in this town--_and both of us live_." wally had lapped up too many highballs in the past ten years to relish this kind of a mission. he had depressed his nerves with overmuch tobacco and spurred them with liquors, had dissipated his force in many small riotings. his nerve was gone. he had not the punch any more. yet mac was always expecting him to help out with his rough stuff, he reflected fretfully. this was the third time in a month that he had been flung headlong into trouble. take this message now. there was no sense in it. selfridge plucked up his courage to say so. "that won't buy us anything but trouble, mac. in the old days you could put over--" the little man never guessed how close he came to being flung through the transom over the door, but his instinct warned him to stop. his objection died away in a mumble. "o' course i'll do whatever you say," he added a second time. "see you do," advised his chief, an ugly look in his eyes. "tell him he gets till the next boat. if he's here after that, he'd better go heeled, for i'll shoot on sight wherever we meet." selfridge went on his errand with lagging feet. on the way he stopped at the pay-streak saloon to fortify himself with a cocktail. he found elliot sitting moodily alone on the porch of the hotel. in gordon's pocket there was a note to macdonald explaining that he had nothing to do with the coming of meteetse. he had expected to send it by the hotel porter that evening, but the curt order to leave town filled him with a chill anger. the dictator of affairs at kusiak might think what he pleased for all the explanation he would get from him. as for taking the next boat, elliot did not even give that consideration. "tell your master i don't take orders from him," he told wally quietly. "i'll stay till my work here is done." they had moved a few yards down the street. now gordon turned, lean-loined and active, and trod with crisp, confident step back to the hotel. he had said all that was necessary to say. two men standing on the porch nodded a good-evening to him. gordon, about to pass, glanced at them again. they were northrup and trelawney, two of the miners who had had trouble with macdonald on the boat. on impulse he stopped. "found work yet?" he asked. "found a job and lost it again," northrup answered sullenly. "too bad." "macdonald passed the word along that we weren't to get work. so our boss fired us. the whole district is closed to us. we been blacklisted," explained trelawney. "and we're busted," added his mate. elliot was always free-handed. perhaps he felt just now unusually sympathetic towards these victims of the high-handed methods of macdonald. from his pocket he took a small leather purse and gave a piece of gold to each of them. "just as a loan to carry you for a couple of days till you get something to do," he suggested. northrup demurred, but after a little pressure accepted the accommodation. "i pay you soon back," he promised. trelawney laughed recklessly. he had been drinking. "you bet. me too." his companion flashed a look of warning at him and explained that they were going down the river to look for work outside of the district. suddenly trelawney broke loose and began to curse macdonald with a bitterness that surprised the government agent. what struck him most, though, was the obvious anxiety of northrup to quiet his partner and to gloss over what he had said. thinking of it later, gordon wondered why the dane, who had as much cause to hate macdonald as the other, should be at such pains to smooth down the man and explain away his threats. elliot bought an automatic revolver next morning and a box of cartridges. he was not looking for trouble, but he intended to be prepared for it when trouble came looking for him. with a rifle he was a fair shot, but he lacked experience with the revolver. in the afternoon he walked out of town and practiced shooting at tin cans for a half an hour. on his way back he met peter paget. the engineer came straight to the subject in his mind. "selfridge came to see me last night. he told me about the trouble between you and macdonald, gordon. you must leave town till he cools down. macdonald is a bad man with a gat." "is he?" "you can drop down the river on business for a few weeks. after a while--" his friend looked at him coolly. "i can, but i'm not going to. where do you get this stuff about me being a quitter, pete?" peter laid a hand on his shoulder. "now, look here, gordon. don't be a kid and foolhardy. duck. i'm your friend--" "you're his, too, aren't you?" "yes, of course, but--" "all right. tell him to duck. there'll be no trouble of my making. but if he starts any i'll be there. macdonald doesn't own the earth, you know. i've been sent up here by uncle sam on business, and you can bet your last dollar i'll stay on the job till i'm through." "of course you've got to finish your job. but it doesn't all have to be done right here. just for a week or two--" "tell your friend something else while you're on the subject. if i drop him, i go scot free because he is interfering with me in my duty. i'll put selfridge on the stand to prove it. but if he should kill me, his last chance for getting the macdonald claims patented would be gone. the public would raise such a howl that the administration would have to throw your friend and the guttenchilds overboard to save itself. i know that--and macdonald knows it. so he stands to lose either way." paget knew this was true. he knew, too, there was no use in arguing with this young athlete. that close-gripped jaw and salient chin did not belong to a slacker. gordon would stick and see the thing out. but peter could not drop the subject without one more appeal. "he's not sore at you about the claims. you know that. it's because you brought the squaw up the river to see sheba." "i didn't bring her--hadn't a thing to do with that. i don't know who brought her, though i could give a good guess." a gleam of hope showed in the eye of the engineer. "you didn't bring her? diane said you threatened--" "maybe i did say i would. anyhow, i thought better of it. but i'm glad some one had the sense to tell miss o'neill the truth." "who do you think brought her?" "i'm not thinking on that subject out loud." "but if we could show mac--" "that's up to you. i'll not lift a finger. your king of kusiak has to learn some time that everybody isn't going to sidestep him and pussyfoot when he's around. i didn't start this war and i'm not making any peace overtures." "you're as obstinate as the devil," smiled peter, but in his heart he admired the dourness of his friend. the engineer went to macdonald and gave a deleted version of his talk with elliot. the scotchman listened, a bitter, incredulous smile on his face. "says he didn't bring her, does he? tell him from me that he lies. your wife let out to me by accident that he threatened to bring her. meteetse and he came up on the boat together. he was with her at your house when she told her story. he's trying to save his hide. no chance." "elliot isn't a liar. when he says he didn't bring the woman, that satisfies me. i know he didn't do it," insisted paget stiffly. "different here. who else had any interest in bringing her except him? nobody. use your brains, peter. he takes the first boat down the river. he comes back on the next one. she comes back, too. they couldn't figure i'd be at your house when they showed up there to tell the story. that's where mr. elliot slipped up." peter was of different stuff from selfridge. he had something to say. so he said it. "times have changed, mac. you can't shoot down this young fellow without making all kinds of trouble. first thing we'd lose the claims. the administration would drop you like a hot potato if you did a thing like that. sheba would never speak to you again. your friends would know in their hearts it was murder. you can't do it." macdonald's jaw clamped. "then let him get out. that's my last word to him." chapter xvi ambushed colby macdonald, in miner's boots and corduroy working suit, stood beside his horse with one arm thrown carelessly across its rump. he was about to start for seven-mile creek camp with twenty-seven hundred dollars in the saddlebags to pay the men there. diane was talking with him. "she's young and fine and spirited. of course it was a great shock to her. she had been idealizing you. but i think she is beginning to understand things better. at any rate, she does not hate you any more. give the girl time." "you think she will--be reasonable?" mrs. paget finished the pattern she was punching in the soft ground beside the board walk with the ferrule of her umbrella. her eyes met his frankly. "i don't know. but i'm sure of one thing. she'll not be reasonable, as you call it, unless you are reasonable." "you mean--elliot?" "yes. she likes him very much. do you know that when the indian woman came he urged sheba not to listen to her story?" "sounds likely--after he had spent his good money bringing her here," sneered the mine-owner. "he didn't. gordon is a splendid fellow. he wouldn't lie," answered diane hotly. "and one thing is sure--if you lay a finger on him for this, it will be fatal with sheba. she will be through with you." macdonald had thought of this before. it had been coming to him from several different angles that he could not afford to gratify his desire to wipe this meddlesome young official from his path. he made a slow, sulky promise. "all right. i'll let him alone. peter can tell him." swinging to the saddle, he spurred his horse and cantered away. with a little smile diane watched his flat, muscular back and the arrogant set of his strong shoulders. there was not his match in the territory, she thought, but sometimes a clever woman could manage him. his mind was full of the problem that had come into his life. he rode abstractedly, so that he was at the lower ford of the creek almost before he knew it. a bilberry thicket straggled down to the opposite bank of the stream on both sides of the road. the horse splashed through the ford and took the little rise beyond with a rush. just before reaching the brow of the hill, the animal stumbled and fell. as its rider went headlong, he caught a glimpse of a cord drawn taut across the path. macdonald, shaken by the fall, began slowly to rise. from the shadows of the bilberry bushes two stooping figures rushed at him. he threw up an arm to ward off the club aimed at his head, but succeeded only in breaking the force of the blow. as he staggered back, stunned, a bullet glanced along his forehead and ridged a furrow through the thick hair. a second stroke of the club jarred him to the heels. though his mind was not clear, his body answered automatically the instinct that told him to close with his assailants. he lurched forward and gripped one, wrestling with him for the revolver. vaguely he knew by the sharp, jagged shoots of pain that the second man was beating his head with a club. the warm blood dripped through his hair and blinded his eyes. dazed and shaken, he yet managed to get the revolver from the man who had it. but it was his last effort. he was too far gone to use it. a blow on the forehead brought him unconscious to the ground bleeding from a dozen wounds. on his way back from seven-mile creek camp gordon elliot rode down to the ford. in the dusk he was almost upon them before the robbers heard him. for a moment the two men stood gazing at him and he at the tragedy before him. one of the men moved toward his horse. "stop there!" ordered gordon sharply, and he reached for his revolver. the man--it was the miner northrup--jumped for elliot and the field agent fired. another moment, and he was being dragged from the saddle. what happened next was never clear to him. he knew that both of the bandits closed in on him and that he was fighting desperately against odds. the revolver had been knocked from his hand and he fought with bare fists just as they did. twice he emptied his lungs in a cry for help. they quartered over the ground, for gordon would not let either of them get behind him. they were larger than he, heavy, muscle-bound giants of great strength, but he was far more active on his feet. he jabbed and sidestepped and retreated. more than once their heavy blows crashed home on his face. his eyes dared not wander from them for an instant, but he was working toward a definite plan. as he moved, his feet were searching for the automatic he had dropped. one of his feet, dragging over the ground, came into contact with the steel. with a swift side kick gordon flung the weapon a dozen feet to the left. presently, watching his chance, he made a dive for it. trelawney, followed by northrup, turned and ran. one of them caught macdonald's horse by the bridle. he swung to the saddle and the other man clambered on behind. there was a clatter of hoofs and they were gone. elliot stooped over the battered body that lay huddled at the edge of the water. the man was either dead or unconscious, he was not sure which. so badly had the face been beaten and hammered that it was not until he had washed the blood from the wounds that gordon recognized macdonald. opening the coat of the insensible man, gordon put his hand against the heart. he could not be sure whether he felt it beating or whether the throbbing came from the pulses in his finger tips. as well as he could he bound up the wounds with handkerchiefs and stanched the bleeding. with ice-cold water from the stream he drenched the bruised face. a faint sigh quivered through the slack, inert body. gordon hoisted macdonald across the saddle and led the horse through the ford. he walked beside the animal to town, and never had two miles seemed to him so far. with one hand he steadied the helpless body that lay like a sack of flour balanced in the trough of the saddle. kusiak at last lay below him, and when he descended the hill to the suburbs almost the first house was the one where the pagets lived. elliot threw the body across his shoulder and walked up the walk to the porch. he kicked upon the door with his foot. sheba answered the knock, and at sight of what he carried the color faded from her face. "macdonald has been hurt--badly," he explained quickly. "this way," the girl cried, and led him to her own room, hurrying in advance to throw back the bedclothes. "get diane--and a doctor," ordered gordon after he had laid the unconscious man on the white sheet. while he and diane undressed the mine-owner sheba got a doctor on the telephone. the wounded man opened his eyes after a long time, but there was in them the glaze of delirium. he recognized none of them. he did not know that he was in the house of peter paget, that diane and sheba and his rival were fighting with the help of the doctor to push back the death that was crowding close upon him. all night he raved, and his delirious talk went back to the wild scenes of his earlier life. sometimes he swore savagely; again he made quiet deadly threats; but always his talk was crisp and clean and vigorous. nothing foul or slimy came to the surface in those hours of unconscious babbling. the doctor had shaken his head when he first saw the wounds. he would make no promises. "he's a mighty sick man. the cuts are deep, and the hammering must have jarred his brain terribly. if it was anybody but macdonald, i wouldn't give him a chance," he told diane when he left in the morning to get breakfast. "but macdonald has tremendous vitality. of course if he lives it will be because mr. elliot brought him in so soon." gordon walked with the doctor as far as the hotel. a brown, thin, leathery man undraped himself from a chair in the lobby when elliot opened the door. he was officially known as the chief of police of kusiak. incidentally he constituted the whole police force. generally he was referred to as gopher jones on account of his habit of spasmodic prospecting. "i got to put you under arrest, mr. elliot," he explained. the loafers in the hotel drew closer. "what for?" demanded gordon, surprised. "doc thinks it will run to murder, i reckon." the field agent was startled. "you mean--macdonald?" the brown man chewed his quid steadily. "you done guessed it." "that's absurd, you know. what evidence have you got?" "first off, you'd had trouble with him. it was common talk that when you and mac met, guns were going to pop. you bought an automatic revolver at the seattle & kusiak emporium two days ago. you was seen practising with it." "he had threatened me." "you want to be careful what you say, mr. elliot. it will be used against you." gopher shot a squirt of tobacco unerringly at the open door of the stove. "you was seen talking with trelawney and northrup. money passed from you to them." "i gave them a loan of ten dollars each because they were broke. is that criminal?" demanded gordon angrily. "that's your story. you'll git a chance to tell it to the jury, i shouldn't wonder. mebbe they'll believe it. you never can tell." "believe it! why, you muttonhead, i found him where he was bleeding to death and brought him in." "that's what i heard say. kinder queer, ain't it, you happened to be the man that found him?" "nothing queer about it. i was riding in from seven-mile creek camp." gordon was exasperated, but not at all alarmed. "so you was. while you was out at the camp, you asked one of the boys how big the pay-roll would be." "does that prove i was planning a hold-up? isn't that the last thing i would have asked if i had intended robbery?" "don't ask me. i ain't no psychologist. all i know is you took an interest in the bank-roll on the way." "i'm here for the government investigating macdonald. i was getting information--earning my pay. can you understand that?" gopher chewed his cud impassively. "sure i can, and i been earning mine. by the way, howcome you to be beat up so bad, mr. elliot?" "i had a fight with the robbers." "sure it wasn't with the robbed. that split lip of yours looks to me plumb like mac's john hancock." elliot flushed angrily. "of course if you intend to believe me guilty--" "now, there ain't no manner o' use in gettin' het up, young fellow. mebbe you did it; mebbe you didn't. anyhow, you'll gimme that gat you been toting these last few days." gordon's hand moved toward his hip. then he remembered. "i haven't it. i left it--" "you left it at the ford--with one shell empty. that's where you left it," interrupted the officer. "yes. i fired at northrup as he rushed me." "um-hu," assented jones, impudent unbelief in his eye. "at northrup or at macdonald." "what do you think i did with the money, then? did i eat it?" "not so you could notice it. since you put it to me flat-foot, you gave it to your pardners. you didn't want it. they did. they have got the horse too--and they're hitting the high spots to make their get-away." elliot was locked up in the flimsy jail without breakfast. he was furious, but as he paced up and down the narrow beat beside the bed his anger gave way to anxiety. surely the pagets could not believe he had done such a thing. and sheba--would she accept as true this weight of circumstantial evidence that was piling up against him? it could all be explained so easily. and yet--the facts fitted like links of a chain to condemn him. he went over them one by one. the babbling tongue of selfridge that had made common gossip of the impending tragedy in which he and macdonald were the principals--his purchase of the automatic--his public meeting with two known enemies of the scotchman, during which he had been seen to give them money--his target practice with the new revolver--the unhappy chance that had taken him out to seven-mile creek camp the very day of the robbery--his casual questions of the miners--even the finding of the body by him. all of these dovetailed with the hypothesis that his partners in crime were to escape and bear the blame, while he was to bring the body back to town and assume innocence. paget was admitted to his cell later in the morning by gopher jones. he shook hands with the prisoner. jones retired. "tough luck, gordon," the engineer said. "what does sheba think?" asked the young man quickly. "we haven't told her you have been arrested. i heard it only a little while ago." "and diane?" "yes, she knows." "well?" demanded gordon brusquely. peter looked at him in questioning surprise. "well, what?" he caught the meaning of his friend. "try not to be an ass, gordon. of course she knows the charge is ridiculous." the chip dropped from the young man's shoulder. "good old diane. i might have known," he said with a new cheerfulness. "i think you might have," agreed peter dryly. "by the way, have you had any breakfast?" "no. i'm hungry, come to think of it." "i'll have something sent in from the hotel." "how's macdonald?" "he's alive--and while there's life there is hope." "any news of the murderers?" asked gordon. "posses are combing the hills for them. they stole a packhorse from a truck gardener up the valley. it seems they bought an outfit for a month yesterday--said they were going prospecting." they talked for a few minutes longer, mainly on the question of a lawyer and the chances of getting out on bond. peter left the prisoner in very much better spirits than he had found him. chapter xvii "god save you kindly" a nurse from the hospital had relieved diane and sheba at daybreak. they slept until the middle of the afternoon, then under orders from the doctor walked out to take the air. they were to divide the night watch between them and he said that he wanted them fit for service. the fever of the patient was subsiding. he slept a good deal, and in the intervals between had been once or twice quite rational. the thoughts of the cousins drew their steps toward the jail. sheba looked at diane. "will they let us see him, do you think?" "perhaps. we can try." gopher jones was not proof against the brisk confidence with which mrs. paget demanded admittance. he stroked his unshaven chin while he chewed his quid, then reluctantly got his keys. the prisoner was sitting on the bed. his heart jumped with gladness when he looked up. diane shook hands cheerfully. "how is the criminal?" "better for hearing your kind voice," he answered. his eyes strayed to the ebon-haired girl in the background. they met a troubled smile, grave and sweet. "awfully good of you to come to see me," he told sheba gratefully. "how is macdonald?" "better, we hope. he knew diane this afternoon." mrs. paget did most of the talking, but gordon contributed his share. sheba did not say much, but it seemed to the young man that there was a new tenderness in her manner, the expression of a gentle kindness that went out to him because he needed it. the walk had whipped the color into her cheeks and she bloomed in that squalid cell like a desert rose. there was in the fluent grace of the slender, young body a naïve, virginal sweetness that took him by the throat. he knew that she believed in him and the trouble rolled from his heart like a cold, heavy wave. "we haven't talked to mr. macdonald yet about the attack on him," diane explained. "but he must have recognized the men. there are many footprints at the ford, showing how they moved over the ground as they fought. so he could not have been unconscious from the first blow." "unless they were masked he must have known them. it was light enough," agreed elliot. "peter is still trying to get the officers to accept bail, but i don't think he will succeed. there is a good deal of feeling in town against you." "because i am supposed to be an enemy to an open alaska, i judge." "mainly that. wally selfridge has been talking a good deal. he takes it for granted that you are guilty. we'll have to wait in patience till mr. macdonald speaks and clears you. the doctor won't let us mention the subject to him until he comes to it of his own free will." gopher stuck his head in at the door. "you'll have to go, ladies. time's up." when sheba bade the prisoner good-bye it was with a phrase of the old irish vernacular. "god save you kindly." he knew the peasant's answer to the wish and gave it. "and you too." the girl left the prison with a mist in her eyes. her cousin looked at her with a queer, ironic little smile of affection. to be in trouble was a sure passport to the sympathy of sheba. now both her lovers were in a sad way. diane wondered which of them would gain most from this new twist of fate. sheba turned to mrs. paget with an impulsive little burst of feminine ferocity. "why do they put him in prison when they must know he didn't do it--that he couldn't do such a thing?" "they don't all know as well as you do how noble he is, my dear," answered diane dryly. "but it's just absurd to think that he would plan the murder of a man he has broken bread with for a few hundred dollars." diane flashed another odd little glance in the direction of her cousin. probably sheba was the one woman in kusiak who did not know that macdonald had served an ultimatum on elliot to get out or fight and that their rivalry over her favor was at the bottom of the difficulty between them. "it will work out all right," promised the older cousin. returning from their walk, they met wally selfridge coming out of the paget house. "did you see mr. macdonald?" asked diane. "yes. he's quite rational now." there was a jaunty little strut of triumph in wally's cock-sure manner. mrs. paget knew he had made himself very busy securing evidence against gordon. he was probably trying to curry favor with his chief. the little man always had been jealous of peter. perhaps he was attempting to rap him over the shoulder of elliot because the government official was a friend of paget. just now his insolent voice suggested a special cause for exultation. the reason wally was so pleased with himself was that he had dropped a hint into the ear of the wounded man not to clear elliot of complicity in the attack upon him. the news that the special investigator had been arrested for robbery and attempted murder, flashed all over the united states, would go far to neutralize any report he might make against the validity of the macdonald claims. if to this could be added later reports of an indictment, a trial, and possibly a conviction, it would not matter two straws what elliot said in his official statement to the land office. since the attack upon his chief, selfridge had moved on the presumption that elliot had been in a conspiracy to get rid of him. he accepted the guilt of the field agent because this theory jumped with the interest of wally and his friends. as a politician he intended to play this new development for all it was worth. he had been shocked at the sight of macdonald. the terrible beating and the loss of blood had sapped all the splendid, vital strength of the scotchman. his battered head was swathed in bandages, but the white face was bruised and disfigured. the wounded man was weak as a kitten; only the steady eyes told that he was still strong and unconquered. "i want to talk business for a minute, miss sedgwick. will you please step out?" said macdonald to his nurse. she hesitated. "the doctor says--" "do as i say, please." the nurse left them alone. wally told the story of the evidence against elliot in four sentences. his chief caught the point at once. after selfridge had gone, the wounded man lay silent thinking out his programme. not for a moment did he doubt that he was going to live, and his brain was already busy planning for the future. by some freak of luck the cards had been stacked by destiny in his favor. he knew now that in the violence of his anger against elliot he had made a mistake. to have killed his rival would have been fatal to the kamatlah coal claims, would have alienated his best friends, and would have prejudiced hopelessly his chances with sheba. fate had been kind to him. he had been in the wrong and it had put him in the right. by the same cut of the cards young elliot had been thrust down from an impregnable position to one in which he was a discredited suspect. with all this evidence to show that he had conspired against macdonald, his report to the department would be labor lost. diane came into the sick-room stripping her gloves after the walk. macdonald smiled feebly at her and fired the first shot of his campaign to defeat the enemy. "has elliot been captured yet?" he asked weakly. the keen eyes of his hostess fastened upon him. "captured! what do you mean? it was gordon elliot that brought you in and saved your life." "brought me from where?" "from where he found you unconscious--at the ford." "that's his story, is it?" macdonald shut his eyes wearily, but his incredulous voice had suggested a world of innuendo. the young woman stood with her gloves crushed tight in both hands. it was her nature to be always a partisan. without any reserve she was for gordon in this new fight upon him. what had wally selfridge been saying to macdonald? she longed mightily to ask the sick man some questions, but the orders of the doctor were explicit. did the mine-owner mean to suggest that he had identified elliot as one of his assailants? the thing was preposterous. and yet--that was plainly what he had meant to imply. if he told such a story, things would go hard with gordon. in court it would clinch the case against him by supplying the one missing link in the chain of circumstantial evidence. diane, in deep thought, frowned down upon the wounded man, who seemed already to have fallen into a light sleep. she told herself that this was some of wally selfridge's deviltry. anyhow, she would talk it over with peter. chapter xviii gordon spends a busy evening paget smoked placidly, but the heart within him was troubled. it looked as if selfridge had made up his mind to frame gordon for a prison sentence. the worst of it was that he need not invent any evidence or take any chances. if macdonald came through on the stand with an identification of elliot as one of his assailants, the young man would go down the river to serve time. there was enough corroborative testimony to convict st. peter himself. it all rested with macdonald--and the big scotch-canadian was a very uncertain quantity. his whole interests were at one in favor of getting elliot out of the way. on the other hand--how far would he go to save the kamatlah claims and to remove this good-looking rival from his path? peter could not think he would stoop to perjury against an innocent man. "i'm just telling you what he said," diane explained. "and it worried me. his smile was cynical. i couldn't help thinking that if he wants to get even with gordon--" mrs. paget stopped. the maid had just brought into the room a visitor. diane moved forward and shook hands with him. "how do you do, mr. strong? take this big chair." hanford strong accepted the chair and a cigar. though a well-to-do mine-owner, he wore as always the rough clothes of a prospector. he came promptly to the object of his call. "i don't know whether this is where i should have come or not. are you folks for young elliot or are you for selfridge?" he demanded. "if you put it that way, we're for elliot," smiled peter. "all right. let me put it another way. you work for mac. are you on his side or on elliot's in this matter of the coal claims?" diane looked at peter. he took his time to answer. "we hope the coal claimants will win, but we've got sense enough to see that gordon is in here to report the facts. that's what he is paid for. he'll tell the truth as he sees it. if his superior officers decide on those facts against macdonald, i don't see that elliot is to blame." "that's how it looks to me," agreed strong. "i'm for a wide-open alaska, but that don't make it right to put this young fellow through for a crime he didn't do. lots of folks think he did it. that's all right. i know he didn't. fact is, i like him. he's square. so i've come to tell you something." he smoked for a minute silently before he continued. "i've got no evidence in his favor, but i bumped into something a little while ago that didn't look good to me. you know i room next him at the hotel. i heard a noise in his room, and i thought that was funny, seeing as he was locked up in jail. so i kinder listened and heard whispers and the sound of some one moving about. there's a door between his room and mine that is kept locked. i looked through the keyhole, and in elliot's room there was wally selfridge and another man. they were looking through papers at the desk. wally put a stack of them in his pocket and they went out locking the door behind them." "they had no business doing that," burst out diane. "wally selfridge isn't an officer of the law." strong nodded dryly to her. "just what i thought. so i followed them. they went to macdonald's offices. after awhile wally came out and left the other man there. then presently the lights went out. the man is camped there for the night. will you tell me why?" "why?" repeated diane with her sharp eyes on the miner. "because wally has some papers there he don't want to get away from him." "some of gordon's papers, of course." "you've said it." "all his notes and evidence in the case of the coal claims probably," contributed peter. "maybe. wally has stole them, but he hasn't nerve enough to burn them till he gets orders from mac. so he's holding them safe at the office," guessed strong. "it's an outrage," diane decided promptly. "surest thing you know. wally has fixed it to frame him for prison and to play safe about his evidence on the coal claims." "what are you going to do about it?" diane asked her husband sharply. peter rose. "first i'm going to see gordon and hear what he has to say. come on, strong. we may be gone quite a while, diane. don't wait up for me if you get through your stint of nursing." roused from sleep, gopher jones grumbled a good deal about letting the men see his prisoner. "you got all day, ain't you, without traipsing around here nights. don't you figure i'm entitled to any rest?" but he let them into the ramshackle building that served as a jail, and after three dollars had jingled in the palm of his hand he stepped outside and left the men alone with his prisoner. the three put their heads together and whispered. "i'll meet you outside the house of selfridge in half an hour, strong," was the last thing that gordon said before jones came back to order out the visitors. as soon as the place was dark again, gordon set to work on the flimsy framework of his cell window. he knew already it was so decrepit that he could escape any time he desired, but until now there had been no reason why he should. within a quarter of an hour he lifted the iron-grilled sash bodily from the frame and crawled through the window. he found paget and strong waiting for him in the shadows of a pine outside the yard of selfridge. "to begin with, you walk straight home and go to bed, peter," the young man announced. "you're not in this. you're not invited to our party. i don't have to tell you why, do i?" the engineer understood the reason. he was an employee of macdonald, a man thoroughly trusted by him. even though gordon intended only to right a wrong, it was better that paget should not be a party to it. reluctantly peter went home. gordon turned to strong. "i owe you a lot already. there's no need for you to run a risk of getting into trouble for me. if things break right, i can do what i have to do without help." "and if they don't?" strong waved an impatient hand. "cut it out, elliot. i've taken a fancy to go through with this. i never did like selfridge anyhow, and i ain't got a wife and i don't work for mac. why the hell shouldn't i have some fun?" gordon shrugged his shoulders. "all right. might as well play ball and get things moving, then." the little miner knocked at the door. wally himself opened. elliot, from the shelter of the pine, saw the two men in talk. selfridge shut the door and came to the edge of the porch. he gave a gasp and his hands went trembling into the air. the six-gun of the miner had been pressed hard against his fat paunch. under curt orders he moved down the steps and out of the yard to the tree. at sight of gordon the eyes of wally stood out in amazement. little sweat beads burst out on his forehead, for he remembered how busy he had been collecting evidence against this man. "w-w-what do you want?" he asked. "got your keys with you?" "y-yes." "come with us." wally breathed more freely. for a moment he had thought this man had come to take summary vengeance on him. they led him by alleys and back streets to the office of the macdonald yukon trading company. under orders he knocked on the door and called out who he was. gordon crouched close to the log wall, strong behind him. "let me in, olson," ordered selfridge again. the door opened, and a man stood on the threshold. elliot was on top of him like a panther. the man went down as though his knees were oiled hinges. before he could gather his slow wits, the barrel of a revolver was shoved against his teeth. "take it easy, olson," advised gordon. "get up--slowly. now, step back into the office. keep your hands up." strong closed and locked the door behind them. "i want my papers, selfridge. dig up your keys and get them for me," elliot commanded. wally did not need any keys. he knew the combination of the safe and opened it. from an inner drawer he drew a bunch of papers. gordon looked them over carefully. strong sat on a table and toyed with a revolver which he jammed playfully into the stomach of his fat prisoner. "all here," announced the field agent. the safe-robbers locked their prisoners in the office and disappeared into the night. they stopped at the house of the collector of customs, a genial young fellow with whom elliot had played tennis a good deal, and left the papers in his hands for safe-keeping. after which they returned to the hotel and reached the second floor by way of the back stairs used by the servants. here they parted, each going to his own room. gordon slept like a schoolboy and woke only when the sun poured through the window upon his bed in a broad ribbon of warm gold. he got up, bathed, dressed, and went down into the hotel dining-room. the waiters looked at him in amazement. presently the cook peered in at him from the kitchen and the clerk made an excuse to drop into the room. gordon ate as if nothing were the matter, apparently unaware of the excitement he was causing. he paid not the least attention to the nudging and the whispering. after he had finished breakfast, he lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, and smoked placidly. presently an eruption of men poured into the room. at the head of them was gopher jones. near the rear wally selfridge lingered modestly. he was not looking for hazardous adventure. "whad you doing here?" demanded gopher, bristling up to elliot. the young man watched a smoke wreath float ceilingward before he turned his mild gaze on the chief of police. "i'm smoking." "don't you know we just got in from hunting you--two posses of us been out all night?" gopher glared savagely at the smoker. gordon looked distressed. "that's too bad. there's a telephone in my room, too. why didn't you call up? i've been there all night." "the deuce you have," exploded jones. "and us combing the hills for you. young man, you're mighty smart. but i want to tell you that you'll pay for this." "did you want me for anything in particular--or just to get up a poker game?" asked elliot suavely. the leader of the posse gave himself to a job of scientific profanity. he was spurred on to outdo himself because he had heard a titter or two behind him. when he had finished, he formed a procession. he, with elliot hand-cuffed beside him, was at the head of it. it marched to the jail. chapter xix sheba does not think so the fingers of sheba were busy with the embroidery upon which she worked, but her thoughts were full of the man who lay asleep on the lounge. his strong body lay at ease, relaxed. already health was flowing back into his veins. beneath the tan of the lean, muscular cheeks a warmer color was beginning to creep. soon he would be about again, vigorous and forceful, striding over obstacles to the goal he had set himself. just now she was the chief goal of his desire. sheba did not deceive herself into thinking that he had for a moment accepted her dismissal of him. he still meant to marry her, and he had told her so in characteristic way the day after their break. sheba had sent him a check for the amount he had paid her and had refused to see him or anybody else. shamed and humiliated, she had kept to her room. the check had come back to her by mail. across the face of it he had written in his strong handwriting:- i don't welsh on my bets. you can't give to me what is not mine. do not think for an instant that i shall not marry you. watching him now, she wondered what manner of man he was. there had been a day or two when she had thought she understood him. then she had learned, from the story of meteetse, how far his world of thought was from hers. that which to her had put a gulf between them was to him only an incident. she moved to adjust a window blind and when she returned found that his steady eyes were fixed upon her. "you're getting better fast," she said. "yes." the girl had a favor to ask of him and lest her courage fail she plunged into it. "mr. macdonald, if you say the word mr. elliot will be released on bail. i am thinking you will be so good as to say it." his narrowed eyes held a cold glitter. "why?" "you must know he is innocent. you must--" "i know only what the evidence shows," he cut in, warily on his guard. "he may or may not have been one of my attackers. from the first blow i was dazed. but everything points to it that he hired--" "oh, no!" interrupted the irish girl, her dark eyes shining softly. "the way of it is that he saved your life, that he fought for you, and that he is in prison because of it." "if that is true, why doesn't he bring some proof of it?" "proof!" she cried scornfully. "between friends--" "he's no friend of mine. the man is a meddler. i despise him." the scarlet flooded her cheeks. "and i am liking him very, very much," she flung back stanchly. macdonald looked up at the vivid, flushed face and found it wholly charming. he liked her none the less because her fine eyes were hot and defiant in behalf of his rival. "very well," he smiled. "i'll get him out if you'll do me a good turn too." "thank you. it's a bargain." "then sing to me." she moved to the piano. "what shall i sing?" "sing 'divided.'" the long lashes veiled her soft eyes while she considered. in a way he had tricked her into singing for him a love-song she did not want to sing. but she made no protest. swiftly she turned and slid along the bench. her fingers touched the keys and she began. he watched the beauty and warmth of her dainty youth with eyes that mirrored the hunger of his heart. how buoyantly she carried her dusky little head! with what a gallant spirit she did all things! he was usually a frank pagan, but when he was with her it seemed to him that god spoke through her personality all sorts of brave, fine promises. sheba paid her pledge in full. after the first two stanzas were finished she sang the last ones as well:- "an' what about the wather when i'd have ould paddy's boat, is it me that would be feared to grip the oars an' go afloat? oh, i could find him by the light of sun or moon or star: but there's caulder things than salt waves between us, so they are. och anee! "sure well i know he'll never have the heart to come to me, an' love is wild as any wave that wanders on the sea, 'tis the same if he is near me, 'tis the same if he is far: his thoughts are hard an' ever hard between us, so they are. och anee!" her hands dropped from the keys and she turned slowly on the end of the seat. the dark lashes fell to her hot cheeks. he did not speak, but she felt the steady insistence of his gaze. in self-defense she looked at him. the pallor of his face lent accent to the fire that smouldered in his eyes. "i'm going to marry you, sheba. make up your mind to that, girl," he said harshly. there was infinite pity in the look she gave him. "'there's caulder things than salt waves between us, so they are,'" she quoted. "not if i love you and you love me. by god, i trample down everything that comes between us." he swung to a sitting position on the lounge. through the steel-gray eyes in the brooding face his masterful spirit wrestled with hers. a lean-loined samson, with broad, powerful shoulders and deep chest, he dominated his world ruthlessly. but this slim irish girl with the young, lissom body held her own. "must we go through that again?" she asked gently. "again and again until you see reason." she knew the tremendous driving power of the man and she was afraid in her heart that he would sweep her from the moorings to which she clung. "there is something else i haven't told you." the embarrassed lashes lifted bravely from the flushed cheeks to meet steadily his look. "i don't think--that i--care for you. 'tis i that am shamed at my--fickleness. but i don't--not with the full of my heart." his bold, possessive eyes yielded no fraction of all they claimed. "time enough for that, sheba. truth is that you're afraid to let yourself love me. you're worried because you can't measure me by the little two-by-four foot-rule you brought from ireland with you." sheba nodded her dusky little head in naïve candor. "i think there will be some truth in that, mr. macdonald. you're lawless, you know." "i'm a law to myself, if that's what you mean. it is my business to help hammer out an empire in this northland. if i let my work be cluttered up by all the little rules made by little men for other little ones, my plans would come to a standstill. i am a practical man, but i keep sight of the vision. no need for me to brag. what i have done speaks for me as a guidepost to what i mean to do." "i know," the girl admitted with the impetuous generosity of her race. "i hear it from everybody. you have built towns and railroads and developed mines and carried the twentieth century into new outposts. you have given work to thousands. but you go so fast i can't keep step with you. i am one of the little folks for whom laws were made." "then i'll make a new code for you," he said, smiling. "just do as i say and everything will come out right." faintly her smile met his. "my grandmother might have agreed to that. but we live in a new world for women. they have to make their own decisions. i suppose that is a part of the penalty we pay for freedom." diane came into the room and macdonald turned to her. "i have just been telling sheba that i am going to marry her--that there is no escape for her. she had better get used to the idea that i intend to make her happy." the older cousin glanced at sheba and laughed with a touch of embarrassment. "whether she wants to be happy or not, o cave man?" "i'm going to make her want to." sheba fled, but from the door she flung back her challenge. "i don't think so." chapter xx gordon finds himself unpopular macdonald kept his word to sheba. he used his influence to get elliot released, and with a touch of cynicism quite characteristic went on the bond of his rival. an information was filed against the field agent of the land department for highway robbery and attempted murder, but gordon went about his business just as if he were not under a cloud. none the less, he walked the streets a marked man. women and children looked at him curiously and whispered as he passed. the sullen, hostile eyes of miners measured him silently. he was aware that feeling had focused against him with surprising intensity of resentment, and he suspected that the whispers of wally selfridge were largely responsible for this. for wally saw to it that in the minds of the miners elliot in his own person stood for the enemies of the open-alaska policy. he scattered broadcast garbled extracts from the first preliminary report of the field agent, and in the coal camps he spread the impression that the whole mining activities of the territory would be curtailed if elliot had his way. in the states the fight between the coal claimants and their foes was growing more bitter. the muckrakers were busy, and the sentiment outside had settled so definitely against granting the patents that the national administration might at any time jettison macdonald and his backers as a sop to public opinion. it was not hard for gordon to guess how unpopular he was, but he did not let this interfere with his activities. he moved to and fro among the mining camps with absolute disregard of the growing hatred against him. paget came to him at last with a warning. "what's this i hear about you being almost killed up on bonanza?" peter wanted to know. "down in the none such mine, you mean? it did seem to be raining hammers as i went down the shaft," admitted his friend. "were the hammers dropped on purpose?" gordon looked at him with a grim smile. "your guess is just as good as mine, peter. what do you think?" peter answered seriously. "i think it isn't safe for you to take the chances you do, gordon. i find a wrong impression about you prevalent among the men. they are blaming you for stirring up all this trouble on the outside, and they are worried for fear the mines may close and they will lose their jobs. i tell you that they are in a dangerous mood." "sorry, but i can't help that." "you can stay around town and not go out alone nights, can't you?" "i dare say i can, but i'm not going to." "some of these men are violent. they don't think straight about you--" "kindness of mr. selfridge," contributed gordon. "perhaps. anyhow, there's a lot of sullen hate brewing against you. don't invite an explosion. that would be just kid foolhardiness." "you think i'd better buy another automatic gat," said elliot with a grin. "i think you had better use a little sense, gordon. i dare say i am exaggerating the danger. but when you go around with that jaunty, devil-may-care way of yours, the men think you are looking for trouble--and you're likely to get it." "am i?" "i know what i'm talking about. nine out of ten of the men think you tried to murder macdonald after you had robbed him and that your nerve weakened on the job. this seems to some of the most lawless to give them a moral right to put you out of the way. anyhow, it is a kind of justification, according to their point of view. i'm not defending it, of course. i'm telling you so that you can appreciate your danger." "you have done your duty, then, peter." "but you don't intend to take my advice?" "i'll tell you what i told you last time when you warned me. i'm going through with the job i've been hired to do, just as you would stick it out in my place. i don't think i'm in much danger. men in general are law-abiding. they growl, but they don't go as far as murder." peter gave him up. after all, the chances were that gordon was right. alaska was not a lawless country. and it might be that the best way to escape peril was to walk through it with a grin as if it did not exist. the next issue of the kusiak "sun" contained a bitter editorial attack upon elliot. the occasion for it was a press dispatch from washington to the effect that the pressure of public opinion had become so strong that winton, commissioner of the general land office, might be forced to resign his place. this was a blow to the coal claimants, and the "sun" charged in vitriolic language that the reports of elliot were to blame. he was, the newspaper claimed, an enemy to all those who had come to alaska to earn an honest living there. under indictment for attempted murder and for highway robbery, this man was not satisfied with having tried to kill from ambush the best friend alaska had ever known. in every report that he sent to washington he was dealing underhanded blows at the prosperity of alaska. he was a snake in the grass, and as such every decent man ought to hold him in scorn. elliot read this just as he was leaving for the willow creek camp. he thrust the paper impatiently into his coat pocket and swung to the saddle. why did they persecute him? he had told nothing but the truth, nothing not required of him by the simplest, elemental honesty. yet he was treated as an outcast and a criminal. the injustice of it was beginning to rankle. he was temperamentally an optimist, but depression rode with him to the gold camp and did not lift from his spirits till he started back next day for kusiak. the news had been flashed by wire all over the united states that he was a crook. his friends and relatives could give no adequate answer to the fact that an indictment hung over his head. in alaska he was already convicted by public opinion. even the pagets were lined up as to their interests with macdonald. sheba liked him and believed in him. her loyal heart acquitted him of all blame. but it was to the wooing of his enemy that she had listened rather than to his. the big scotchman had run against a barrier, but his rival expected him to trample it down. he would wear away the scruples of sheba by the pressure of his masterful will. in the late afternoon, while gordon was still fifteen miles from kusiak, his horse fell lame. he led it limping to the cabin of some miners. there were three of them, and they had been drinking heavily from a jug of whiskey left earlier in the day by the stage-driver. gordon was in two minds whether to accept their surly permission to stay for the night, but the lameness of his horse decided him. not caring to invite their hostility, he gave his name as gordon instead of elliot. he was to learn within the hour that this was mistake number two. from a pocket of the coat he had thrown on a bed protruded the newspaper gordon had brought from kusiak. one of the men, a big red-headed fellow, pulled it out and began sulkily to read. while he read the other two bickered and drank and snarled at each other. all three of the men were in that stage of drunkenness when a quarrel is likely to flare up at a moment's notice. "listen here," demanded the man with the newspaper. "tell you what, boys, i'm going to wring the neck of that pussyfooting spy elliot if i ever get a chanct." he read aloud the editorial in the "sun." after he had finished, the others joined him in a chorus of curses. "i always did hate a spy--and this one's a murderer too. why don't some one fill his hide with lead?" one of the men wanted to know. redhead was sitting at the table. he thumped a heavy fist down so hard that the tin cups jumped. "gimme a crack at him and i'll show you, by god." a shadow fell across the room. in the doorway stood a newcomer. gordon had a sensation as if a lump of ice had been drawn down his spine. for the man who had just come in was big bill macy, and he was looking at the field agent with eyes in which amazement, anger, and triumph blazed. "i'm glad to death to meet up with you again, mr. elliot," he jeered. "seems like old times on wild-goose." "whad you say his name is?" cut in the man with the newspaper. "hasn't he introduced himself, boys?" macy answered with a cruel grin. "now, ain't that modest of him? you lads are entertaining that well-known deteckative and spy gordon elliot, that renowned king of hold-ups--" the red-headed man interrupted with a howl of rage. "if you're telling it straight, bill macy, i'll learn him to spy on me." elliot was sitting on one of the beds. he had not moved an inch since macy had appeared, but the brain behind his live eyes was taking stock of the situation. big bill blocked the doorway. the table was in front of the window. unless he could fight his way out, there was no escape for him. he was trapped. quietly gordon looked from one to another. he read no hope in the eyes of any. "i'm not spying on you. my horse is lame. you can see that for yourself. all i asked was a night's lodging." "under another name than your own, you damned sneak." the field agent did not understand the fury of the man, because he did not know that these miners were working the claim under a defective title and that they had jumped to the conclusion that he had come to get evidence against them. but he knew that never in his life had he been in a tighter hole. in another minute they would attack him. whether it would run to murder he could not tell. at the best he would be hammered helpless. but no evidence of this knowledge appeared in his manner. "i didn't give my last name because there is a prejudice against me in this country," he explained in an even voice. he wondered as he spoke if he had better try to fling himself through the window sash. there might be a remote chance that he could make it. the miner at the table killed this possibility by rising and standing squarely in the road. "look out! he's got a gat," warned macy. gordon fervently wished he had. but he was unarmed. while his eyes quested for a weapon he played for time. "you can't get away with this, you know. the united states government is back of me. it's known i left the willow creek camp. i'll be traced here." through gordon's mind there flashed a word of advice once given him by a professional prize-fighter: "if you get in a rough house, don't wait for the other fellow to hit first." they were crouching for the attack. in another moment they would be upon him. almost with one motion he stooped, snatched up by the leg a heavy stool, and sprang to the bed upon which he had been sitting. the four men closed with him in a rush. they came at him low, their heads protected by uplifted arms. his memory brought to him a picture of the whitewashed gridiron of a football field, and in it he saw a vision of safety. the stool crashed down upon big bill macy's head. gordon hurdled the crumpling figure, plunged between hands outstretched to seize him, and over the table went through the window, taking the flimsy sash with him. chapter xxi a new way of leaving a house the surge of disgust with which sheba had broken her engagement to marry macdonald ebbed away as the weeks passed. it was impossible for her to wait upon him in his illness and hold any repugnance toward this big, elemental man. the thing he had done might be wrong, but the very openness and frankness of his relation to meteetse redeemed it from shame. he was neither a profligate nor a squawman. this was diane's point of view, and in time it became to a certain extent that of sheba. one takes on the color of one's environment, and the girl from drogheda knew in her heart that meteetse and colmac were no longer the real barriers that stood between her and the alaskan. she had been disillusioned, saw him more clearly; and though she still recognized the quality of bigness that set him apart, her spirit did not now do such complete homage to it. more and more her thoughts contrasted him with another man. macdonald did not need to be told that he had lost ground, but with the dogged determination that had carried him to success he refused to accept the verdict. she was a woman, therefore to be won. the habit of victory was so strong in him that he could see no alternative. he embarrassed her with his downright attentions, hemmed her in with courtesies she could not evade. if she appealed to her cousin, diane only laughed. "my dear, you might as well make up your mind to him. he is going to marry you, willy-nilly." sheba herself began to be afraid he would. there was something dominant and masterful about the man that swept opposition aside. he had a way of getting what he wanted. the motor-car picnic to the willow creek camp was a case in point. sheba did not want to go, but she went. she would much rather have sat in the rear seat with diane,--at least, she persuaded herself that she would,--yet she occupied the place beside macdonald in front. the girl was a rebel. still, in her heart, she was not wholly reluctant. he made a strong appeal to her imagination. she felt that it would have been impossible for any girl to be indifferent to the wooing of such a man. the picnic was a success. macdonald was an outdoor man rather than a parlor one. he took charge of the luncheon, lit the fire, and cooked the coffee without the least waste of effort. in his shirt-sleeves, the neck open at the throat, he looked the embodiment of masculine vigor. diane could not help mentioning it to her cousin. "isn't he a splendid human animal?" sheba nodded. "he's wonderful." "if i were a little irish colleen and he had done me the honor to care for me, i'd have fallen fathoms deep in love with him." the irish colleen's eyes grew reflective. "not if you had seen peter first, di. there's nothing reasonable about a girl, i do believe. she loves--or else she just doesn't." diane fired a question at her point-blank. "have you met _your_ peter? is that why you hang back?" the color flamed into sheba's face. "of course not. you do say the most outrageous things, di." they had driven to willow creek over the river road. they returned by way of the hills. macdonald drew up in front of a cabin to fill the radiator. he stood listening beside the car, the water bucket in his hand. something unusual was going on inside the house. there came the sound of a thud, of a groan, and then the crash of breaking glass. the whole window frame seemed to leap from the side of the house. the head and shoulders of a man projected through the broken glass. the man swept himself free of the débris and started to run. instantly he pulled up in his stride, as amazed to see those in the car as they were to see him. "gordon!" cried diane. out of the house poured a rush of men. they too pulled up abruptly at sight of macdonald and his guests. a sardonic mirth gleamed in the eyes of the scotchman. "do you always come out of a house through the wall, mr. elliot?" he asked. "only when i'm in a hurry." gordon pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at some glass-cuts on his face. "don't let us detain you," said the alaskan satirically. "we'll excuse you, since you must go." "i'm not in such a hurry now. in fact, if you're going to kusiak, i think i'll ask you for a lift," returned the field agent coolly. "and your friends-in-a-hurry--do they want a lift too?" big bill macy came swaying forward, both hands to his bleeding head. "he's a spy, curse him. and he tried to kill me." "did he?" commented macdonald evenly. "what were you doing to him?" "he can't sneak around our claim under a false name," growled one of the miners. "we'll beat his damn head off." "i've had notions like that myself sometimes," assented the big scotchman. "but i think we had all better leave mr. elliot to the law. he has uncle sam back of him in his spying, and none of us are big enough to buck the government." crisply macdonald spoke to gordon, turning upon him cold, hostile eyes. "get in if you're going to." elliot met him eye to eye. "i've changed my mind. i'm going to walk." "that's up to you." gordon shook hands with diane and sheba, went into the house for his coat, and walked to the stable. he brought out his horse and turned it loose, then took the road himself for kusiak. a couple of miles out the car passed him trudging townward. as they flashed down the road he waved a cheerful and nonchalant greeting. sheba had been full of gayety and life, but her mood was changed. all the way home she was strangely silent. chapter xxii gid holt comes to kusiak the days grew short. in sporting circles the talk was no longer of the midnight fourth of july baseball game, but of preparation for the alaska sweepstakes, since the shadow of the cold arctic winter had crept down to the yukon and touched its waters to stillness. men, gathered around warm stoves, spoke of the merits of huskies and siberian wolf-hounds, of the heavy fall of snow in the hills, of the overhauling of outfits and the transportation of supplies to distant camps. the last river boat before the freeze-up had long since gone. a month earlier the same steamer had taken down in a mail sack the preliminary report of elliot to his department chief. one of the passengers on that trip had been selfridge, sent out to counteract the influence of the evidence against the claimants submitted by the field agent. an information had been filed against gordon for highway robbery and attempted murder. wally was to see that the damning facts against him were brought to the attention of officials in high places where the charges would do most good. the details of the story were to be held in reserve for publicity in case the muckrake magazines should try to make capital of the report of elliot. kusiak found much time for gossip during the long nights. it knew that macdonald had gone on the bond of elliot in spite of the scornful protest of the younger man. the two gave each other chilly nods of greeting when they met, but friends were careful not to invite them to the same social affairs. the case against the field agent was pending. pursuit of the miners who had robbed the big mine-owner had long ago been dropped. somewhere in the north the outlaws lay hidden, swallowed up by the great white waste of snow. the general opinion was that mac was playing politics about the trial of his rival. he would not let the case come to a jury until the time when a conviction would have most effect in the states, the gossips predicted. they did not know that he was waiting for the return of wally selfridge. the whispers touched closely the personal affairs of macdonald. the report of his engagement to sheba o'neill had been denied, but it was noticed that he was a constant guest at the home of the pagets. young elliot called there too. almost any day one or other of the two men could be seen with sheba on the street. those who wanted to take a sporting chance on the issue knew that odds were offered _sub rosa_ at the pay streak saloon of three to one on mac. as for sheba, she rebelled impotently at the situation. the mine-owner would not take "no" for an answer. he wooed her with a steady, dominant persistence that shook even her strong, young will. there was something resistless in the way he took her for granted. gordon elliot had not mentioned love to her, though there were times when her heart fluttered for fear he would. she did not want any more complications. she wanted to be let alone. so when an invitation came from her little friends the husteds, signed by all three of the children, asking her to come and visit them at the camp back of katma, the irish girl jumped at the chance to escape for a time from the decision being forced upon her. sheba pledged her cousin to secrecy until after she had gone, so that miss o'neill was able to slip away on the stage unnoticed either by macdonald or elliot. the only other passenger was an elderly woman going up to the katma camp to take a place as cook. later on the same day wally selfridge, coming in over the ice, reached kusiak with important news for his chief. he brought with him an order from winton, commissioner of the general land office, suspending elliot pending an investigation of the charges against him. the field agent was to forward by mail all documents in his possession and for the time, at least, drop the matter of the coal claims. oddly enough, it was to genevieve mallory that macdonald went for consolation when he learned that sheba had left town. he had always found it very pleasant to drop in for a chat with her, and she saw to it that he met the same friendly welcome now that a rival had annexed his scalp to her slender waist. for mrs. mallory did not concede defeat. if the irish girl could be eliminated, she believed she would yet win. his hostess laced her fingers behind her beautiful, tawny head, quite well aware that the attitude set off the perfect modeling of the soft, supple body. she looked up at him with a mocking little smile. "rumor says that she has run away, my lord. is it true?" "yes. slipped away on the stage this morning." "that's a good sign. she was afraid to stay." it was a part of the fiction between them that mrs. mallory was to give him the benefit of her advice in his wooing of her rival. she seemed to take it for granted that he would at last marry sheba after wearing away the rigid puritanism of her resentment. macdonald had never liked her so well as now. her point of view was so sane, so reasonable. it asked for no impossible virtues in a man. there was something restful in her genial, derisive understanding of him. she had a silent divination of his moods and ministered indolently to them. "do you think so? ought i to follow her?" he asked. she showed a row of perfect teeth in a low ripple of amusement. the situation at least was piquant, even though it was at her expense. "no. give the girl time. catch her impulse on the rebound. she'll be bored to death at katma and she will come back docile." her scarlet lips, the long, unbroken lines of the sinuous, opulent body, the challenge of the smouldering eyes, the warmth of her laughter, all invited him to forget the charms of other women. the faint feminine perfume of her was wafted to his brain. he felt a besieging of the blood. stepping behind the chair in which she sat, he tilted back the head of lustrous bronze, and very deliberately kissed her on the lips. for a moment she gave herself to his embrace, then pushed him back, rose, and walked across the room to a little table. with fingers that trembled slightly she lit a cigarette. sheathed in her close-fitting gown, she made a strong carnal appeal to him, but there was between them, too, a close bond of the spirit. he made no apologies, no explanation. presently she turned and looked at him. only the deeper color beneath her eyes betrayed any excitement. "unless i'm a bad prophet you'll get the answer you want when she comes back, colby." he thought her reply to his indiscretion superb. it admitted complicity, reproached, warned, and at the same time ignored. never before had she called him by his given name. he took it as a token of forgiveness and renunciation. why was it not genevieve mallory that he wanted to marry? it would be the wise thing to do. she would ask nothing of him that he could not give, and she would bring to him many things that he wanted. but he was under the spell of sheba's innocence, of the mystery of her youth, of the charm she had brought with her from the land of fairies and banshees. the reasonable course made just now not enough appeal to him. he craved the rapture of an impossible adventure into a world wonderful. the mine-owner carried with him back to his office a sense of the futile irony of life. a score of men would have liked to marry mrs. mallory. she had all the sophisticated graces of life and much of the natural charm of an unusually attractive personality. he had only to speak the word to win her, and his fancy had flown in pursuit of a little puritan with no knowledge of the world. in front of the seattle & kusiak emporium the scotchman stopped. a little man who had his back to him was bargaining for a team of huskies. the man turned, and macdonald recognized him. "hello, gid. aren't you off your usual beat a bit?" he asked. the little miner looked him over impudently. "well--well! if it ain't the big mogul himself--and wantin' to know if i've got permission to travel off the reservation." macdonald laughed tolerantly. he had that large poise which is not disturbed by the sand stings of life. "i reckon you travel where you want to, gid,--same as i do." "maybeso. i shouldn't wonder if you'd find out quite soon enough what i'm doing here. you never can tell," the old man retorted with a manner that concealed volumes. those who were present remembered the words and in the light of what took place later thought them significant. "anyhow, it is quite a social event for kusiak," macdonald suggested with a smile of irony. [illustration: the situation at least was piquant, even though it was at her expense] without more words holt turned back to his bargaining. the big scotchman went on his way, remembered that he wanted to see the cashier of the bank which he controlled, and promptly forgot that old gid existed. the old man concluded his purchase and drove up to the hotel behind one of the best dog teams in alaska. he had paid one hundred dollars down and was to settle the balance next day. gideon asked a question of the porter. "second floor. that's his room up there," the man answered, pointing to a window. "oh, you, seven--eighteen--ninety-nine," the little miner shouted up. elliot appeared at the window. "well, i'll be hanged! what are you doing here, old-timer?" "onct i knew a man lived to be a grandpa minding his own business," grinned the little man. "come down and i'll tell you all about it, boy." in half a minute gordon was beside him. after the first greetings the young man nodded toward the dog team. "how did you persuade tim ryan to lend you his huskies?" "why don't you take a paper and keep up with the news, son? these huskies don't belong to tim." "meaning that mr. gideon holt is the owner?" "you've done guessed it," admitted the miner complacently. he had a right to be proud of the team. it was a famous one even in the north. it had run second for two years in the alaska sweepstakes to macdonald's great siberian wolf-hounds. the leader butch was the hero of a dozen races and a hundred savage fights. "what in halifax do you want with the team?" asked elliot, surprised. "the whole outfit must have cost a small fortune." "some dust," admitted gideon proudly. he winked mysteriously at gordon. "i got a use for this team, if any one was to ask you." "haven't taken the government mail contract, have you?" "not so you could notice it. i'll tell you what i want with this team, as the old sayin' is." holt lowered his voice and narrowed slyly his little beadlike eyes. "i'm going to put a crimp in colby macdonald. that's what i aim to do with it." "how?" the miner beckoned elliot closer and whispered in his ear. chapter xxiii in the dead of night while kusiak slept that night the wind shifted. it came roaring across the range and drove before it great scudding clouds heavily laden with sleety snow. the howling storm snuffed out the moonlight as if it had been a tallow dip and fought and screamed around the peaks, whirling down the gulches with the fury of a blizzard. from dark till dawn the roar of the wind filled the night. before morning heavy drifts had wiped out the roads and sheeted the town in virgin white unbroken by trails or furrows. with the coming of daylight the tempest abated. kusiak got into its working clothes and dug itself out from the heavy blanket of white that had tucked it in. by noon the business of the town was under way again. that which would have demoralized the activities of a southern city made little difference to these arctic circle dwellers. roads were cleared, paths shoveled, stores opened. children in parkas and fur coats trooped to school and studied through the short afternoon by the aid of electric light. dusk fell early and with it came a scatter of more snow. mrs. selfridge gave a dinner-dance at the club that night and her guests came in furs of great variety and much value. the hostess outdid herself to make the affair the most elaborate of the season. wally had brought the favors in from seattle and also the wines. nobody in kusiak of any social importance was omitted from the list of invited except gordon elliot. even the grumpy old cashier of macdonald's bank--an old bachelor who lived by himself in rooms behind those in which the banking was done--was persuaded to break his custom and appear in a rusty old dress suit of the vintage of '95. the grizzled cashier--his name was robert milton--left the clubhouse early for his rooms. it was snowing, but the wind had died down. contrary to his custom, he had taken two or three glasses of wine. his brain was excited so that he knew he could not sleep. he decided to read "don quixote" by the stove for an hour or two. the heat and the reading together would make him drowsy. arrived at the bank, he let himself into his rooms and locked the door. he stooped to open the draft of the stove when a sound stopped him halfway. the cashier stood rigid, still crouched, waiting for a repetition of the noise. it came once more--the low, dull rasping of a file. shivers ran down the spine of milton and up the back of his head to the roots of his hair. somebody was in the bank--at two o'clock in the morning--with tools for burglary. he was a scholarly old fellow, brought up in new england and cast out to the uttermost frontier by the malign tragedy of poverty. adventure offered no appeal to him. his soul quaked as he waited with slack, feeble muscles upon the discovery that only a locked door stood between him and violent ruffians. but though his knees trembled beneath him and the sickness of fear was gripping his heart, robert milton had in him the dynamic spark that makes a man. he tiptoed to his desk and with shaking fingers gripped the revolver that lay in a drawer. the cashier stood there for a moment, moistening his dry lips with his tongue and trying to swallow the lump that rose to his throat and threatened to stop his breathing. he braced himself for the plunge, then slowly trod across the room to the inner, locked door. the palsied fingers of his left hand could scarce turn the key. it seemed to him that the night was alive with the noise he made in turning the lock and opening the door. the hinges grated and the floor squeaked beneath the fall of his foot as he stood at the threshold. two men were in front of the wire grating which protected the big safe that filled the alcove to the right. one held a file and the other a candle. their blank, masked faces were turned toward milton, and each of them covered him with a weapon. "w-what are you doing here?" quavered the cashier. "drop that gun," came the low, sharp command from one of them. under the menace of their revolvers the heart of milton pumped water instead of blood. the strength oozed out of him. his body swayed and he shut his eyes. a hand groped for the casement of the door to steady him. "drop it--quick." some old ancestral instinct in the bank cashier rose out of his panic to destroy him. he wanted to lie down quietly in a faint. but his mind asserted its mastery over the weakling body. in spite of his terror, of his flaccid will, he had to keep the faith. he was guardian of the bank funds. at all costs he must protect them. his forearm came up with a jerk. two shots rang out almost together. the cashier sagged back against the wall and slowly slid to the floor. * * * * * the guests of mrs. selfridge danced well into the small hours. the california champagne that wally had brought in stimulated a gayety that was balm to his wife's soul. she wanted her dinner-dance to be smart, to have the atmosphere she had found in the new york cabarets. if everybody talked at once, she felt they were having a good time. if nobody listened to anybody else, it proved that the affair was a screaming success. mrs. wally was satisfied as she bade her guests good-bye and saw them pass into the heavy snow that was again falling. they all assured her that there had not been so hilarious a party in kusiak. one old-timer, a trifle lit up by reason of too much hospitality, phrased his enjoyment a little awkwardly. "it's been great, mrs. selfridge. nothing like it since the days of the open dance hall." mrs. mallory hastily suppressed an internal smile and stepped into the breach. "_how_ do you do it?" she asked her hostess enviously. "my dear, if _you_ say it was a success--" "what else could one say?" genevieve mallory always preferred to tell the truth when it would do just as well. now it did better, since it contributed to her own ironic sense of amusement. macdonald had once told her that mrs. selfridge made him think of the saying, "monkey sees, monkey does." the effervescent little woman had never had an original idea in her life. most of those who had been at the dance slept late. they were oblivious of the fact that the storm had quickened again into a howling gale. nor did they know the two bits of news that were passing up and down the main street and being telephoned from house to house. one of the items was that the stage for katma had failed to reach the roadhouse at smith's crossing. the message had come over the long-distance telephone early in the morning. the keeper of the roadhouse added his private fears that the stage, crawling up the divide as the blizzard swept down, must have gone astray and its occupants perished. the second bit of news was local. for the first time since robert milton had been cashier the bank had failed to open on the dot. the snow had not been cleared from the walk in front and no smoke was pouring from the chimney of the building. chapter xxiv macdonald follows a clue macdonald was no sluggard. it was his habit not to let the pleasure of the night before interfere with the business of the morning after. but in the darkness he overslept and let the town waken before him. he was roused by the sound of knocking on his door. "who is it?" he asked. "it's me--jones--gopher jones. say, mac, the bank ain't open and we can't rouse milton. thought i'd come to you, seeing as you're president of the shebang." the mine-owner got up and began to dress. "probably overslept, same as i did." "that's the point. we looked through the window of his bedroom and his bed ain't been slept in." in three minutes macdonald joined the marshal and walked down with him to the bank. he unlocked the front door and turned to the little crowd that had gathered. "better wait here, boys. gopher and i will go in. i expect everything is all right, but we'll let you know about that as soon as we find out." the bank president opened the door, let the officer enter, and followed himself. the sun had not yet risen and the blinds were down. macdonald struck a match and held it up. the wood burned and the flame flickered out. "bank's been robbed," he announced quietly. "looks like," agreed jones. his voice was uneven with excitement. the scotch-canadian lit another match. in the flare of it they saw that the steel grill cutting off the alcove was open and that the door had been blown from the safe. it lay on the floor among a litter of papers, silver, fragments of steel, and bits of candle. the marshal clutched at the arm of the banker. "did you see--that?" he whispered. his finger pointed through the darkness to the other end of the room. in the faint gray light of coming day macdonald could see a huddled mass on the floor. "there has been murder done. i'll get a light. don't move from here, jones. i want to look at things before we disturb them. there's no danger. the robbers have been gone for hours." gopher had as much nerve as the next man--when the sun was shining and he could see what danger he was facing. but there was something sinister and nerve-racking here. he wanted to throw open the door and shout the news to those outside. by the light of another match the mine-owner crossed the room into the sitting-room of the cashier. presently he returned with a lamp and let its light fall upon the figure lying slumped against the wall. a revolver lay close to the inert fingers. the head hung forward grotesquely upon the breast. the dead man was milton. his employer saw nothing ridiculous in the twisted neck and sprawling limbs. the cashier had died to save the money entrusted to his care. macdonald handed the lamp to the marshal and picked up the revolver. every chamber was loaded. "they beat him to it. they were probably here when he reached home. my guess is he heard them right away, got his gun, and came in. he's still wearing his dress suit. that gives us the time, for he left the club about midnight. soon as they saw him they dropped him. likely they heard him and were ready. i wouldn't have had this happen for all the money in the safe." "how much was there in it?" "i don't know exactly. the books will show. i'll send wally down to look them over." "shot right spang through the heart, looks like," commented jones, following with his eye the course of the wound. "wish i'd been here instead of him," macdonald said grimly. his eyes softened as he continued to look down at the employee who had paid with his life for his faithfulness. "it wasn't an even break. poor old fellow! you weren't built for a job like this, robert milton, but you played your hand out to a finish. that's all any man can do." he turned abruptly away and began examining the safe. the silver still stood sacked in one large compartment. the bank-notes had escaped the hurried search of the robbers, but the gold was practically all gone. one sack had been torn by the explosion and single pieces of gold could be found all over the safe. macdonald glanced over the papers rapidly. the officer picked up one of dozens scattered over the floor. it was a mortgage note made out to the bank by a miner. he collected the others. evidently the bandits had torn off the rubber, glanced over one or two to see if they had any cash value, and tossed the package into the air as a disgusted gambler does a pack of cards. the bank president stepped to the door and threw it open. he explained the situation in three sentences. "i can't let you in now, boys, until the coroner has been here," he went on to tell the crowd. "but there is one way you can all help. keep your eyes open. if you have seen any suspicious characters around, let me know. or if any one has left town in a hurry--or been seen doing anything during the night that you did not understand at the time. men can't do a thing like this without leaving some clue behind them even though the snow has wiped away their trail." a man named fred tague pushed to the front. he kept a feed corral near the edge of town. "i can tell you one man who mushed out before five o'clock this morning--and that's gid holt." the eyes of macdonald, cold and hard as jade, fastened to the man. "how do you know?" "that dog team he bought from tim ryan--well, he's been keeping it in my corral. when i got there this morning it was gone. the snow hadn't wiped out the tracks of the runners yet, so he couldn't have left more than fifteen minutes before." "what time was it when you reached the corral?" "might have been six--maybe a little later." "you don't know that holt took the team himself?" "come to that, i don't. but he had a key to the barn where the sled was. holt has been putting up at the hotel. i reckon it is easy to find out if he's still there." macdonald's keen brain followed the facts as the nose of a bloodhound does a trail. holt, an open enemy of his, had reached town only two days before. he had bought one of the best and swiftest dog teams in the north and had let slip before witnesses the remark that macdonald would soon find out what he wanted with the outfit. the bank had been robbed after midnight. to file open the grill and to blow up the safe must have taken several hours. before morning the dogs of holt had taken the trail. if their owner were with them, it was a safe bet that the sled carried forty thousand dollars in alaska gold dust. so far the mind of the scotchman followed the probabilities logically, but at this point it made a jump. there were at least two robbers. he was morally sure of that, for this was not a one-man job. now, if holt had with him a companion, who of all those in kusiak was the most likely man? he was a friendless, crabbed old fellow. since coming to kusiak old gideon had been seen constantly with one man. together they had driven out the day before and tried his new team. they had been with each other at dinner and had later left the hotel together. the name of the man who had been so friendly with old holt was gordon elliot--and elliot not only was another enemy of macdonald, but had very good reasons for getting out of the country just now. the strong jaw of the mine-owner stood out saliently as he gave short, sharp orders to men in the crowd. one was to get the coroner, a second wally selfridge, another the united states district attorney. he divided the rest into squads to guard the roads leading out of town and to see that nobody passed for the present. as soon as the men he had sent for arrived, macdonald went over the scene of the crime with them. it was plain that the dynamiting had been done by an old-time miner who knew his business, but there had been brains in the planning of the robbery. "there is no ivory above the ears of the man who bossed this job," macdonald told the others. "he picks a night when we're all at the club, more than half a mile from here, a stormy night when folks are not wandering the streets. he knows that the wind will deaden the sound of the dynamite and that the snow will wipe out any tracks that might help to identify him and his pal or show which way they have gone." the coroner took charge of the body and wally of the bank. the mine-owner and the district attorney walked up to the hotel together. as soon as they had explained what they wanted, the landlord got a passkey and took them to the room holt had used. apparently the bed had been slept in. in the waste-paper basket the district attorney found something which he held up in a significant silence. macdonald stepped forward and took from him a small cloth sack. "one of those we keep our gold in at the bank," said the scotchman after a close examination. "this definitely ties up holt with the robbery. now for elliot." "he left the hotel with holt about five this morning the porter says." this was the contribution of the landlord. the room of gordon elliot was in great disorder. garments had been tossed on the bed and on every chair and had been left to lie wherever they had chanced to fall. plainly their owner had been in great haste. macdonald looked through the closet where clothes hung. "his new fur coat is not here--nor his trail boots. looks to me as though mr. gordon had hit the trail with his friend holt." this opinion was strengthened when it was learned from a store-owner in town that holt and elliot had routed him out of bed in the early morning to sell them two weeks' supplies. these they had packed upon the sled outside the store. "it's a cinch bet that elliot took the trail with him," the lawyer conceded. all doubt of this was removed when a prospector reached town with the news that he had met holt and elliot traveling toward the divide as fast as they could drive the dogs. the big scotchman ordered his team of siberian wolf-hounds made ready for the trail. as he donned his heavy furs, colby macdonald smiled with deep satisfaction. he had elliot on the run at last. just as he closed the door of his room, macdonald heard the telephone bell ring. he hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders and strode out into the storm. if he had answered the call he would have learned from diane, who was at the other end of the line, that the stage upon which sheba had started for katma had not reached the roadhouse at smith's crossing. five minutes later the winners of the great alaska sweepstakes were flying down the street in the teeth of the storm. armed with a rifle and a revolver, their owner was mushing into the hills to bring back the men who had robbed his bank and killed the cashier. he traveled alone because he could go faster without a companion. it never occurred to him that he was not a match for any two men he might face. chapter xxv in the blizzard "swiftwater" pete, the driver of the stage between kusiak and katma, did not like the look of the sky as his ponies breasted the long uphill climb that ended at the pass. it was his habit to grumble. he had been complaining ever since they had started. but as he studied the heavy billows of cloud banked above the peaks and in the saddle between, there was real anxiety in his red, apoplectic face. "gittin' her back up for a blizzard, looks like. doggone it, if that wouldn't jest be my luck," he murmured fretfully. sheba hoped there would be one, not, of course, a really, truly blizzard such as macdonald had told her about, but the tail of a make-believe one, enough to send her glowing with exhilaration into the roadhouse with the happy sense of an adventure achieved. the girl had got out to relieve the horses, and as her young, lissom body took the hill scattering flakes of snow were already flying. to-day she was buoyed up by a sense of freedom. for a time, at least, she was escaping macdonald's driving energy, the appeal of gordon elliot's warm friendliness, and the unvoiced urging of diane. good old peter and the kiddies were the only ones that let her alone. she looked back at the horses laboring up the hill. swiftwater had got down and was urging them forward, his long whip crackling about the ears of the leaders. he waddled as he walked. his fat legs were too short for the round barrel body. a big roll of fat bulged out over the collar of his shirt. whenever he was excited--and he always was on the least excuse--he puffed and snorted and grew alarmingly purple. "fat chance," he exploded as soon as he got within hearing. "snow in those clouds--tons of it. h'm! and wind. wow! we're in for an honest-to-god blizzard, sure as you're a foot high." swiftwater was worried. he would have liked to turn and run for it. but the last roadhouse was twenty-seven miles back. if the blizzard came howling down the slope they would have a sweet time of it reaching safety. smith's crossing was on the other side of the divide, only nine miles away. they would have to worry through somehow. probably those angry clouds were half a bluff. the temperature was dropping rapidly. already snow fell fast in big thick flakes. to make it worse, the wind was beginning to rise. it came in shrill gusts momentarily increasing in force. the stage-driver knew the signs of old and cursed the luck that had led him to bring the stage. it was to have been the last trip with horses until spring. his dogs were waiting for him at katma for the return journey. he did not blame himself, for there was no reason to expect such a storm so early in the season. none the less, it was too bad that his lead dog had been ailing when he left the gold camp eight days before. miss o'neill knew that swiftwater pete was anxious, and though she was not yet afraid, the girl understood the reason for it. the road ran through the heart of a vast snow-field, the surface of which was being swept by a screaming wind. the air was full of sifted white dust, and the road furrow was rapidly filling. soon it would be obliterated. already the horses were panting and struggling as they ploughed forward. sheba tramped behind the stage-driver and in her tracks walked mrs. olson, the other passenger. through the muffled scream of the storm swiftwater shouted back to sheba. "you wanta keep close to me." she nodded her head. his order needed no explanation. the world was narrowing to a lane whose walls she could almost touch with her fingers. a pall of white wrapped them. upon them beat a wind of stinging sleet. nothing could be seen but the blurred outlines of the stage and the driver's figure. the bitter cold searched through sheba's furs to her soft flesh and the blast of powdered ice beat upon her face. the snow was getting deeper as the road filled. once or twice she stumbled and fell. her strength ebbed, and the hinges of her knees gave unexpectedly beneath her. how long was it, she asked herself, that macdonald had said men could live in a blizzard? staggering blindly forward, sheba bumped into the driver. he had drawn up to give the horses a moment's rest before sending them plunging at the snow again. "no chance," he called into the young woman's ear. "never make smith's in the world. goin' try for miner's cabin up gulch little way." the team stuck in the drifts, fought through, and was blocked again ten yards beyond. a dozen times the horses gave up, answered the sting of the whip by diving head first at the white banks, and were stopped by fresh snow-combs. pete gave up the fight. he began unhitching the horses, while sheba and mrs. olson, clinging to each other's hands, stumbled forward to join him. the words he shouted across the back of a horse were almost lost in the roar of the shrieking wind. "... heluvatime ... ride ... gulch," sheba made out. he flung mrs. olson astride one of the wheelers and helped sheba to the back of the right leader. swiftwater clambered upon its mate himself. the girl paid no attention to where they were going. the urge of life was so faint within her that she did not greatly care whether she lived or died. her face was blue from the cold; her vitality was sapped. she seemed to herself to have turned to ice below the hips. outside the misery of the moment her whole attention was concentrated on sticking to the back of the horse. numb though her fingers were, she must keep them fastened tightly in the frozen mane of the animal. she recited her lesson to herself like a child. she must stick on--she must--she must. whether she lost consciousness or not sheba never knew. the next she realized was that swiftwater pete was pulling her from the horse. he dragged her into a cabin where mrs. olson lay crouched on the floor. "got to stable the horses," he explained, and left them. after a time he came back and lit a fire in the sheet-iron stove. as the circulation that meant life flooded back into her chilled veins sheba endured a half-hour of excruciating pain. she had to clench her teeth to keep back the groans that came from her throat, to walk the floor and nurse her tortured hands with fingers in like plight. the cabin was empty of furniture except for a home-made table, rough stools, and the frame of a bed. the last occupant had left a little firewood beside the stove, enough to last perhaps for twenty-four hours. sheba did not need to be told that if the blizzard lasted long enough, they would starve to death. in the handbag left in the stage were a box of candy and an irish plum pudding. she had brought the latter from the old country with her and was taking it and the chocolates to the husted children. but just now the stage was as far from them as drogheda. like many rough frontiersmen, swiftwater pete was a diamond in the raw. he had the kindly, gentle instincts that go to the making of a good man. so far as could be he made a hopeless and impossible situation comfortable. his judgment told him that they were caught in a trap from which there was no escape, but for the sake of the women he put a cheerful face on things. "lucky we found this cabin," he growled amiably. "by this time we'd 'a' been up salt creek if we hadn't. seeing as our luck has stood up so far, i reckon we'll be all right. mighty kind of mr. last tenant to leave us this firewood. comes to a showdown we've got one table, four stools, and a bed that will make first-class fuel. we ain't so worse off." "if we only had some food," mrs. olson suggested. "food!" pete looked at her in assumed surprise. "huh! what about all that live stock i got in the stable? i've heard tell, ma'am, that broncho tenderloin is a favorite dish with them there french chiefs that do the cooking. they kinder trim it up so's it's 'most as good as frawgs' legs." sheba had never before slept on bare boards with a sealskin coat for a sleeping-bag. but she was very tired and dropped off almost instantly. twice she woke during the night, disturbed by the stiffness and the pain of her body. it seemed to her that the hard, whipsawed planks were pushing through the soft flesh to the bones. she was cold, too, and crept closer to the stout swedish woman lying beside her. presently she fell asleep again to the sound of the blizzard howling outside. when she wakened for the third time it was morning. in the afternoon the blizzard died away. as far as she could see, sheba looked out upon a waste of snow. her eyes turned from the desolation without to the bare and cheerless room in which they had found shelter. in spite of herself a little shiver ran down the spine of the girl. had she come into this arctic solitude to find her tomb? resolutely she brushed the gloomy thought from her mind and began to chat with mrs. olson. in a corner of the cabin sheba had found a torn and disreputable copy of "vanity fair." the covers and the first forty pages were gone. a splash of what appeared to be tobacco juice defiled the last sheet. but the fortunes of becky and amelia had served to make her forget during the morning that she was hungry and likely to be much hungrier before another day had passed. as soon as the storm had moderated enough to let him go out with safety, swiftwater pete had taken one of the horses for an attempt at trail-breaking. "me, i'm after that plum pudding. i gotta get a feed of oats from the stage for my bronchs too. the scenery here is sure fine, but it ain't what you would call nourishing. huh! watch our smoke when me and old baldface git to bucking them drifts." he had been gone two hours and the early dusk was already descending over the white waste when sheba ventured out to see what had become of the stage-driver. but the cold was so bitter that she soon gave up the attempt to fight her way through the drifts and turned back to the cabin. sometime later swiftwater pete came stumbling into their temporary home. he was fagged to exhaustion but triumphant. upon the table he dropped from the crook of his numbed arm two packages. "the makings for a christmas dinner," he said with a grin. after he had taken off his mukluks and his frozen socks they wrapped him in their furs while he toasted before the stove. mrs. olson thawed out the pudding and the chocolates in the oven and made a kind of mush out of some oats pete had saved from the horse feed. they ate their one-sided meal in high spirits. the freeze had saved their lives. if it held clear till to-morrow they could reach smith's crossing on the crust of the snow. swiftwater broke up the chairs for fuel and demolished the legs of the table, after which he lay down before the stove and fell at once into a sodden sleep. presently mrs. olson lay down on the bed and began to snore regularly. sheba could not sleep. the boards tired her bones and she was cold. sometimes she slipped into cat naps that were full of bad dreams. she thought she was walking on the snow-comb of a precipice and that colby macdonald pushed her from her precarious footing and laughed at her as she slid swiftly toward the gulf below. when she wakened with a start it was to find that the fire had died down. she was shivering from lack of cover. quietly the girl replenished the fire and lay down again. when she wakened with a start it was morning. a faint light sifted through the single window of the shack. sheba whispered to the older woman that she was going out for a little walk. "be careful, dearie," advised mrs. olson. "i wouldn't try to go too far." sheba smiled to herself at the warning. it was not likely that she would go far enough to get lost with all these millions of tons of snow piled up around her in every direction. she had come out because she was restless and was tired of the dingy and uncomfortable room. without any definite intentions, she naturally followed the trail that swiftwater had broken the day before. no wind stirred and the sky was clear. but it was very cold. the sun would not be up for half an hour. as she worked her way down the gulch sheba wondered whether the news of their loss had reached kusiak. were search parties out already to rescue them? colby macdonald had gone out into the blizzard years ago to save her father. perhaps he might have been out all night trying to save her father's daughter. peter would go, of course,--and gordon elliot. the work in the mines would stop and men would volunteer by scores. that was one fine thing about the north. it responded to the unwritten law that a man must risk his own life to save others. but if the wires had come down in the storm kusiak would not know they had not got through to smith's crossing. swiftwater pete spoke cheerfully about mushing to the roadhouse. but sheba knew the snow would not bear the horses. they would have to walk, and it was not at all certain that mrs. olson could do so long a walk with the thermometer at forty or fifty below zero. from a little knoll sheba looked down upon the top of the stage three hundred yards below her, and while she stood there the promise of the new day was blazoned on the sky. it came with amazing beauty of green and primrose and amethyst, while the stars flickered out and the heavens took on the blue of sunrise. in a crotch between two peaks a faint golden glow heralded the sun. a circle of lovely rose-pink flushed the horizon. sheba had this much of the poet in her, that every sunrise was still a miracle. she drew a deep, slow breath of adoration and turned away. as she did so her eyes dilated and her body grew rigid. across the snow waste a man was coming. he was moving toward the cabin and must cross the trench close to her. the heart of the girl stopped, then beat wildly to make up the lost stroke. he had come through the blizzard to save her. at that very instant, as if the stage had been set for it, the wonderful alaska sun pushed up into the crotch of the peaks and poured its radiance over the arctic waste. the pink glow swept in a tide of delicate color over the snow and transmuted it to millions of sparkling diamonds. the great magician's wand had recreated the world instantaneously. chapter xxvi hard mushing elliot and holt left kusiak in a spume of whirling, blinding snow. they traveled light, not more than forty pounds to the dog, for they wanted to make speed. it was not cold for alaska. they packed their fur coats on the sled and wore waterproof parkas. on their hands were mittens of moosehide with duffel lining, on their feet mukluks above "german" socks. holt had been a sour-dough miner too long to let his partner perspire from overmuch clothing. he knew the danger of pneumonia from a sudden cooling of the heat of the body. old gideon took seven of his dogs, driving them two abreast. six were huskies, rangy, muscular animals with thick, dense coats. they were in the best of spirits and carried their tails erect like their malemute leader. butch, though a malemute, had a strong strain of collie in him. it gave him a sense of responsibility. his business was to see that the team kept strung out on the trail, and butch was a past-master in the matter of discipline. his weight was ninety-three fighting pounds, and he could thrash in short order any dog in the team. the snow was wet and soft. it clung to everything it touched. the dogs carried pounds of it in the tufts of hair that rose from their backs. an icy pyramid had to be knocked from the sled every half-hour. the snowshoes were heavy with white slush. densely laden spruce boughs brushed the faces of the men and showered them with unexpected little avalanches. they took turns in going ahead of the team and breaking trail. it was heavy, muscle-grinding work. before noon they were both utterly fatigued. they dragged forward through the slush, lifting their laden feet sluggishly. they must keep going, and they did, but it seemed to them that every step must be the last. shortly after noon the storm wore itself out. the temperature had been steadily falling and now it took a rapid drop. they were passing through timber, and on a little slope they built with a good deal of difficulty a fire. by careful nursing they soon had a great bonfire going, in front of which they put their wet socks, mukluks, scarfs, and parkas to dry. the toes of the dogs had become packed with little ice balls. gordon and holt had to go carefully over the feet of each animal to dig these out. the old-timer thawed out a slab of dried salmon till the fat began to frizzle and fed each husky a pound of the fish and a lump of tallow. he and gordon made a pot of tea and ate some meat sandwiches they had brought with them to save cooking until night. when they took the trail again it was in moccasins instead of mukluks. the weather was growing steadily colder and with each degree of fall in the thermometer the trail became easier. "mushing at fifty below zero is all right when it is all right," explained holt in the words of the old prospector. "but when it isn't right it's hell." "it is not fifty below yet, is it?" "nope. but she's on the way. when your breath makes a kinder crackling noise she's fifty." travel was much easier now. there was a crust on the snow that held up the dogs and the sled so that trail-breaking was not necessary. the little party pounded steadily over the barren hills. there was no sign of life except what they brought with them out of the arctic silence and carried with them into the greater silence beyond. a little cloud of steam enveloped them as they moved, the moisture from the breath of nine moving creatures in a waste of emptiness. each of the men wrapped a long scarf around his mouth and nose for protection, and as the part in front of his face became a sheet of ice shifted the muffler to another place. night fell in the middle of the afternoon, but they kept traveling. not till they were well up toward the summit of the divide did they decide to camp. they drove into a little draw and unharnessed the weary dogs. it was bitterly cold, but they were forced to set up the tent and stove to keep from freezing. their numbed fingers made a slow job of the camp preparations. at last the stove was going, the dogs fed, and they themselves thawed out. they fell asleep shortly to the sound of the mournful howling of the dogs outside. long before daybreak they were afoot again. holt went out to chop some wood for the stove while gordon made breakfast preparations. the little miner brought in an armful of wood and went out to get a second supply. a few moments later elliot heard a cry. he stepped out of the tent and ran to the spot where holt was lying under a mass of ice and snow. the young man threw aside the broken blocks that had plunged down from a ledge above. "badly hurt, gid?" he asked. "i done bust my laig, son," the old man answered with a twisted grin. "you mean that it is broken?" "tell you that in a minute." he felt his leg carefully and with elliot's help tried to get up. groaning, he slid back to the snow. "yep. she's busted," he announced. gordon carried him to the tent and laid him down carefully. the old miner swore softly. "ain't this a hell of a note, boy? you'll have to get me to smith's crossing and leave me there." it was the only thing to be done. elliot broke camp and packed the sled. upon the load he put his companion, well wrapped up in furs. he harnessed the dogs and drove back to the road. two miles farther up the road gordon stopped his team sharply. he had turned a bend in the trail and had come upon an empty stage buried in the snow. the fear that had been uppermost in elliot's mind for twenty-four hours clutched at his throat. was it tragedy upon which he had come after his long journey? holt guessed the truth. "they got stalled and cut loose the horses. must have tried to ride the cayuses to shelter." "to smith's crossing?" asked gordon. "expect so." then, with a whoop, the man on the sled contradicted himself. "no, by moses, to dick fiddler's old cabin up the draw. that's where swiftwater would aim for till the blizzard was over." "where is it?" demanded his friend. "swing over to the right and follow the little gulch. i'll wait till you come back." gordon dropped the gee-pole and started on the instant. eagerness, anxiety, dread fought in his heart. he knew that any moment now he might stumble upon the evidence of the sad story which is repeated in alaska many times every winter. it rang in him like a bell that where tough, hardy miners succumbed a frail girl would have small chance. he cut across over the hill toward the draw, and at what he saw his pulse quickened. smoke was pouring out of the chimney of a cabin and falling groundward, as it does in the arctic during very cold weather. had sheba found safety there? or was it the winter home of a prospector? as he pushed forward the rising sun flooded the earth with pink and struck a million sparkles of color from the snow. the wonder of it drew the eyes of the young man for a moment toward the hills. a tumult of joy flooded his veins. the girl who held in her soft hands the happiness of his life stood looking at him. it seemed to him that she was the core of all that lovely tide of radiance. he moved toward her and looked down into the trench where she waited. swiftly he kicked off his snowshoes and leaped down beside her. the gleam of tears was in her eyes as she held out both hands to him. during the long look they gave each other something wonderful to both of them was born into the world. when he tried to speak his hoarse voice broke. "sheba--little sheba! safe, after all. thank god, you--you--" he swallowed the lump in his throat and tried again. "if you knew--god, how i have suffered! i was afraid--i dared not let myself think." a live pulse beat in her white throat. the tears brimmed over. then, somehow, she was in his arms weeping. her eyes slowly turned to his, and he met the touch of her surrendered lips. nature had brought them together by one of her resistless and unpremeditated impulses. chapter xxvii two on the trail a stress of emotion had swept her into his arms. now she drew away from him shyly. the conventions in which she had been brought up asserted themselves. sheba remembered that they had been carried by the high wave of their emotion past all the usual preliminaries. he had not even told her that he loved her. an absurd little fear obtruded itself into her happiness. had she rushed into his arms like a lovesick girl, taking it for granted that he cared for her? "you--came to look for us?" she asked, with the little shy stiffness of embarrassment. "for you--yes." he could not take his eyes from her. it seemed to him that a bird was singing in his heart the gladness he could not express. he had for many hours pushed from his mind pictures of her lying white and rigid on the snow. instead she stood beside him, her delicate beauty vivid as the flush of a flame. "did they telephone that we were lost?" "yes. i was troubled when the storm grew. i could not sleep. so i called up the roadhouse by long distance. they had not heard from the stage. later i called again. when i could stand it no longer, i started." "not on foot?" "no. with holt's dog team. he is back there. his leg is broken. a snow-slide crushed him this morning where we camped." "bring him to the cabin. i will tell the others you are coming." "have you had any food?" he asked. a tired smile lit up the shadows of weariness under her soft, dark eyes. "boiled oats, plum pudding, and chocolates," she told him. "we have plenty of food on the sled. i'll bring it at once." she nodded, and turned to go to the cabin. he watched for a moment the lilt in her walk. an expression from his reading jumped to his mind. melodious feet! some poet had said that, hadn't he? surely it must have been sheba of whom he was thinking, this girl so virginal of body and of mind, free and light-footed as a caribou on the hills. gordon returned to the sled and drove the team up the draw to the cabin. the three who had been marooned came to meet their rescuer. "you must 'a' come right through the storm lickitty split," swiftwater said. "you're right we did. this side pardner of mine was hell-bent on wrestling with a blizzard," holt answered dryly. "sorry you broke your laig, gid." "then there's two of us sorry, swiftwater. it's one of the best laigs i've got." sheba turned to the old miner impulsively. "if you could be knowing what i am thinking of you, mr. holt,--how full our hearts are of the gratitude--" she stopped, tears in her voice. "sho! no need of that, miss. he dragged me along." his thumb jerked toward the man who was driving. "i've seen better dog punchers than elliot, but he's got the world beat at routin' old-timers out of bed and persuadin' them to kick in with him and buck a blizzard. me, o' course, i'm an old fool for comin'--" the dark eyes of the girl were like stars in a frosty night. "then you're the kind of a fool i love, mr. holt. i think it was just fine of you, and i'll never forget it as long as i live." mrs. olson had cooked too long in lumber and mining camps not to know something about bone-setting. under her direction gordon made splints and helped her bandage the broken leg. meanwhile swiftwater pete fed his horses from the grain on the sled and sheba cooked an appetizing breakfast. the aroma of coffee and the smell of frying bacon stimulated appetites that needed no tempting. holt, propped up by blankets, ate with the others. for a good many years he had taken his luck as it came with philosophic endurance. now he wasted no time in mourning what could not be helped. he was lucky the ice slide had not hit him in the head. a broken leg would mend. while they ate, the party went into committee of the whole to decide what was best to be done. gordon noticed that in all the tentative suggestions made by holt and swiftwater the comfort of sheba was the first thing in mind. the girl, too, noticed it and smilingly protested, her soft hand lying for the moment on the gnarled one of the old miner. "it doesn't matter about me. we have to think of what will be best for mr. holt, of how to get him to the proper care. my comfort can wait." the plan at last decided upon was that gordon should make a dash for smith's crossing on snowshoes, where he was to arrange for a relief party to come out for the injured man and mrs. olson. he was to return at once without waiting for the rescuers. next morning he and sheba would start with holt's dog team for kusiak. macdonald had taught sheba how to use snowshoes and she had been an apt pupil. from her suitcase she got out her moccasins and put them on. she borrowed the snowshoes of holt, wrapped herself in her parka, and announced that she was going with elliot part of the way. gordon thought her movements a miracle of supple lightness. her lines had the swelling roundness of vital youth, her eyes were alive with the eagerness that time dulls in most faces. they spoke little as they swept forward over the white snow-wastes. the spell of the great north was over her. its mystery was stirring in her heart, just as it had been when her lips had turned to his at the sunrise. as for him, love ran through his veins like old wine. but he allowed his feelings no expression. for though she had come to him of her own accord for that one blessed minute at dawn, he could not be sure what had moved her so deeply. she was treading a world primeval, the wonder of it still in her soft eyes. would she waken to love or to disillusion? he took care to see that she did not tire. presently he stopped and held out his hand to say good-bye. "will you come back this way?" she asked. "yes. i ought to get here soon after dark. will you meet me?" she gave him a quick, shy little nod, turned without shaking hands, and struck out for the cabin. all through the day happiness flooded her heart. while she waited on holt or helped mrs. olson cook or watched swiftwater while he put up the tent in the lee of the cabin, little snatches of song bubbled from her lips. sometimes they were bits of old irish ballads that popped into her mind. once, while she was preparing some coffee for her patient, it was a stanza from burns:- "till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi' the sun: i will luve thee still, my dear, while the sands o' life shall run." she caught old gideon looking at her with a queer little smile on his weather-tanned face and she felt the color beat into her cheeks. "i haven't bought a wedding present for twenty years," he told her presently, apropos of nothing that had been said. "i won't know what's the proper thing to get, miss sheba." "if you talk nonsense like that i'll go out and talk to mr. swiftwater pete," she threatened, blushing. old gid folded his hands meekly. "i'll be good--honest i will. let's see. i got to make safe and sane conversation, have i? hm! wonder when that lazy, long-legged, good-for-nothing horsethief and holdup that calls himself gordon elliot will get back to camp." sheba looked into his twinkling eyes suspiciously as she handed him his coffee. for a moment she bit her lip to keep back a smile, then said with mock severity,-"now, i _am_ going to leave you to mrs. olson." when sunset came it found sheba on the trail. swiftwater pete had offered to go with her, but she had been relieved of his well-meant kindness by the demand of holt. "no, you don't, pete. you ain't a-goin' off gallivantin' with no young lady. you're a-goin' to stay here and fix my game laig for me. what do you reckon miss sheba wants with a fat, lop-sided lummox like you along with her?" pete grew purple with embarrassment. he had not intended anything more than civility and he wanted this understood. "hmp! ain't you got no sense a-tall, gid? if miss sheba's hell-bent on goin' to meet elliot, i allowed some one ought to go along and keep the dark offen her. 'course there ain't nothin' going to harm her, unless she goes and gets lost--" sheba's smile cooled the heat of the stage-driver. "which she isn't going to do. good of you to offer to go with me. don't mind mr. holt. everybody knows he doesn't mean half of what he says. i'd be glad to have you come with me, but it isn't necessary at all. so i'll not trouble you." darkness fell quickly, but sheba still held to the trail. there was no sign of elliot, but she felt sure he would come soon. meanwhile she followed steadily the tracks he had made earlier in the day. she stopped at last. it was getting much colder. she was miles from the camp. reluctantly she decided to return. then, out of the darkness, he came abruptly upon her, the man whom she had come out to meet. under the magic of the northern stars they found themselves again in each other's arms for that brief moment of joyful surprise. then, as it had been in the morning, sheba drew herself shyly away. "they are waiting supper for us," she told him irrelevantly. he did not shout out his happiness and tell her to let them wait. for gordon, too, felt awed at this wonderful adventure of love that had befallen them. it was enough for him that they were moving side by side, alone in the deep snows and the biting cold, that waves of emotion crashed through his pulses when his swinging hand touched hers. they were acutely conscious of each other. excitement burned in the eyes that turned to swift, reluctant meetings. she was a woman, and he was her lover. neither of them dared quite accept the fact yet, but it filled the background of all their thoughts with delight. sheba did not want to talk of this new, amazing thing that had come into her life. it was too sacred a subject to discuss just yet even with him. so she began to tell him odd fancies from childhood that lingered in her celtic heart, tales of the "little folk" that were half memories and half imaginings, stirred to life by some odd association of sky and stars. she laughed softly at herself as she told them, but gordon did not laugh at her. everything she did was for him divinely done. even when his eyes were on the dark trail ahead he saw only the dusky loveliness of curved cheek, the face luminous with a radiance some women are never privileged to know, the rhythm of head and body and slender legs that was part of her individual, heaven-sent charm. the rest had finished supper before gordon and sheba reached camp, but mrs. olson had a hot meal waiting for them. "i fixed up the tent for the women folks--stove, sleeping-bags, plenty of wood. touch a match to the fire and it'll be snug as a bug in a rug," explained swiftwater to gordon. elliot and sheba were to start early for kusiak and later the rescue party would arrive to take care of holt and mrs. olson. "time to turn in," holt advised. "you better light that stove, elliot." the young man was still in the tent arranging the sleeping-bags when sheba entered. he tried to walk out without touching her, intending to call back his good-night. but he could not do it. there was something flamey about her to-night that went to his head. her tender, tremulous little smile and the turn of the buoyant little head stirred in him a lover's rhapsody. "it's to be a long trail we cover to-morrow, sheba. you must sleep. good-night." "good-night--gordon." there was a little flash of audacity in the whimsical twist of her mouth. it was the first time she had ever called him by his given name. elliot threw away prudence and caught her by the hands. "my dear--my dear!" he cried. she trembled to his kiss, gave herself to his embrace with innocent passion. tendrils of hair, fine as silk, brushed his cheeks and sent strange thrills through him. they talked the incoherent language of lovers that is compounded of murmurs and silences and the touch of lips and the meetings of eyes. there were to be other nights in their lives as rich in memories as this, but never another with quite the same delight. presently sheba reminded him with a smile of the long trail he had mentioned. mrs. olson bustled into the tent, and her presence stressed the point. "good-night, neighbors," gordon called back from outside the tent. sheba's "good-night" echoed softly back to him. the girl fell asleep to the sound of the light breeze slapping the tent and to the doleful howling of the huskies. chapter xxviii a message from the dead macdonald drove his team into the teeth of the storm. the wind came in gusts. sometimes the gale was so stiff that the dogs could scarcely crawl forward against it; again there were moments of comparative stillness, followed by squalls that slapped the driver in the face like the whipping of a loose sail on a catboat. high drifts made the trail difficult. not once but fifty times macdonald left the gee-pole to break a way through snow-waves for the sled. the best he could get out of his dogs was three miles an hour, and he knew that there was not another team or driver in the north could have done so well. it was close to noon when he reached a division of the road known as the fork. one trail ran down to the river and up it to the distant creeks. the other led across the divide, struck the yukon, and pointed a way to the coast. white drifts had long since blotted out the track of the sled that had preceded him. had the fugitives gone up the river to the creeks with intent to hole themselves up for the winter? or was it their purpose to cross the divide and go out over the ice to the coast? the pursuer knew that gid holt was wise as a weasel. he could follow blindfolded the paths that led to every creek in the gold-fields. it might be taken as a certainty that he had not plunged into such a desperate venture without having a plan well worked out beforehand. elliot had a high grade of intelligence. would they try to reach the coast and make their get-away to seattle? or would they dig themselves in till the heavy snows were past and come back to civilization with the story of a lucky strike to account for the gold they brought with them? neither gold-dust nor nuggets could be identified. there would be no way of proving the story false. the only evidence against them would be that they had left at kusiak and this was merely of a corroborative kind. there would be no chance of convicting them upon it. but to strike for seattle was to throw away all pretense of innocence. fugitives from justice, they would have to disappear from sight in order to escape. the hunt for them would continue until at last they were unearthed. one fork of the road led to comparative safety; the other went by devious windings to the penitentiary and perhaps the gallows. the scotchman put himself in the place of the men he was trailing. given the same conditions, he knew which path he would follow. macdonald took the trail that led down to the river, to the distant gold-creeks which offered a refuge from man-hunters in many a deserted cabin marooned by the deep snows. even the iron frame and steel muscles of the scotch-canadian protested against the task he had set them that day. it was a time to sit snugly inside by a stove and listen to the howling of the wind as it hurled itself down from the divide. but from daylight till dark colby macdonald fought with drifts and breasted the storm. he got into the harness with the dogs. he broke trail for them, cheered them, soothed, comforted, punished. long after night had fallen he staggered into the hut of two prospectors, his parka so stiff with frozen snow that it had to be beaten with a hammer before the coat could be removed. "how long since a dog team passed--seven huskies and two men?" was his first question. "no dog team has passed for four days," one of the men answered. "you mean you haven't seen one," macdonald corrected. "i mean none has passed--unless it went by in the night while we slept. and even then our dogs would have warned us." macdonald flung his ice-coated gloves to a table and stooped to take off his mukluks. his face was blue with the cold, but the bleak look in the eyes came from within. he said nothing more until he was free of his wet clothes. then he sat down heavily and passed a hand over his frozen eyebrows. "get me something to eat and take care of my dogs. there is food for them on the sled," he said. while he ate he told them of the bank robbery and the murder. their resentment against the men who had done it was quite genuine. there could be no doubt they told the truth when they said no sled had preceded his. they were honest, reliable prospectors. he knew them both well. the weary man slept like a log. he opened his eyes next morning to find one of his hosts shaking him. "six o'clock, mr. macdonald. your breakfast is ready. jim is looking out for the huskies." half an hour later the scotchman gave the order, "mush!" he was off again, this time on the back trail as far as the narrows, from which point he meant to strike across to intersect the fork of the road leading to the divide. the storm had passed and when the late sun rose it was in a blue sky. fine enough the day was overhead, but the slushy snow, where it was worn thin on the river by the sweep of the wind, made heavy travel for the dogs. macdonald was glad enough to reach the narrows, where he could turn from the river and cut across to hit the trail of the men he was following. he had about five miles to go before he would reach the smith crossing road and every foot of it he would have to break trail for the dogs. this was slow business, since he had no partner at the gee-pole. back and forth, back and forth he trudged, beating down the loose snow for the runners. it was a hill trail, and the drifts were in most places not very deep. but the scotchman was doing the work of two, and at a killing pace. over a ridge the team plunged down into a little park where the snow was deeper. macdonald, breaking trail across the mountain valley, found his feet weighted with packed ice slush so that he could hardly move them. when at last he had beaten down a path for his dogs he stood breathing deep at the summit of the slope. before him lay the main road to smith's crossing, scarce fifty yards away. he gave a deep whoop of triumph, for along it ran the wavering tracks left by a sled. he was on the heels of his enemy at last. as he turned back to his siberian hounds, the eyes of macdonald came to abrupt attention. on the hillside, not ten yards from him, something stuck out of the snow like a signpost. it was the foot of a man. slowly macdonald moved toward it. he knew well enough what he had stumbled across--one of the tragedies that in the north are likely to be found in the wake of every widespread blizzard. some unfortunate traveler, blinded by the white swirl, had wandered from the trail and had staggered up a draw to his death. with a little digging the alaskan uncovered a leg. the man had died where he had fallen, face down. macdonald scooped away the snow and found a pack strapped to the back of the buried man. he cut the thongs and tried to ease it away. but the gunnysack had frozen to the parka. when he pulled, the rotten sacking gave way under the strain. the contents of the pack spilled out. the eyes in the grim face of macdonald grew hard and steely. he had found, by some strange freak of chance, much more than he had expected, to find. using his snowshoe as a shovel, he dug the body free and turned it over. at sight of the face he gave a cry of astonishment. chapter xxix "don't touch him! don't you dare touch him!" gordon overslept. his plan had been to reach kusiak at the end of a long day's travel, but that had meant getting on the trail with the first gleam of light. when he opened his eyes mrs. olson was calling him to rise. he dressed and stepped out into the cold, crisp morning. from the hill crotch the sun was already pouring down a great, fanlike shaft of light across the snow vista. swiftwater pete passed behind him on his way to the stable and called a cheerful good-morning in his direction. mrs. olson had put the stove outside the tent and gordon lifted it to the spot where they did the cooking. "good-morning, neighbor," he called to sheba. "sleep well?" the little rustling sounds within the tent ceased. a face appeared in the doorway, the flaps drawn discreetly close beneath the chin. "never better. is my breakfast ready yet?" "come and help me make it. mrs. olson is waiting on holt." "when i'm dressed." the smiling face disappeared. "dublin bay" sounded in her fresh young voice from the tent. gordon joined in the song as he lit the fire and sliced bacon from a frozen slab of it. the howling of the huskies interrupted the song. they had evidently heard something that excited them. gordon listened. was it in his fancy only that the breeze carried to him the faint jingle of sleigh-bells? the sound, if it was one, died away. the cook turned to his job. he stopped sawing at the meat, knife and bacon both suspended in the air. on the hard snow there had come to him the crunch of a foot behind him. whose? sheba was in the tent, swiftwater at the stable, mrs. olson in the house. slowly he turned his head. what elliot saw sent the starch through his body. he did not move an inch, still sat crouched by the fire, but every nerve was at tension, every muscle taut. for he was looking at a rifle lying negligently in brown, steady hands. they were very sure hands, very competent ones. he knew that because he had seen them in action. the owner of the hands was colby macdonald. the scotch-canadian stood at the edge of a willow grove. his face was grim as the day of judgment. "don't move," he ordered. elliot laughed irritably. he was both annoyed and disgusted. "what do you want?" he snapped. "you." "what's worrying you now? do you think i'm jumping my bond?" "you're going back to kusiak with me--to give a life for the one you took." "what's that?" cried gordon, surprised. "just as i'm telling you. i've been on your heels ever since you left town. you and holt are going back with me as my prisoners." "but what for?" "for robbing the bank and murdering robert milton, as you know well enough." "is this another plant arranged for me by you and selfridge?" demanded elliot. macdonald ignored the question and lifted his voice. "come out of that tent, holt,--and come with your hands up unless you want your head blown off." "holt isn't in that tent, you damned idiot. if you want to know--" "come _now_, if you expect to come alive," cut in the scotchman ominously. he raised the rifle to his shoulder and covered the shadow thrown by the sun on the figure within. gordon flung out a wild protest and threw the frozen slab of bacon at the head of macdonald. with the same motion he launched his own body across the stove. a fifth of a second earlier the tent flap had opened and sheba had come out. the sight of her paralyzed macdonald and saved her lover's life. it distracted the mine-owner long enough for him to miss his chance. a bullet struck the stove and went off at a tangent through the tent canvas not two feet from where sheba stood. a second went speeding toward the sun. for gordon had followed the football player's instinct and dived for the knees of his enemy. they went down together. each squirming for the upper place, they rolled over and over. the rifle was forgotten. like cave men they fought, crushing and twisting each other's muscles with the blind lust of primordials to kill. as they clinched with one arm, they struck savagely with the other. the impact of smashing blows on naked flesh sounded horribly cruel to sheba. she ran forward, calling on each by name to stop. probably neither knew she was there. their whole attention was focused on each other. not for an instant did their eyes wander, for life and death hung on the issue. chance had lit the spark of their resentment, but long-banked passions were blazing fiercely now. they got to their feet and fought toe to toe. sledge-hammer blows beat upon bleeding and disfigured faces. no thought of defense as yet was in the mind of either. the purpose of each was to bruise, maim, make helpless the other. but for the impotent little cries of sheba no sound broke the stillness save the crunch of their feet on the hard snow, the thud of heavy fists on flesh, and the throaty snarl of their deep, irregular breathing. gid holt, from the window of the cabin, watched the battle with shining eyes. he exulted in every blow of gordon; he suffered with him when the smashing rights and lefts of macdonald got home. he shouted jeers, advice, threats, encouragement. if he had had ten thousand dollars wagered on the outcome he could not have been more excited. swiftwater pete, drawn by the cries of sheba, came running from the stable. as he passed the window, holt caught him by the arm. "what are you aimin' to do, pete? let 'em alone. let 'em go to it. they got to have it out. stop 'em now and they'll get at it with guns." sheba ran up, wringing her hands. "stop them, please. they're killing each other." "nothing of the kind, girl. you let 'em alone, pete. the kid's there every minute, ain't he? gee, that's a good one, boy. seven--eleven--ninety-two. 'attaboy!" macdonald had slipped on the snow and gone down to his hands and knees. swift as a wildcat the younger man was on top of him. hampered though he was by his parka, the scotchman struggled slowly to his feet again. he was much the heavier man, and in spite of his years the stronger. the muscles stood out in knots on his shoulders and across his back, whereas on the body of his more slender opponent they flowed and rippled in rounded symmetry. active as a heather cat, elliot was far the quicker of the two. half-blinded by the hammering he had received, gordon changed his method of fighting. he broke away from the clinch and sidestepped the bull-like rush of his foe, covering up as well as he could from the onset. macdonald pressed the attack and was beaten back by hard, straight lefts and rights to the unprotected face. the mine-owner shook the matted hair from his swollen eyes and rushed again. he caught an uppercut flush on the end of the chin. it did not even stop him. the weight of his body was in the blow he lashed up from his side. the knees of elliot doubled up under him like the blade of a jackknife. he sank down slowly, turned, got to his hands and knees, and tried to shake off the tons of weight that seemed to be holding him down. macdonald seized him about the waist and flung him to the ground. upon the inert body the victor dropped, his knees clinching the torso of the unconscious man. "now, pete. go to him," urged holt wildly. but before swiftwater could move, before the great fist of macdonald could smash down upon the bleeding face upturned to his, a sharp blow struck the flesh of the raised forearm and for the moment stunned the muscles. the scotch-canadian lifted a countenance drunk with rage, passion-tossed. slowly the light of reason came back into his eyes. sheba was standing before him, his rifle in her hand. she had struck him with the butt of it. "don't touch him! don't you dare touch him!" she challenged. he looked at her long, then let his eyes fall to the battered face of his enemy. drunkenly he got to his feet and leaned against a willow. his forces were spent, his muscles weighted as with lead. but it was not this alone that made his breath come short and raggedly. sheba had flung herself down beside her lover. she had caught him tightly in her arms so that his disfigured face lay against her warm bosom. in the eyes lifted to those of the mine-owner was an unconquerable defiance. "he's mine--mine, you murderer," she panted fiercely. "if you kill him, you must kill me first." the man she had once promised to marry was looking at a different woman from the girl he had known. the soft, shy youth of her was gone. she was a forest mother of the wilds ready to fight for her young, a wife ready to go to the stake for the husband of her choice. an emotion primitive and poignant had transformed her. his eyes burned at her the question his parched lips and throat could scarcely utter. "so you ... love him?" but though it was in form a question he knew already the answer. for the first time in his life he began to taste the bitterness of defeat. always he had won what he coveted by brutal force or his stark will. but it was beyond him to compel the love of a girl who had given her heart to another. "yes," she answered. her hair in two thick braids was flung across her shoulders, her dark head thrown back proudly from the rounded throat. macdonald smiled, but there was no mirth in his savage eyes. "do you know what i want with him--why i have come to get him?" "no." "i've come to take him back to kusiak to be hanged because he murdered milton, the bank cashier." the eyes of the woman blazed at him. "are you mad?" "it's the truth." macdonald's voice was curt and harsh. "he and holt were robbing the bank when milton came back from the dance at the club. the cowards shot down the old man like a dog. they'll hang for it if it costs me my last penny, so help me god." "you say it's the truth," she retorted scornfully. "do you think i don't know you now--how you twist and distort facts to suit your ends? how long is it since your jackal had him arrested for assaulting you--when wally selfridge knew--and you knew--that he had risked his life for you and had saved yours by bringing you to diane's after he had bandaged your wounds?" "that was different. it was part of the game of politics we were playing." "you admit that you and your friends lied then. is it like you could persuade me that you're telling the truth now?" the big alaskan shrugged. "believe it or not as you like. anyhow, he's going back with me to kusiak--and holt, too, if he's here." an excited cackle cut into the conversation, followed by a drawling announcement from the window. "your old tillicum is right here, mac. what's the use of waiting? why don't you have your hanging-bee now?" chapter xxx holt frees his mind macdonald whirled in his tracks. old gid holt was leaning on his elbow with his head out of the window. "you better come and beat me up first, mac," he jeered. "i'm all stove up with a busted laig, so you can wollop me good. i'd come out there, but i'm too crippled to move." "you're not too crippled to go back to kusiak with me. if you can't walk, you'll ride. but back you go." "fine. i been worrying about how to get there. it's right good of you to bring one of these here taxis for me, as the old sayin' is." "where is the rest of the gold you stole?" "i ain't seen the latest papers, mac. what is this stuff about robbin' a bank and shootin' milton?" "you're under arrest for robbery and murder." "am i? unload the particulars. when did i do it all?" "you know when. just before you left town." holt shook his head slowly. "no, sir. i can't seem to remember it. sure it ain't some one else you're thinking about? howcome you to fix on me as one of the bold, bad bandits?" "because you had not sense enough to cover your tracks. you might just as well have left a note saying you did it. first, you come to town and buy one of the fastest dog teams in alaska. why?" "that's an easy one. i bought that team to win the alaska sweepstakes from you. and i'm goin' to do it. the team wasn't handled right or it would have won last time. i got to millin' it over and figured that old gid holt was the dog puncher that could land those huskies in front. see?" "you bought it to make your getaway after the robbery," retorted macdonald. "it's a difference of opinion makes horse-races. what else have you got against us?" "we found in your room one of the sacks that had held the gold you took from the bank." "that's right. i took it from the bank in the afternoon, where i had had it on deposit, to pay for the team i bought. milton's books will show that. but you didn't find any sack i took when your bank was robbed--if it was robbed," added the old man significantly. "of course, i knew you would have an alibi. have you got one to explain why you left town so suddenly the night the bank was robbed? milton was killed after midnight. before morning you and your friend elliot routed out ackroyd and bought a lot of supplies from him for a hurry-up trip. you slipped around to the corral and hit the trail right into the blizzard. will you tell me why you were in such a hurry to get away, if it wasn't to escape from the town where you had murdered a decent old fellow who never had harmed a soul?" "sure i'll tell you." the black eyes of the little man snapped eagerly. "i came so p. d. q. because that side pardner of mine gordon elliot wouldn't let me wait till mornin'. he had a reason for leavin' town that wouldn't wait a minute, one big enough to drive him right into the heart of the blizzard. me, i tagged along." "i can guess his reason," jeered the scotchman. "but i'd like to hear you put a name to it." holt grinned maliciously and waved a hand toward the girl who was pillowing the head of her lover. "the name of his reason is sheba o'neill, but it's goin' to be sheba elliot soon, looks like." "you mean--" the little miner took the words triumphantly out of his mouth. he leaned forward and threw them into the face of the man he hated. "i mean that while you was dancin' and philanderin' with other women, gordon elliot was buckin' a blizzard to save the life of the girl you both claimed to love. he was mushin' into fifty miles of frozen hell while you was fillin' up with potted grouse and champagne. simultaneous with the lame goose and the monkey singlestep you was doin,' this lad was windjammin' through white drifts. he beat you at your own game, man. you're a bear for the outdoor stuff, they tell me. you chew up a blizzard for breakfast and throttle a pack of wolves to work up an appetite for dinner. it's your specialty. all right. take your hat off to that chechacko who has just whaled you blind. he has outgamed you, colby macdonald. you don't run in his class. i see he is holding his haid up again. give him another half-hour and he'd be ready to go to the mat with you again." the big alaskan pushed away a fear that had been lingering in his mind ever since he had stumbled on that body buried in the snow yesterday afternoon. was his enemy going to escape him, after all? could holt be telling the true reason why they had left town so hurriedly? he would not let himself believe it. "you ought to work up a better story than that," he said contemptuously. "you can throw a husky through the holes in it. how could elliot know, for instance, that miss o'neill was not safe?" "the same way you could' a' known it," snapped old gideon. "he 'phoned to smith's crossin' and found the stage hadn't got in and that there was a hell of a storm up in the hills." macdonald set his face. "you're lying to me. you stumbled over the stage while you were making your getaway. now you're playing it for an alibi." elliot had risen. sheba stood beside him, her hand in his. she spoke quietly. "it's the truth. believe it or not as you please. we care nothing about that." the stab of her eyes, the carriage of the slim, pliant figure with its suggestion of fine gallantry, challenged her former lover to do his worst. on the battered face of gordon was a smile. so long as his irish sweetheart stood by him he did not care if he were charged with high treason. it was worth all it cost to feel the warmth of her brave, impulsive trust. the deep-set eyes of macdonald clinched with those of his rival. "you cached the rest of the gold, i suppose," he said doggedly. with a lift of his shoulders the younger man answered lightly. "there are none so blind as those who will not see, mr. macdonald." he turned to sheba. "come. we must make breakfast." "you're going to kusiak with me," his enemy said bluntly. "after we have eaten, mr. macdonald," returned elliot with an ironic bow. "perhaps, if you have not had breakfast yet, you will join us." "we start in half an hour," announced the mine-owner curtly, and he turned on his heel. the rifle lay where sheba had dropped it when she ran to gather her stricken lover into her arms. macdonald picked it up and strode over the brow of the hill without a backward look. he was too proud to stay and watch them. it was impossible to escape him in the deep snow that filled the hill trails, and he was convinced they would attempt nothing of the kind. the scotchman felt for the first time in his life old and spent. under tremendous difficulty he had mushed for two days and had at last run his men down. the lust of vengeance had sat on his shoulders every mile of the way and had driven him feverishly forward. but the salt that had lent a savor to his passion was gone. even though he won, he lost. for sheba had gone over to the enemy. with the fierce willfulness of his temperament he tried to tread under foot his doubts about the guilt of holt and elliot. success had made him arrogant and he was not a good loser. he hated the man who had robbed him of sheba, but he could not escape respecting him. elliot had fought until he had been hammered down into unconsciousness and he had crawled to his feet and stood erect with the smile of the unconquered on his lips. was this the sort of man to murder in cold blood a kindly old gentleman who had never harmed him? the only answer macdonald found was that milton had taken him and his partners by surprise. they had been driven to shoot the cashier to cover up their crime. perhaps holt or another had fired the actual shots, but elliot was none the less guilty. the heart of the scotchman was bitter within him. he intended to see that his enemies paid to the last ounce. he would harry them to the gallows if money and influence could do it. none the less, his doubts persisted. if they had planned the bank robbery, why did they wait so long to buy supplies for their escape? why had they not taken the river instead of the hill trail? the story that his enemies told hung together. it had the ring of truth. the facts supported it. one piece of evidence in their favor macdonald alone knew. it lay buried in the deep snows of the hills. he shut his strong teeth in the firm resolve that it should stay there. chapter xxxi sheba digs the weather had moderated a good deal, but the trail was a protected forest one. the two teams now going down had come up, so that the path was packed fairly hard and smooth. holt lay propped on his own sled against the sleeping-bags. sheba mushed behind gordon. she chatted with them both, but ignored entirely the existence of macdonald, who followed with his prize-winning siberian dogs. though she tried not to let her lover know it, sheba was troubled at heart. gordon was practically the prisoner of a man who hated him bitterly, who believed him guilty of murder, and who would go through fire to bring punishment home to him. she knew the power of macdonald. with the money back of him, he had for two years fought against and almost prevailed over a strong public opinion in the united states. he was as masterful in his hatred as in his love. the dominant, fighting figure in the northwest, he trod his sturdy way through opposition like a colossus. nor did she any longer have any illusions about him. he could be both ruthless and unscrupulous when it suited his purpose. as the day wore toward noon, her spirits drooped. she was tired physically, and this reacted upon her courage. the warmer weather was spoiling the trail. it became so soft and mushy that though snowshoes were needed, they could not be worn on account of the heavy snow which clung to them every time a foot was lifted. they wore mukluks, but sheba was wet to the knees. the spring had gone from her step. her shoulders began to sag. for some time gordon's eye had been seeking a good place for a day camp. he found it in a bit of open timber above the trail, and without a word he swung his team from the path. "where are you going?" demanded macdonald. "going to rest for an hour," was elliot's curt answer. macdonald's jaw clamped. he strode forward through the snow beside the trail. "we'll see about that." the younger man faced him angrily. "can't you see she is done, man? there is not another mile of travel in her until she has rested." the hard, gray eyes of the alaskan took in the slender, weary figure leaning against the sled. on a soft and mushy trail like this, where every footstep punched a hole in the loose snow, the dogs could not travel with any extra weight. a few miles farther down they would come to a main-traveled road and the going would be better. but till then she must walk. macdonald gave way with a gesture of his hand and turned on his heel. at the camp-fire sheba dried her mukluks, stockings, caribou mitts, and short skirts. too tired to eat, she forced herself to swallow a few bites and drank eagerly some tea. gordon had brought blankets from the sled and he persuaded her to lie down for a few minutes. "you'll call me soon if i should sleep," she said drowsily, and her eyes were closed almost before the words were off her lips. when macdonald came to order the start half an hour later, she was still asleep. "give her another thirty minutes," he said gruffly. youth is resilient. sheba awoke rested and ready for work. while gordon was untangling the dogs she was left alone for a minute with the mine-owner. the hungry look in his eyes touched her. impulsively she held out her hand. "you're going to be fair, aren't you, mr. macdonald? because you--don't like him--you won't--?" he looked straight into the dark, appealing eyes. "i'm going to be fair to robert milton," he told her harshly. "i'm going to see his murderers hanged if it costs me every dollar i have in the world." "none of us object to justice," she told him proudly. "gordon has nothing to fear if only the truth is told." "then why come to me?" he demanded. she hesitated; then with a wistful little smile, spoke what was in her heart. "i'm afraid you won't do justice to yourself. you're good--and brave--and strong. but you're very willful and set. i don't want to lose my friend. i want to know that he is all i have believed him--a great man who stands for the things that are fine and clean and just." "then it is for my sake and not for his that you want me to drop the case against elliot?" he asked ironically. "for yours and for his, too. you can't hurt him. nobody can really be hurt from outside--not unless he is a traitor to himself. and gordon elliot isn't that. he couldn't do such a thing as this with which you charge him. it is not in his nature. he can explain everything." "i don't doubt that. he and his friend holt are great little explainers." in spite of his bitterness sheba felt a change in him. she seemed to have a glimpse of his turbid soul engaged in battle. he turned away without shaking hands, but it struck her that he was not implacable. while they were at luncheon half a dozen pack-mules laden with supplies for a telephone construction line outfit had passed. their small, sharp-shod hoofs had punched sink-holes in the trail at every step. instead of a smooth bottom the dogs found a slushy bog cut to pieces. at the end of an hour of wallowing macdonald called a halt. "there is a cutoff just below here. it will save us nearly two miles, but we'll have to break trail. swing to the right just below the big willow," he told elliot. "i'll join you presently and relieve you on the job. but first miss o'neill and i are going for a little side trip." all three of them looked at him in sharp surprise. gordon opened his lips to answer and closed them again without speaking. sheba had flashed a warning to him. "i hope this trip isn't very far off the trail," she said quietly. "i'm just a wee bit tired." "it's not far," the mine-owner said curtly. he was busy unpacking his sled. presently he found the dog moccasins for which he had been looking, repacked his sled, and fitted the shoes to the bleeding feet of the team leader. elliot, suspicious and uncertain what to do, watched him at work, but at a signal from sheba turned reluctantly away and drove down to the cutoff. macdonald turned his dogs out of the trail and followed a little ridge for perhaps a quarter of a mile. sheba trudged behind him. she was full of wonder at what he meant to do, but she asked no questions. some wise instinct was telling her to do exactly as he said. from the sled he took a shovel and gave it to the young woman. "dig just this side of the big rock--close to the root of the tree," he told her. sheba dug, and at the second stroke of the spade struck something hard. he stooped and pulled out a sack. "open it," he said. "rip it with this knife." she ran the knife along the coarse weave of the cloth. fifteen or twenty smaller sacks lay exposed. sheba looked up at macdonald, a startled question in her eyes. he nodded. "you've guessed it. this is part of the gold for which robert milton was murdered." "but--how did it get here?" "i buried it there yesterday. come." he led her around the rock. back of it lay something over which was spread a long bit of canvas. the heart of sheba was beating wildly. the scotchman looked at her from a rock-bound face. "underneath this canvas is the body of one of the men who murdered milton. he died more miserably than the man he shot. half the gold stolen from the bank is in that gunnysack you have just dug up. if you'll tell me who has the other half, i'll tell you who helped him rob the bank." "this man--who is he?" asked sheba, almost in a whisper. she was trembling with excitement and nervousness. macdonald drew back the cloth and showed the rough, hard face of a workingman. "his name was trelawney. i kicked him out of our camps because he was a trouble-maker." "he was one of the men that robbed you later!" she exclaimed. "yes. and now he has tried to rob me again and has paid for it with his life." her mind flashed back over the past. "then his partner in this last crime must have been the same man--what's his name?--that was with him last time." "northrup." he nodded slowly. "i hate to believe it, but it is probably true. and he, too, is lying somewhere in this park covered with snow--if our guess is right." "and gordon--you admit he didn't do it?" again he nodded, sulkily. "no. he didn't do it." joy lilted in her voice. "so you've brought me here to tell me. oh, i am glad, my friend, that you were so good. and it is like you to do it. you have always been the good friend to me." the scotchman smiled, a little wistfully. "you take a mean advantage of a man. you nurse him when he is ill--and are kind to him when he is well--and try to love him, though he is twice your age and more. then, when his enemy is in his power, he finds he can't strike him down without striking you too. take your young man, sheba o'neill, and marry him, and for god's sake, get him out of alaska before i come to grips with him again. i'm not a patient man, and he's tried me sair. they say i'm a good hater, and i always thought it true. but what's the use of hating a man when your soft arms are round him for an armor?" the fine eyes of the girl were wells of warm light. her gladness was not for herself and her lover only, but for the friend that had been so nearly lost and was now found. he believed he had done it for her, but sheba was sure his reasons lay deeper. he was too much of a man to hide evidence and let his rival be falsely accused of murder. it was not in him to do a cheap thing like that. when it came to the pinch, he was too decent to stab in the back. but she was willing to take him on his own ground. "i'll always be thanking you for your goodness to me," she told him simply. he brushed that aside at once. "there's one thing more, lass. i'll likely not be seeing you again alone, so i'll say it now. don't waste any tears on colby macdonald. don't fancy any story-book foolishness about spoiling his life. that may be true of halfling boys, maybe, but a man goes his ain gait even when he gets a bit facer." "yes," she agreed. and in a flash she saw what would happen, that in the reaction from his depression he would turn to genevieve mallory and marry her. "you're too young for me, anyhow,--too soft and innocent. once you told me that you couldn't keep step with me. it's true. you can't. it was a daft dream." he took a deep breath, seemed to shake himself out of it, and smiled cheerfully upon her. "we'll put our treasure-trove on the sled and go back to your friends," he continued briskly. "to-morrow i'll send men up to scour the hills for northrup's body." sheba drew the canvas back over the face of the dead man. as she followed macdonald back to the trail, tears filled her eyes. she was remembering that the white, stinging death that had crept upon these men so swiftly had missed her by a hair's breadth. the strong, lusty life had been stricken out of the big cornishman and probably of his partner in crime. perhaps they had left mothers or wives or sweethearts to mourn them. macdonald relieved elliot at breaking trail and the young man went back to the gee-pole. they had discarded mukluks and wore moccasins and snowshoes. it was hard, slow work, for the trail-breaker had to fight his way through snow along the best route he could find. the moon was high when at last they reached the roadhouse. chapter xxxii diane changes her mind the news of sheba's safety had been telephoned to diane from the roadhouse, so that all the family from peter down were on the porch to welcome her with mingled tears and kisses. since gordon had to push on to the hospital to have holt taken care of, it was macdonald who brought the girl home. the mine-owner declined rather brusquely an invitation to stay to dinner on the plea that he had business at the office which would not wait. impulsively sheba held out both her hands to him. "believe me, i am thanking you with the whole of my heart, my friend. and i'm praying for you the old irish blessing, 'god save you kindly.'" the deep-set, rapacious eyes of the scotchman burned into hers for an instant. without a word he released her hands and turned away. her eyes followed him, a vital, dynamic american who would do big, lawless things to the day of his death. she sighed. he had been a great figure in her life, and now he had passed out of it. [illustration: for him the beauty of the night lay largely in her presence] as soon as she was alone with diane, her irish cousin dropped the little bomb she had up her sleeve. "i'm going to be married thursday, di." mrs. paget embraced her for the tenth time within the hour. she was very fond of sheba, and she had been on a great strain concerning her safety. that out of her danger had resulted the engagement diane had hoped for was surplusage of good luck. "you lucky, sensible girl." sheba assented demurely. "i do think i'm sensible as well as lucky. it isn't every girl that knows the right man for her even when he wants her. but i know at last. he's the man for me out of ten million." "i'm sure of it, dear. oh, i am _so_ glad." diane hugged her again. she couldn't help it. "one gets to know a man pretty well on a trip like that. i wouldn't change mine for any one that was ever made. i like everything about him, di. i am the happiest girl." "i'm so glad you see it that way at last." diane passed to the practical aspect of the situation. "but thursday. will that give us time, my dear? and who are you going to have here?" "just the family. i've invited two guests, but neither of them can come. one has a broken leg and the other says he doesn't want to see me married to another man," sheba explained with a smile. "so gordon won't come." "yes. he'll have to be here. we can't get along without the bridegroom. it wouldn't be a legal marriage, would it?" diane looked at her, for the moment dumb. "you little wretch!" she got out at last. "so it's gordon, is it? are you quite sure this time? not likely to change your mind before thursday?" "i suppose, to an outsider, i do seem fickle," miss o'neill admitted smilingly. "but gordon and i both understand that." "and colby macdonald--does he understand it too?" "oh, yes." her smile grew broader. "he told me that he didn't think i would quite suit him, after all. not enough experience for the place." diane flashed a suspicious look of inquiry. "of course that's nonsense. what did he tell you?" "something like that. he will marry mrs. mallory, i think, though he doesn't know it yet." "you mean she will get him on the rebound," said diane bluntly. "that isn't a nice way to put it. he has always liked her very much. he is fond of her for what she is. what attracted him in me were the things his imagination gave to me." "and gordon likes you, i suppose, for what you are?" sheba did not resent the little note of friendly sarcasm. "i suppose he has his fancies about me, too, but by the time he finds out what i am he'll have to put up with me." the arrival of elliot interrupted confidences. he had come, he said, to receive congratulations. "what in the world have you been doing with your face?" demanded diane. as an afterthought she added: "mr. macdonald is all cut up too." "we've been taking massage treatment." gordon passed to a subject of more immediate interest. "do i get my congratulations, di?" she kissed him, too, for old sake's sake. "i do believe you'll suit sheba better than colby macdonald would. he's a great man and you are not. but it isn't everybody that is fit to be the wife of a great man." "that's a double, left-handed compliment," laughed gordon. "but you can't say anything that will hurt my feelings to-day, di. isn't that your baby i heap crying? what a heartless mother you are!" diane gave him the few minutes alone with sheba that his gay smile had asked for. "get out with you," she said, laughing. "go to the top of the hill and look at the lovers' moon i've ordered there expressly for you; and while you are there forget that there are going to be crying babies and nursemaids with evenings out in that golden future of yours." "come along, sheba. we'll start now on the golden trail," said elliot. she walked as if she loved it. her long, slender legs moved rhythmically and her arms swung true as pendulums. the moon was all that diane had promised. sheba drank it in happily. "i believe i must be a pagan. i love the sun and the moon and i know it's all true about the little folk and the pied piper and--" "if it's paganism to be in love with the world, you are a thirty-third degree pagan." "well, and was there ever a more beautiful night before?" he thought not, but he had not the words to tell her that for him its beauty lay largely in her presence. her passionate love of things fine and brave transformed the universe for him. it was enough for him to be near her, to hear the laughter bubbling in her throat, to touch her crisp, blue-black hair as he adjusted the scarf about her head. "god made the night," he replied. "so that's a christian thought as well as a pagan one." they were no exception to the rule that lovers are egoists. the world for them to-night divided itself into two classes. one included sheba o'neill and gordon elliot; the other took in the uninteresting remnant of humanity. no matter how far afield their talk began, it always came back to themselves. they wanted to know all about each other, to compare experiences and points of view. but time fled too fast for words. they talked--as lovers will to the end of time--in exclamations and the meeting of eyes and little endearments. when diane and peter found them on the hilltop, sheba protested, with her half-shy, half-audacious smile, that it could not be two hours since she and gordon had left the living-room. peter grinned. he remembered a hilltop consecrated to his own courtship of diane. the only wedding present that macdonald sent sheba was a long envelope with two documents attached by a clip. one was from the kusiak "sun." it announced that the search party had found the body of northrup with the rest of the stolen gold beside him. the other was a copy of a legal document. its effect was that the district attorney had dismissed all charges pending against gordon elliot. although macdonald lost the coal claims at kamatlah by reason of the report of elliot, all alaska still believes that he was right. in that country of strong men he stands head and shoulders above his fellows. he has the fortunate gift of commanding the admiration of friend and foe alike. the lady who is his wife is secretly the greatest of his slaves, but she tries not to let him know how much he has captured her imagination. for genevieve macdonald cannot quite understand, herself, how so elemental an emotion as love can have pierced the armor of her sophistication. the chief of the ranges _a tale of the yukon_ by h. a. cody author of "the frontiersman," "the long patrol," etc. hodder & stoughton london mcmxiii copyright, 1913, by george h. doran company printed in u. s. of america to my father and mother contents chapter page i the raiders 1 ii foiled 10 iii out of the storm 21 iv warning 31 v secret depths 42 vi rejected 51 vii tokens 65 viii the vanguard 73 ix chivalry 85 x the pawn in the game 94 xi foes without and within 106 xii the messenger 115 xiii a maiden's will 124 xiv captured 134 xv the spirit of klota 145 xvi the voice of the deceiver 161 xvii in the forest depths 174 xviii loyalty 188 xix shrouded light 197 xx the call of the heart 206 xxi by the water-gate 216 xxii traitors 225 xxiii the fettered chief 237 xxiv out from the hills 247 xxv into the unknown 258 xxvi regions beyond 271 xxvii fort yukon 280 xxviii at last 291 the chief of the ranges chapter i the raiders the crooked river wound its lazy way between gently shelving banks. the pebbles along the shore sparkled like mirrors beneath the sun's bright rays. the whole land stood agleam on this fair summer afternoon in the far canadian northland. only a gentle whisper rose from the dark forest as the drifting breeze stirred the crests of battalions of rugged spruce and fir trees. the wind, floating along the river and rippling the surface of the water, caused the small canoe lying near the shore to chafe fretfully upon the beach. owindia, seated well astern, played one small brown hand in the stream. the breeze, touching her loose dark hair, tossed it over her cheeks and forehead in rich confusion. listlessly she leaned against the side of the canoe, looking down dreamily into the clear depths beneath. the river, wind and forest were all like herself--creatures of freedom. she knew them in their days of austerity and coldness as well as in times of peace and repose. in winter and summer, in storm and sunshine, they had always been her companions, and she loved them with the deep affection of her ardent nature. of what was she thinking as she sat there in the sunshine, idly dabbling in the water? was it of some bright event in her young life of sixteen summers? or was it a vision, lying golden in the far-off future? perhaps she was thinking of her father and wondering when he would return from the chase. whatever it was the picture was evidently bright which filled her mind, for occasionally her lips parted in a sweet smile. no sense of fear was hers, and no dark forebodings disturbed her quiet repose. so full of joy had been her life that only the outward aspect had been presented to her view. she knew nothing of the many strange, subtle ways within, of darkness, misery, cruelty, and death. the noble forest on her right was brilliant outwardly, but she could not see within its secret depths, nor through its long, sombre arches. had it been possible the dreamy expression would have faded from her eyes, and the happy smile would have left her lips. what connection had those crouching forms, slinking beneath the outspreading branches, with the peace of that summer day? the venomous serpent crawling through the tall grass can change in an instant the child's joyous laughter to shrieks of terror. a slight noise among the trees fell upon owindia's keen ears, causing her to glance quickly around. seeing nothing unusual she resumed her former position. it was only a rabbit, no doubt, or a squirrel skurrying along the ground. but her interest had become aroused, and once again her eyes searched the dark recesses. as she did so she leaped to her feet, and stood for an instant with the startled expression of a hunted animal. then from her lips came a wild cry of alarm, as she sprang from the canoe, and darted rapidly along the shore. occasionally she glanced back over her shoulder, and each time the sight urged her to greater speed. yes, they were coming with long swinging lopes. monsters they seemed to the terrified girl, and when she heard their hideous laughter as they steadily gained upon her a sickening dread possessed her. what had become of that bright sunny face? where were those dreamy eyes? surely this was not the maiden who had reclined so gracefully in the canoe but a short time before. owindia had rounded a bend now, and there ahead appeared a frail rude lodge. before it stood a woman, who gazed with wonder upon the wild-eyed girl rushing toward her, and screaming in frenzied tones "chilcats! chilcats!" then she caught sight of the pursuers, and with a cry she started forward, reached the maiden, and enfolded her in her arms. half carrying and half dragging she hurried owindia toward the lodge, and had only time to thrust her through the opening used as a door when the two braves leaped upon her and endeavoured to hurl her aside. the woman was aroused to the wildest fury. she struggled and fought with her bare-limbed antagonists. she writhed and twisted in their merciless grasp. her sharp finger nails left streaming red scars wherever she touched their bodies, and her firm white teeth sank deep into the quivering flesh. she was more than a mere woman now; she was a mother fighting for her only child against the overpowering force of brutal passion. leaving his companion to contend alone outside with this fury of a woman, the taller indian freed himself, entered the lodge, caught owindia in his arms, and started to make his escape by bursting through the rear of the lodge. from the maiden's lips arose shrieks of the wildest terror, and vainly she endeavoured to tear herself away from her captor. but he held her firm, and smothered her cries by placing one big, dirty hand over her mouth. no sooner did the mother realise what was taking place within the lodge than she loosened her hold upon her adversary, and sprang to the rescue of her daughter. owindia's captor saw her coming, and, knowing what a close contact would mean, he gave her a brutal kick as she approached. for an instant the woman struggled to maintain her ground, but her brain reeled, a mist rose before her eyes, and she sank to the earth, striking heavily upon a sharp stone as she fell. the raiders were now free from this turbulent mother, and a harsh laugh of scorn broke from their lips as they looked upon the prostrate form. no sense of pity stirred their hearts, for was not this woman one of the despised ayana tribe? but with the girl it was different. she was beautiful, and they needed her. owindia no longer struggled, but lay like a crushed flower in those gripping arms. she glanced at her mother lying helplessly before her, and then into the faces of her captors. but no sign of mercy could she detect in their greedy, lustful eyes. no hope could she expect from them. they would carry her away beyond the mountains down to the coast, and what then? had not her father and mother often told her of the raids the chilcats had made in days past, when wives and daughters had been ruthlessly snatched away, never more to return to their own people? had she not pictured it all in her mind--the terror, despair and the long years of heart-breaking life among that ferocious tribe? had she not at times, even as a child, started up in alarm in the dead of night thinking the chilcats were upon her? and now it had come to pass. it was no longer a dream, but a terrible reality. with their precious booty thus secured, the chilcats turned toward the silent forest at their back. they had taken but a few steps forward when out from amid the trees leaped a gigantic native, and with a wild cry of rage and bereavement rushed toward the raiders. the indian bearing the maiden dropped his burden upon the ground, and endeavoured to seize the small hatchet hanging at his waist. his efforts were in vain, for the next instant he was stretched full length upon the earth, with his thick skull shattered by a blow that would have rent a rock in twain. his companion, by a tremendous sideward bound, escaped a like fate and sped off nimbly into the forest, and escaped from view. the victor did not attempt to follow the retreating chilcat, but stood like a statue over his fallen victim. a rage, wild and ungoverned, possessed his soul. his eyes gleamed with the fury of a lioness bereft of her cubs. his great breast lifted and fell, telling plainly of the storm raging within. the muscles of his long tense right arm stood out like cords of thrice-twisted hemp. with a grip of steel his fingers clutched the haft of his hunting axe. at his feet lay the dead chilcat. what did it matter that life was extinct in that prostrate form? he was of the hated race, the people who for long years had been grinding down the ayana. it was something to have even one of their dead so near him now. lifting high his axe he smote again and again that quivering body. his fury increased at every stroke. it was not one chilcat he was smiting, but the whole race. he paused at length and looked around as if expecting enemies from every quarter. he glanced toward the forest and the shore, and at last beheld his daughter crouched upon the ground a few paces away. in her eyes was a new expression of fear. she could not understand her father's terrible action. never before had she witnessed a scene like this; death and such boundless fury. it could not be her father, klitonda, the brave chief of the ayana. and even as the giant looked upon his daughter his arm relaxed and a somewhat softer light came into his eyes. he crossed to where she was crouching and laid his hand upon her shoulder. she shrank away at the touch, gentle though it was, while a low moan escaped her lips. presently she looked up. her father had moved away, and was kneeling by the side of the prostrate woman, scanning her face and speaking to her. "klota, klota," he called, "klitonda has come. he is here." quickly owindia rose to her feet and hurried to where her father was kneeling. so great had been her terror that she had scarcely thought of her mother. but now she realised that something was wrong. seeing her mother huddled there, so still and death-like, with a gurgling cry she dropped by her side and peered into those staring eyes, and softly stroked the face so dear to her. "mother, mother!" she wailed, "speak to owindia. don't look that way. don't!" then something arrested her attention, which made her heart almost stop its beating. it was the slow trickle of a tiny red stream, oozing out from the jet black hair of the unconscious woman, and mingling with the sand. "it's blood! it's blood!" she cried, lifting her startled eyes to her father's face. "the chilcats have killed her! oh-o-o-o!" klitonda was himself once more. no longer was his rage expressed in outward action. it was like the silent, pent-up force of the concealed mine, only waiting the right moment to burst forth in appalling destruction. gathering his wife tenderly in his strong arms he carried her swiftly to the lodge, and laid her gently upon a bed of soft furs. well did he know that she would never look at him again, never speak to him more. picking up a dressed deer-skin lying near he drew it over klota's stiffening body. he paused for a moment ere shrouding her face. a slight chain of gold encircled the woman's neck, supporting a small locket concealed beneath her dress. this he unfastened, and handed it to owindia. "wear it, child," he said; "it was your mother's." the long day waned, and night at length shut down chilly over the land. a fitful breeze rippled the river's surface, and stirred the tops of the pointed trees. it moaned around the lodge wherein lay owindia upon her bed of skins of wild animals. her black hair fell around her drawn, tear-stained face. the light from the fire outside illumined the interior of the humble abode. it threw into clear relief the graceful form of the sleeping maiden and the contour of her shrouded mother not far away. by the burning logs crouched klitonda. no sleep came to his eyes. he gazed down silently into the red hot embers, as if fascinated by their fiery glow. but hotter and more terrible was the fire surging within the breast of this outraged chief. once he straightened himself up, turned partly around, and threw out a hard clenched fist toward the great chilcoot range of mountains lying away to the westward. such action was more eloquent than many words. it was a symbol, the outward and visible sign of a mighty inward resolve. chapter ii foiled steep wooded banks lined both sides of the yukon river for many miles. on one of the highest hills stood klitonda, keenly watching the crooked stream as it wound like a silver thread through its setting of dark green trees. he might have been a stump, for not the slightest movement did he make. far away in the distance toward the left his eyes were resting upon two specks gliding steadily up stream. that they were chilcat traders and plunderers he was well aware. as he looked his right hand closed fiercely upon the stout bow which only his arm could bend to its full capacity. the day was cool, and a keen wind careening over the land presaged a coming storm. but klitonda heeded it not. since that terrible night, over a year before, when he had watched the burning embers in front of the lodge wherein his wife was lying cold in death, the fire raging within his heart had not subsided. time had only added fuel, and a deeper intensity to the flames. the chilcats had vowed revenge for the brave who had been slain. "blood for blood" was their cry, and they had mercilessly hunted klitonda from place to place. they had threatened to exterminate the whole ayana tribe if the chief were not delivered into their hands. but this threat had never been carried out, for the chilcats could not well afford to slaughter the hunters and trappers who supplied them so regularly with an abundance of game and valuable furs. but klitonda had not been idle. he had roamed the land like a weird spectre, appearing suddenly in the most unlikely places, and at times when least expected. he had visited every band of his scattered flock by river, lake, and in forest depths. wherever a camp fire had been lighted there klitonda's voice had been heard, pleading with his people, and urging them to arouse to action and drive back the haughty, insulting chilcats beyond the mountain ranges. but his efforts seemed all in vain. a spirit of base fear pervaded the hearts of even the lustiest of the warriors. they had been too terribly crushed and held in subjection so long to be stirred easily to action. the old men and women who had survived that slaughtering carnage had passed away, but not without instilling into the breasts of their children their own overwhelming dread of that cruel coast tribe. with klitonda it was different. fear to him was unknown, and he despised the cringing spirit of his people. two forces now governed his very being: one, the love he bore to his only child, owindia; the other, the hatred to the chilcats, and his determination to free the land from their dominating sway. so on this late fall afternoon as he watched the two canoes out upon the river an almost overpowering passion possessed his soul. this was due to the visit he had just made to his wife's grave near at hand. he had not previously returned to the place since he had borne her body up that steep hill over twelve months before. but the longing had been strong within his heart to look upon the spot where she was lying. and so he had come back, and had stood for a long time by the lonely mound upon the hilltop. having watched the advancing canoes until the trees along the shore hid them from view, klitonda left the summit and glided swiftly down through the forest toward the river. ere long he moved more cautiously, and at length coming to the brow of the bank he dropped upon his knees, and crept warily forward. under the shelter of a small thick fir tree he paused and from his place of concealment he was able to obtain an excellent view of all that took place below. he could see that the chilcats had landed, and were bartering with a number of ayana indians encamped at that very place. klitonda well knew that moose meat and skins were being exchanged for trinkets of little value. in fact the chilcats set the price, and if they had nothing to give would always take what they wanted as a matter of course. klitonda breathed hard, and his dusky face grew darker than ever as he watched the unscrupulous barter. how he longed to leap down the hill and meet those plunderers face to face. he believed he would be a match for all of them, even though they were ten to one. but he well knew that such an act would be useless. nothing would be gained. only by the united efforts of the ayana could anything of a definite nature be accomplished. presently an expression of anxiety came into klitonda's eyes. for a while he remained lost in thought. his mind turned toward his daughter whom he had left that morning in a temporary lodge farther upstream. the chilcats would pass that way, and he must get there first. it would not do for those human wolves to see owindia. slipping quietly back from the brow of the hill until he had gained the safety of the forest, he sped with nimble feet among the trees. no trail marked the way, and klitonda needed none. he was as certain of his steps as if he walked on a well-beaten road. ere long the river appeared to view, and warily approaching the shore he looked carefully up and down the stream. then drawing a small dug-out canoe from a concealed place he pushed it gently into the water and stepped in. seizing one of the two paddles lying in the bottom he sent the rocking craft speeding on its way. the wind was in his teeth, blowing strong and keen from the great lake two miles beyond. klitonda had gone but a short distance, when, happening to look back, he saw the two canoes of the chilcats rounding a bend in the river several hundred yards behind. they had evidently caught sight of the craft ahead, and were bending strongly to their paddles in an effort to overtake the lone voyager. the sight of his pursuers affected klitonda like magic. with a jerk he settled himself into a better position, and drove the blade of his polished paddle into the cold water with a sudden swish. the canoe responded like a thing of life, and bounded forward as if eager to do its master's bidding. only occasionally did klitonda glance back, and each time he noticed that the chilcats were steadily gaining. there were ten of them, and each wielded a paddle. the current was now swift and klitonda was compelled at times to keep close to the shore. eagerly he looked ahead and at length saw far beyond the faint outline of the lodge he had recently erected. the sight lent new strength to his arms. he must reach the place before his pursuers overtook him. soon the rain, which had been threatening for some time, met him. it drove lashingly into his face, impelled by the ever increasing wind. but neither rain, wind nor current could stay the onward rush of that trim little craft. the paddle bent beneath klitonda's tremendous sweep. he felt that the chilcats were not far behind, but he could not afford to turn around even for one fleeting glance. his eyes were constantly fixed upon the lodge ahead, which was now becoming quite distinct. he watched for owindia as he approached. would she be near the shore, waiting his return, or had she strolled off into the forest a short distance as was sometimes her custom? nearer and nearer swept the canoe. he could see the opening of the lodge, but no one was in sight; all was in silence about the place. a few more mighty strokes, and then a wild, piercing whoop broke from his lips. it was answered by yells of derision from the pursuing chilcats. they knew the man now as the outcast chief whom they longed to capture. he could not escape them they felt sure, and what could one man do, armed only with bow and arrows, against their fire-vomiting guns? they would take him alive, if possible, in triumph back to the coast. and his daughter--they saw her emerge from the lodge--would be theirs, too. there was not a chilcat but had heard of her remarkable beauty, and longed to possess her as his own. owindia comprehended the whole situation at a glance. with her to think was to act, so hurrying forward she reached the shore just as klitonda ran the canoe alongside. words were unnecessary, and as owindia stepped lightly and quickly aboard, she seized the unused paddle, dropped upon her knees, and began to assist her father. they were now close to the large lake, and the swells rolling in through the narrow channel ahead gave evidence of the roughness of the water beyond. but not for an instant did klitonda hesitate. pointing the canoe for the opening it bounded forward as if anxious to do battle with the tempest outside. the white-capped waves rushed to meet it; the spray dashed over the bow at each headlong plunge, and the racing wind strove to turn it from its course. klitonda steered straight for the open. owindia's lithe form bent and swayed at each dip of her paddle. no word was spoken, for father and daughter realised the seriousness of their position. both knew what fearful odds they were facing. it seemed the wildest folly to attempt to run over that lake in such a frail craft. but better far to brave the fury of the elements than to fall into the hands of their pursuers. with the former there was the possible chance of mercy and escape; with the latter none. klitonda did not believe that the chilcats would attempt the pursuit across the lake. great was his surprise, therefore, when glancing back he saw that they were holding firmly to their course. so set were they upon making the capture that their inborn discretion was for the time overcome by the spirit of rashness. where such a small canoe could go they could follow, so they fondly imagined. but they forgot how heavily their crafts were freighted, not only with the men, but also with the large supply of moose meat they had obtained down the river. at first the canoes were able to stem the waves which beat against their bows. they rent them asunder and threw them easily aside. at length, however, the waves became larger and as the curling whitecaps reared up angrily in front, the canoes plunged heavily and began to ship water. seeing this the chilcats realised their imminent danger, and in a moment of panic swung the canoes to the left as if to make for the shore. it proved a fatal mistake, for the next oncoming wave broke right over them, completely swamping both canoes. in an instant the ten chilcats were struggling desperately in the icy water. they were all good swimmers, and at once struck out for the land. but their efforts were in vain, and soon the last had disappeared beneath the surface of that rough inland lake. when klitonda saw what had happened, a grim triumph shone in his clear dark eyes. he spoke a few words to owindia, who drawing in her paddle turned herself deftly about in the canoe. klitonda did the same, and soon they were driving before the wind back over the very course they had just taken. night had shut down dark and cold by the time they reached smoother water, and passed down the narrow channel. soon they were before their own lodge, and the canoe drawn well up on the shore. then a fire was lighted, and supper prepared. klitonda sat that evening by the fire, while owindia lay on several skins just within the door of the lodge. the bright light fell upon her strongly moulded face, and played with her dark hair. her eyes were gazing dreamily before her, out upon the leaping flames. occasionally klitonda looked in her direction and his eyes were full of tenderness. "i nearly lost you to-night, little one," he began. "things looked very bad for a time." "oh, it was terrible!" and owindia clasped her hands before her as she replied, while a slight shiver shook her body. "when will we be safe from the cruel chilcats? why do they hunt us all the time? why can't they leave us alone?" "they will never do that, child, until our people make up their minds to drive them back beyond the mountains of the setting sun, and i fear that will not be for some time. i am dreading the outcome of the death of those ten men to-night." "in what way, father?" "the chilcats will think that the ayana killed them, and they may come in great numbers to seek revenge. anyway no matter what happens we are never safe. they hate me because i have always opposed them, and have been trying to stir up our people against them. and they want you because you are so beautiful. i understand there is great rivalry among the coast indians over you. the chief's son, a very determined man, has made up his mind to have you as his wife. oh, little one, my heart is sore all the time. i am ever thinking how those wolves are trying to steal you away. how could i live without you? since your dear mother died you have been my only comfort." "but why should the chief's son want me, father?" owindia replied. "there must be many women along the coast more pleasing than i am." "but you are different from them, child. you know that yourself. there is white blood in your veins, and your mother taught you many things which the coast women do not know." "yes, father, my mother taught me much, and i have forgotten nothing. i think over everything day and night. i would die rather than be the wife of a chilcat brave, even though he were the chief's son. there is something here, father," and she placed her hand upon her breast, "which gives me no peace. it is like a voice telling me of a life different from this such as we are living. my mother often told me about the wonderful things beyond the great mountains of the rising sun, where there are no cruel chilcats; where people live in lodges so different from ours, and know, oh, so many things. and she told me something else, father." "what is it, little one?" "she said that there were no medicine men out there; that the white people believed in the great father who cares for each one. she told me many beautiful stories about him, and i remember them all." for a time klitonda did not speak, but gazed thoughtfully into the fire. this noted hunter and dreaded warrior was now as quiet as a little child. years before the tiny seed of a new power had entered his heart. it had been slowly growing, and was steadily contending with his wild savage nature. "your mother often told me about the wonderful ways of the white people," he after a while began. "she taught me many things, and i have always wanted our own race to understand the feeling that is in my heart. why do we ever remain the same? we are no better than our fathers and forefathers. they hunted, fished, trapped and fought. we are doing the same. this land is ours, and has been ours for ages. shall we let the chilcats have it, or shall we drive them back, and learn the secret of the ways of the white people? i cannot tell all that's in my heart and mind, but i see and hear things, and when i try to tell them to my people they shake their heads, and think there is something wrong with me." klitonda rose slowly to his feet, and stood erect before the fire. his gaunt face was drawn and tense, and in his eyes dwelt a wistful, yearning expression. "little one," and he looked down earnestly upon his daughter as he spoke, "i have a strange feeling to-night. something tells me that we are soon to break the influence of the chilcats over this land. i see a new power coming to our aid, though i cannot tell what it is. my heart is much lighter than it has been for months. we must get away from here, for we are never safe so close to the coast. sleep now, owindia, for we must leave very early in the morning." chapter iii out of the storm there was snow everywhere. the air was full of it. it had been falling for hours. the wind raced howling over the land, tossing the tree tops in swirling confusion. klitonda was late, and the soft snow impeded his progress. the small sled he was drawing was well loaded with game he had taken from his traps. he had not expected such a storm when he started from his lodge early that morning. there was not a cloud to be seen then, and the sun was bright above the horizon. but the sky had suddenly darkened, and the tempest had burst upon him when he was miles from home. he had crossed lakes and wild meadows where he could hardly see two rods ahead of him. but he knew his course, and kept steadily on. he was in the shelter of the forest now where the wind could not worry him, and a little farther on stood his snug winter abode. he was thinking deeply as he plodded forward, though at times he cast furtive glances among the trees as if expecting someone to emerge from their secret depths. he had met a trapper of his own tribe that morning who had imparted to him disquieting news. the chilcats, so he was told, were preparing to cross the mountains when the winter was over. they were to come in great numbers to demand compensation for the ten traders who had lost their lives the preceding fall. they believed that they had been slain by the ayana indians, and would listen to no word of explanation. besides heavy payments of valuable furs, it was rumoured that they were to demand the persons of klitonda and his daughter. if their requests were not granted they would wage a merciless war, wipe the ayana people out of existence, and do all the hunting and trapping themselves. already there were chilcat runners in the country who were spying out the various bands, and seeking to ascertain where the chief and his daughter were passing the winter. such stories were in circulation throughout the country, losing nothing in their transmission from band to band. although klitonda was well aware how prone his people were to exaggerate such tales, and at times to make out matters really worse than they were, he felt, nevertheless, there must be some truth at the bottom of such reports. he had fully expected that the chilcats would bestir themselves over the death of the ten braves, and had often wondered what course of action they would take to obtain satisfaction. he was thinking seriously over what he had heard as he pressed steadily forward through the storm on this late mid-winter afternoon. his alert attitude, and the restless roving of his eyes among the trees plainly showed that the stories were not without their effect. he longed to catch sight of the runners now. there would be no more prowling around his lodge. at length he came to a sudden standstill, and gazed down intently upon the snow. there before him were snow-shoe tracks recently made. from the impressions left klitonda knew that it was not one of his own tribe who had passed that way. it must have been a stranger, and who else would be prowling around in such a storm but one of the chilcat spies? dropping the cord of his sled the chief unslung the bow from off his back, drew forth a sharp pointed arrow from the moose-hide quiver, and looked keenly ahead. then he started cautiously forward upon the trail of the unknown traveller. as he advanced he noted that the marks in the snow became more crooked, and it seemed as if the person who made them was staggering heavily. in one place he saw where he had evidently fallen, and only after a struggle had regained his feet. henceforth the tracks were more zig-zag than ever. wondering as to the meaning of it all klitonda now stepped on more rapidly, and soon through the storm he caught a glimpse of a reeling figure some distance beyond. that he was a chilcat he had not the slightest doubt, and his one desire was to approach quietly and dispatch him as quickly as possible. no feeling of pity stirred klitonda's heart at the sight of the unfortunate man lost in such a storm. he was a spy, his merciless enemy who had come to seek him out. the staggering man never once looked back. his head was bent forward, and he seemed to be groping his way as if in the darkest night. klitonda had the arrow fitted to the string, and was about to draw it full to the head when the stranger, with a pitiful cry of despair, threw up his hands, and fell full length upon his face in the soft yielding snow. seeing that he did not move, or make any attempt to rise, klitonda stepped warily toward him, still keeping the bow and arrow in readiness for any sudden emergency. when a few feet from where the fallen man was lying he paused and studied him most carefully. then he stepped nearer and peered down close in an effort to obtain a view of the man's face. next he laid aside his bow and arrow, seized the man and turned him over upon his back. as he did so a grunt of surprise escaped klitonda's lips. he was not a chilcat spy, but one of another race, a white man. klitonda did not begin to conjecture as to the purpose of the stranger's visit. it was sufficient for the present to know that the man was not a chilcat enemy. for the whites he had the greatest respect and admiration. white blood had flowed in the veins of his own dead wife, and for her sake, at least, he must be good to this wayfarer. stooping, he lifted the unconscious man in his arms, and retraced his steps over the trail he had just traversed. it was no light burden he bore, but a dead weight of not less than one hundred and seventy pounds. reaching the place where he had left the sled, klitonda turned somewhat to the left, and plunged rapidly forward. every moment was precious. night was shutting down early, and the storm showed no sign of abatement. but not once did klitonda hesitate as to the course he was to pursue, and ere long a log cabin loomed up suddenly out of the storm a few rods ahead. several long strides brought him to the building. then kicking off his snow-shoes, he drew aside a deer skin flap hanging over an opening, and entered. as he did so a draught of cold air rushed through, and vigorously fanned the fire burning brightly within. this structure was a typical indian abode, erected for winter use. it was stoutly made and had the appearance of having been pulled apart, leaving an open scope several feet wide in the middle. this latter was the place for the fire, the smoke escaping through the large opening overhead. at the sides, where the logs were parted, were deer-skin hangings which kept out the wind and the cold. the space on each side of the fire was as cozy and comfortable as fir boughs and skins could make it. from a kettle, resting close to the red hot embers, drifted the appetising smell of cooking meat. the interior was bright and warm, a pleasing contrast to the raging of the elements outside. but brighter than all else within that lodge was owindia, as she sat on a large soft bear skin, her fingers busily engaged upon a piece of beaded-work. her black hair was smoothed back over her broad though not high forehead. her dress of the softest and finest of native tanned deer skin fitted perfectly her lithe form. around her neck hung the slender chain, with locket attached, which had once belonged to her mother. something, however, had been disturbing owindia's peace of mind this evening. in her eyes dwelt an expression of anxiety, and at every violent gust of wind she would pause and listen intently. when the deer-skin flaps shook more than usual she always gave a distinct start. why was her father so long in coming? she wondered. had something happened to him? since the day of her mother's death she had never felt safe when left alone. she imagined that the chilcats were prowling around, trying to steal her away. this feeling was greatly intensified whenever a storm was sweeping over the land. a bright smile illumined her face, and the anxious look faded from her eyes when at last she heard her father approach, draw back the flap to the right, and enter. but when she saw the limp form in his arms she gave a slight cry of surprise, sprang lightly to her feet, and hastened to his side. carefully klitonda laid the unconscious man near the fire, and in a few words explained to his daughter his experience that afternoon. "he is a white man, little one," he said in conclusion, "and for your mother's sake we must take good care of him." owindia needed no urging to arouse her to action. the sight of the quiet man lying before her with closed eyes and drawn white face, touched her heart with the deepest pity. he was a young man, tall and powerfully built, she could tell at a glance. removing his fur-lined parka she at once began to chafe his cold numb hands. then going to the kettle steaming near the fire, she brought a hot drink in a small cup, and with her father's aid forced some of the nourishing broth between the firmly-set teeth. ere long the warmth of the fire and the drink he had taken revived the stranger. opening his eyes he looked about him in a vacant manner. then with a deep sigh he closed them again, and drifted off into a natural slumber. after klitonda had eaten his supper he donned his cap and mittens. "i am going back for my sled, little one," he said. "i left it only a short distance away, so it will not take me long. it is not safe to leave it out there." he did not notice the look of fear which leaped into his daughter's face at these words. she said nothing, however, but having watched her father leave the lodge she went back to her beaded-work. but her fingers were not busy now. she picked up the jacket, only to let it drop again into her lap. she found it impossible to keep her eyes away from the sleeping man. who was he? she wondered, and what was he doing so far on this side of the mountains? his face was different from any she had ever seen, and his hair was not long, black and straight, but dark brown, and curling over his forehead. she had caught one glimpse of his eyes when he had opened them and looked vacantly around. she should like to see them again, to notice their colour. then she drifted off into a world of fancy. were all white people beyond the mountains of the rising sun like this one? how much he must know. had he a home, and if so why did he leave it? was someone waiting for him to return? how long would he stay at the lodge, and would he go away again, and she would never see him more? although the most beautiful flower of all the maidens in the yukon region owindia had never been wooed. there was not a brave in the whole land but longed to take her to his lodge as wife, and would have fought and even died for her sake. her presence in any camp always caused a flutter of excitement, and a stirring of dusky hearts. how the striplings vied with one another in waiting upon her every want. and in their various games of wrestling, running and jumping, the victors always turned to the chief's daughter for signs of special favour. but owindia favoured none of them. although kind and friendly to all there was a barrier, a certain reserve, which always checked the most impetuous, and love-smitten braves, and kept them at a respectable distance. combined with her father's strong and independent spirit, there were her mother's powerful influence and careful teaching. klitonda's dissatisfaction with the life of his people, and his yearning for nobler things sank deep in his daughter's soul. she knew what it meant to be an ayana indian wife. had she not too often seen the life the women led? it was to be a mere drudge, to bear children, and to be an abject slave to her imperious lord and master. so much had her mother told her about the wonderful things beyond the great mountains of the rising sun that owindia held the white race to be little less than divine. was not her mother part white? she oftened reasoned with herself, and if she knew so much, and was so good what must the people be like who had all white blood in their veins? once her mother had playfully told her that a white brave would come for her, take her away, and she would see the marvellous things for herself. these words spoken so lightly had remained in owindia's mind. how real the world of fancy and romance had become to her, and often she pictured her hero coming to meet her just as her mother had said. for a while she forgot the storm and the dark night as she sat before the fire. her eyes were looking straight before her, but they dwelt upon nothing near; they only saw things far off and rosy. a movement of the lodge flap to the right attracted her attention. how hard the wind was blowing, she thought, and she glanced around to be sure that the hanging was well secured at the top. it sometimes got loose if neglected. to-night no such thing must happen. the lodge must be kept warm on account of the sleeping man. as she looked her face underwent a marvellous transformation. terror filled her eyes; wild fear blanched her cheeks; a numbing sensation almost paralysed her body. she could neither speak nor move. she could only look with eyes that never winked upon that horrible face peering in through the partly withdrawn flap. great glaring greedy eyes gloated over her; they roved around the interior of the lodge, and rested at last upon the sleeping man. to owindia it seemed an age that the terrible visage confronted her, ere at length it was withdrawn, and the flap dropped back into its place. then silence reigned, save for the roaring of the wind, the crackling of the fire, and the wild beating of owindia's heart. chapter iv warning when klitonda returned to his lodge he kicked off his snow-shoes, drew back the flap, and entered. he paused abruptly and looked with astonishment into his daughter's face. "what's wrong, little one?" he demanded. but owindia did not reply. she only sat rigid, upright, and wide-eyed, staring straight before her. "child, child, what is it?" her father insisted, stepping forward and laying his big right hand upon her shoulder. the touch aroused her, and brought her somewhat to her senses. "there, there!" she gasped, pointing with her finger to the deer-skin hanging. "what do you mean?" replied her father, following the direction of her extended arm. "didn't you see it?" she queried. "a face, oh, so terrible, looking in upon me out of the night! you must have seen it, for it disappeared just before you came." "you must have been mistaken, little one. you have been dreaming. it was the wind, and the movement of the flap." "no, no! it was a face, with horrible greedy eyes--eyes like the ones which looked at me the night my mother died. i was not mistaken." across klitonda's face swept a dark scowl, and an angry growl escaped his lips. he knew now that owindia's fear was real. he thought of what he had heard that morning about the chilcat spies. quickly he wheeled and left the lodge. he was gone only a short time, when he returned and shook the snow from his body. "no use," he muttered. "it is too dark to follow the tracks. it is just like the chilcats to choose such a night as this. we are never safe, little one." "and you think it was a chilcat, father? are you sure now that i was not mistaken; that my eyes did not deceive me?" "no, child, you were not mistaken. i heard to-day that chilcat runners are in the land spying us out." a tremor shook the girl's body as she listened, and drawing close to her father's side she put her hand in his. "don't leave me again," she pleaded. "whenever you go away they come. let me always go with you, no matter how hard the trail may be. i shall go mad if i have to stay alone after what i have endured to-night." "very well, little one," was the reply. "don't worry over it now. a good sleep will do you much good." owindia, however, found it hard to follow her father's advice. the hours passed, and the fire burned low. but sleep would not come to her eyes. the storm still raged with unabated fury. every time the flap moved she imagined she saw that horrible face looking in upon her. when toward morning she did sink into a fitful slumber she was beset by cruel chilcats, who were leering upon her with merciless eyes. then a form bounded to her rescue, drove back her assailants, seized her in his arms, and bore her away. she caught one fleeting glimpse of her rescuer ere the vision faded--it was the face of the white stranger. with the light of day courage returned to owindia's heart. the fearful scene of the past night was like a horrible dream. her face was somewhat pale, and a certain listlessness possessed her which she could not overcome. the presence of the white man kept her from brooding over her fears. the stranger of the storm, much refreshed after his long sleep, opened his eyes and looked around the lodge in astonishment. his last remembrance was of staggering through the forest, battling with the storm, and trying to urge his weary, over-taxed body forward. how had he come to this place? he wondered. who had rescued him? it did not concern him much, however, for the bed was comfortable, and his eyes were fixed upon a bright scene on the other side of the fire. it seemed like fairy-land to lie there listening to the crackling of the fire, and watching that graceful form now standing erect, and again bending over something which he could not see. where had such a beautiful creature come from? she surely did not belong to the wilderness. a form such as hers, clad in a neatly fitting dress, soft and clean, he had not expected to find in this far-off yukon region. and the poise of her head held him spellbound by its every movement. presently she turned, looked straight toward him, and their eyes met. it was only for an instant, but that glance was sufficient to stir the stranger's heart to its inmost depth. never before had he been thus affected by such eyes. they were different from any he had ever seen, so full of tenderness, mingled with sadness were they. a secret fear, as of a hunted animal lurked within their clear orbs. they were eyes which roused in the soul a longing for action, a desire to do something which would cause them to glow with pleasure and pride. the quick glance which had met the stranger's was a questioning one. "are you worthy to be trusted?" it seemed to say. and in fact the young man wanted to feel that he could be trusted. he could not describe the sensation which came to him now; he had never experienced the like before. to a man whose life had been a roving one full of adventure, it was certainly new to be captivated by a pair of eyes. but in that brief space of time, with not even a word spoken he knew that, for him, life would never be the same again. there was something more to live for than the chase, and no matter where he went those sad dark eyes would ever be with him. for some time he remained in his recumbent position satisfied to watch her helping her father. the latter was skinning the game he had taken from his traps the day before and owindia was assisting. there were various animals, fox, lynx, wolverine, and marten, for klitonda had made a good catch. owindia was stretching the pelts, and the stranger noticed how deftly she did the work. his eyes roamed from the skins near the fire to the many hanging upon the walls of the lodge. there were fine beaver pelts, and black fox skins, too, of rare quality. with the eyes of a connoisseur he noted them all, and conjectured their various values when laid down in london. and this was only one lodge. there must be hundreds more, he felt confident, each with as rich a supply as this. what prizes he had found here in the wilderness, furs to satisfy the heart of the keenest trader, and a maiden, whose presence stirred his very soul. his weariness and lassitude had left him now. he sat bolt upright that he might obtain a better view of the skins hanging around him. how much would the indian ask for them? he wondered, or were they already spoken for by some native trader? he did not believe that there were other white men in the country, but he had heard that the coast indians crossed the mountains, and did considerable bartering. he knew next to nothing about the chilcats, and had yet to learn the history of that rapacious tribe. he was the trader once more. keenness mingled with caution, and a smile of satisfaction lurked about the corners of his mouth as he thought of the favourable report he would make upon his return down river. owindia, seeing the stranger sitting up, went to the fire, lifted the cover from a kettle, and taking a spoon, artistically made from the horn of a mountain sheep, began to dip out some of the rich broth into a small wooden vessel. this done, she brought it to the white man's side, and without a word held it out for him to take. the stranger was hungry, and he drank eagerly, at the same time noticing how small were the nut-brown hands of the maiden standing before him. next she brought him a piece of well-cooked moose meat, and the relish with which he ate brought an expression of satisfaction to her face. "is the white man better now?" they were the first words she had uttered, and the stranger was surprised at the soft tone of her voice. he was delighted, too, to find that he could understand her language, which was little different from that he was in the habit of speaking. "i feel quite well," he replied. "you are very kind to me. but please tell me how i came here. i was battling through the storm, i fell and knew no more until i awoke and found myself in this lodge." "it was my father who saved you," owindia replied, while a smile illumined her face. "and is that your father over there?" "ah, ah." "and what is his name?" "klitonda." "what! klitonda, chief of the ayana?" "ah, ah." "and your name?" "owindia." "owindia; how pretty. i like it. do you wish to know mine?" "ah, ah." "natsatt is my name." "i like it," was the shy reply. "it is different from any i ever heard." klitonda in the meantime had finished his work, and had taken his place near where the white man was sitting. his face brightened as he listened to the conversation, for it always pleased him to see owindia happy. something about the stranger attracted him. he liked his face; it was candid and open. klitonda was a good judge of character. he could read men like an open book, and had a name for each. he could detect the wolf, bear, or fox nature in a short time. "i want to thank you for your kindness to me," and natsatt turned toward the chief as he spoke. "but for you i should have perished out there in the storm." "the white man is welcome to klitonda's lodge," was the quiet reply. "klitonda's heart is always warm to the great race beyond the mountains of the rising sun." "you have traded with them, then?" natsatt somewhat anxiously queried. "they have been here buying your skins?" "klitonda's wife was born there. klota's father was a white man." "oh, i see," and a surprised look came into natsatt's eyes. then he looked at owindia and light began to dawn upon his mind. here was the reason why she was so different from other indian women he had met. there was white blood in her veins. "and your wife is dead?" he questioned. "ah, ah. dead." the pathos in klitonda's voice, and the pained expression upon his face, deterred natsatt from inquiring further. "do the white traders come here now?" he asked. the chief shook his head. "no, the white men have never traded here." "but where do you sell your furs?" "to the chilcat wolves," and klitonda's voice hardened. "they come here; they rob the ayana. they are bad, ugh!" "but why do you trade with them?" "where else can the ayana trade? what can they do with their skins?" "will the chilcats get all these?" and natsatt pointed to the furs hanging on the walls. "no!" klitonda replied, clenching his hands fiercely together. "no chilcat gets these skins." "but what will you do with them?" "klitonda will cross the great mountains. he will find the white traders." "did you ever go there before?" "no." "and will other hunters take their skins there, too?" "no; they fear the chilcats." "but would they trade with the white men if they came into your country? would they bring their furs to the white man's store?" to this klitonda did not at once reply. he seemed to be thinking deeply. a new idea had entered his mind. would the white traders come? would they buy the furs, and would they help to drive back the chilcats beyond the coast range? then he thought of the anger of the chilcats should the white men enter the land, and begin trading with the ayana. there would be trouble, he felt sure of that. "it would not be safe for the white men to come," he at length remarked. "the chilcat wolves would be angry; they would come in great force, and kill them." "you think so?" natsatt questioned. "ah, ah. klitonda knows what the chilcats would do." "but the white men have come. they have built a post at the mouth of the segas river. they have goods, and will trade with the ayana. they will give fair prices for their skins." klitonda started at these words, and looked keenly into natsatt's face. "does the white man speak true?" he demanded. "does he mean all he says?" "yes, yes; it is true. the post has been built, and the white men are there. i was sent out with another trader to visit some of the indian camps, to invite them to bring their furs to the post. my companion went more to the right, while i followed the river and got lost in the storm. i hope nothing has happened to him." slowly klitonda shook his head. "let the white men beware," he replied. "the chilcats are fierce." and yet within his own heart klitonda rejoiced at what he had just heard. he himself could take his furs to the white men, and he determined to get as many as possible of his own people to do the same. he would let them know of the new post, and he felt quite sure that they would visit the place out of mere curiosity at least as soon as the ice moved out of the river. natsatt pondered carefully what klitonda had told him. the news was disturbing. he thought of the trading post down the river, devoid of defence, should the chilcats make trouble. it was his duty to return as speedily as possible, and report what he had heard. and yet he did not wish to leave the lodge. he longed to stay, to be near this beautiful maiden. he leaned comfortably back against a pile of skins, and watched her busy fingers as they ran the beads upon the slender sinew thread. the storm still roared outside, the fire crackled, and the heat made him drowsy. yes, he must hasten away; he must not delay. but those hands fascinated him. how little they were, and yet how strong. and that thread upon which the beads were slipping brought to his mind a quaint fancy. it was his life, bare and lonely, stretching out through more than a score of years. but how changed it had become of late. what a transformation had taken place. various colours, red and blue, green and orange, all blending so naturally. and it was she who did it. yes, his life was like that thread, and she was working the change, transforming bareness into beauty, sweet peace and harmony for the spirit of restlessness. he wished to stay there forever, to be close to her side, to look into her eyes, and to watch those wonderful fingers. far away now she seemed--fading from his sight--and as she moved there floated upon his ears the sound of singing, sweeter than the song of a bird, and more entrancing than any thing he had ever heard. was it a dream? chapter v secret depths natsatt opened his eyes and looked around the lodge. yes, he had been asleep, and it was only a dream after all. but the singing continued. was it the echo of that strange invisible world following him still into the world of reality? the refrain was familiar, an old tune he had heard years before. he glanced toward owindia, and then all became clear. her head was bent, her cheeks were flushed, and she was singing as she worked. for a time natsatt made no movement. he was content to watch and listen. that was happiness enough. klitonda sat in his former position, with his knees drawn up close to his chin, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. he seemed to be paying no heed to what was taking place around him. ere long natsatt ran his hand beneath his own buck-skin jacket, and drew forth a small shining mouth-organ. placing this to his lips he began to play softly the tune he had just heard. the effect was magical. owindia started, dropped her work, and let her hands fall into her lap. her eyes, filled with wonder, turned upon the player. the only musical instrument she knew was the doleful indian drum. but this! her heart beat wildly, and a new sensation thrilled her entire being. when the music ceased natsatt smiled as he noted the expression upon the maiden's face. "you like it?" he asked. "ah, ah. wonderful! wonderful!" she sighed. "i didn't know there was anything like it in the whole world. my mother often tried to tell me about such things, but she said i would have to hear for myself before i could really know." "but where did you learn that song?" natsatt questioned, speaking for the first time in english. "i didn't know you understood the white man's language." "my mother taught it to me. she often sang it. she had such a nice voice." "and did your mother speak english?" "ah, ah. there was white blood in her veins." "and she taught you the white man's tongue?" "ah, ah. even when i was a baby she would talk to me in english, but since she died i have not heard anyone speak it until you came." "do you know any other song?" natsatt asked. "did your mother teach you anything else?" "ah, ah. but i have forgotten most of them. there is one i remember quite well; it is so pretty." "will you sing it for me, please?" natsatt wished to hear her voice again, it was so perfectly natural. his soul had always been stirred by the sighing of the wind, the ripple of the brooks, or the spontaneous outpourings of the little feathered songsters. and now this sweet, clear voice was thrilling him in a similar manner. "our northern skies are fresh and fair, our woodland trails are green; i love the rock-ribbed mountains hoar, and streams that race between. for there upon a happy day, when shadows danced and played, there came a lover true and bold, and found a dusky maid." placing the mouth-organ to his lips natsatt accompanied her as she sang. never before had the little companion of his wandering life sounded so sweet. how often had that frail instrument cheered his loneliness; what solitudes had reverberated its voice down long sombre arches; and how many trail-worn men, sitting around their camp fires at night had been stirred by thoughts of other and happier days. it had done wonderful things, that little mouth-organ, not because of any intrinsic value, but by reason of the soul which poured forth its deep longings through the simple mechanism. and natsatt always played with much expression. but now his instrument seemed to be a living thing, and when owindia had ceased singing the player drifted off upon various airs one after another in rapid succession. it was the one way in which he could give vent to his feelings. he could tell it exactly what was in his heart, whether of joy or sorrow. it was all the outpouring of joy now, the ecstasy of discovery, the feeling that another life of love had blended with his. "do all of the white race play like that?" asked klitonda when natsatt had ceased. "can all make such wonderful sounds?" "not all," was the reply. "but you should hear some of them. they would laugh at this," and natsatt pointed to the mouth-organ. "there are as many kinds of things upon which they make music as there are different animals in the woods. there is one bigger than this lodge, which can growl like a bear, roar like thunder, and warble like all the birds. there is hardly any sound it cannot make." "it must be wonderful," klitonda sighed. "the white man can do so many things, and you have seen them all. klota used to tell me about them, but somehow i did not believe her. i thought she must have dreamed them." "i have not seen all the strange things myself," natsatt responded, "but i have listened to men who have. at first i did not believe all they said, but now i know that they spoke true." so sitting there in that quiet lodge he poured into the ears of his eager listeners some of the marvels of the strange world beyond the eastern mountains. he told them of cities, where houses stood closer together than the trees of the thickest forest; of canoes as big as hills; of railroads, horses, carriages; of other lands beyond the great water, where people were as many as the snow flakes falling outside. he told about the queen mother, of her battle ships, her soldiers, how she ruled such a large part of the world, and no one could conquer her. to all this klitonda listened with marked interest. but when natsatt spoke about the queen's navy and army his eyes glowed with an intense light. "and is the queen mother stronger than the chilcats?" he asked. "could she conquer them?" "bah! the chilcats are only rabbits to her," was the contemptuous reply. "and will her warriors come to help the ayana drive back the chilcats, and keep them beyond the coast range?" klitonda eagerly questioned. natsatt looked thoughtfully at this worried chief for a while ere replying. he knew what changes would take place in this northern region if the white men came pouring in. did he not know something of the history of the indians in other parts of canada; how step by step they were being forced from their ancestral hunting grounds, to find their game slaughtered by white men, and they themselves treated as babies, cooped up on reserves or falling a prey to the deadly fire-water. should he tell klitonda how the indians in eastern canada, and in the united states had been treated by the white men until they had risen in their fury in a vain attempt to drive the invaders back, and of the fearful horrors which followed the bloody battles which had been fought? how could he relate such things to this confiding chief? what would be the use? "do you wish the white men to help you against the chilcats?" he asked. "ah, ah. see," and klitonda stretched out his arm to the left as he spoke, "all this land belonged to the ayana people. they hunted and trapped in the forest, and fished in the streams as did their fathers before them. they were strong, and their warriors feared no foe. but the chilcats beat them in a great battle, and the hearts of the ayana became weak. they run away; they hide in the woods, and mountains. they hear the wolves of the coast coming, and they tremble. they trade their furs and get little or nothing for them. the chilcats steal the wives and daughters of the ayana. they tried to steal owindia. klota fought them, and she died. klitonda came suddenly from the forest. he killed one chilcat, and the other escaped." the chief had risen to his feet, and was standing erect as he uttered these words. the memory of that outrage was stirring his soul. his eyes glowed, and his hands were hard-clenched by his side. natsatt had caught klitonda's spirit. his heart beat in sympathy with the indian's. "and are the chilcats such wolves?" he demanded. "ah, ah, much worse," the chief replied. "wolves are sometimes satisfied, but the chilcats never. they are always hunting klitonda. they never stop. they would kill him, and steal owindia. the son of the chilcat chief wants her. she is never safe." natsatt's heart now beat faster than ever, and he glanced toward owindia sitting quietly before him. she had been looking full into his face as he talked with her father. she was leaning somewhat forward, her eyes sparkling with animation, with her lips slightly parted. she had been drinking in every word that had been said about the great world of the white race. her eyes dropped as they encountered those of the young man, and a flush mantled her cheeks. into natsatt's heart shot a sudden feeling of dread. he understood why the son of the chilcat chief should seek to obtain this maiden. such beauty of features, and perfection of form would be fatal gifts even in the world of civilisation. but here in the wilderness where might was right, how hardly could she escape. the thought of her danger grew stronger upon him. but what could he do to save her? he must make an effort at any rate. he must not lose her now. and yet his own position was as precarious as hers. if the chilcats were as ferocious as klitonda had described they would not long endure the presence of the white traders in the country. even now, no doubt, they knew about the post, and were planning for its speedy destruction. it would therefore be necessary for him to leave owindia, hurry down the river, and warn his companions of the danger to which they were exposed. but how could he go away from this maiden, who all unconsciously was exerting such a strong influence upon his restless spirit? so impetuous was his nature that he did not stop to consider what owindia's feelings might be toward him. he thought merely of his own happiness and what it meant to be near her, and to look upon her face. in her presence there was fulness of life, such as he had never known before. and to think that she was in danger from the chilcats! a flood of anger suddenly rushed upon him. why did the ayana allow such tyrants to oppress them? they were strong enough to hurl back the invaders, and why did they not do it? "have the ayana no hearts?" he asked, turning toward klitonda. "can nothing be done to arouse them to fight the chilcats, and to drive them back?" "nothing," was the sad reply. "klitonda has gone from camp to camp, and has said much. the ayana talk, but do nothing." "are they all weak-hearted?" natsatt demanded. "are there none who will stand by their chief?" "there are some who are not cowards, but they are only a few. they would follow klitonda to the death if he called them." thus natsatt learned that little help could be expected from the ayana indians. the white traders had come into the country, and were they to be driven back, probably killed, when spring came? no, such a thing must not happen. as soon as the storm abated he would hurry back to the post. it would be necessary for him to leave owindia for a while. to remain would be worse than useless. and thus throughout the short winter day the three sat quietly in the lodge and talked of many things. the conversation was mostly between klitonda and natsatt, but occasionally owindia spoke, and her words were always like the sweetest of music to the ardent young lover. chapter vi rejected the next morning the sky was clear, the tempest having beaten out its fury during the night. it had been the heaviest storm of the season, and in fact for several years. the snow was piled high around the lodge, and it was with difficulty that klitonda forced his way through the yielding mass to gain the outer world. it was necessary for him to hasten forth as the last stick had been thrown upon the fire, and he must seek for more dry fuel amidst the forest. not a breath of wind stirred the trees. they stood shrouded and heavily laden with their white burden. not a sound broke the intense silence, and no track of man, beast or bird marred the snow. within the lodge stood natsatt and owindia. the former was girt for a long journey, and a pair of snow-shoes, borrowed from klitonda, leaned against the wall. he was holding owindia's hands in his, and his eyes were looking lovingly into her blushing downcast face. there was not the slightest doubt as to the attitude of the two. a love deep and tender burned within their hearts. they had waited years for such a meeting. natsatt had wandered far and wide, but not until he had reached this spot in the forest did he find the one to whom his heart responded. "and you will come back--some day?" owindia was asking. "you will not forget?" "forget? how can i ever forget?" was the passionate reply. "and you will be waiting for me, will you not, little one? you will be glad to see me?" "ah, ah. the days will be like years while you are away. but sometimes i fear you might never return. since you came life has been so different. there is much to live for now. and yet--" here she hesitated, and paused. "what is it?" questioned natsatt. "i have been wondering how you, a white man, can love owindia. there must be so many maidens of your own race beyond the mountains of the rising sun. i know so little, while they must be so wise and beautiful." "oh, that's what's troubling you," natsatt laughed, pressing her hands more firmly in his. "but i am as much an indian, nay more so, than you are. i speak several indian languages better than the english; i was born in the wilderness, and have spent most of my life there. and i am going to tell you something now which may astonish you. my father was a white man, but my mother was an indian woman. so you see i am what is called a 'half-breed.'" owindia started at these words, and looked keenly into natsatt's eyes to make sure that he was speaking the truth. "but you seem like a white man," she replied. "maybe you are laughing at owindia in your heart." "no, no, i am not," protested the young man. "what i tell you is true. people at times will not believe me because i look so much like a full-blooded white man. but surely you will believe me. why should i lie to you?" "i know now you tell me true when you look at me that way," and owindia glanced shyly at him as she spoke. "my heart is, oh, so happy. it sings all the time." in response to this natsatt stooped, and imprinted a fervent kiss upon her lips. it was the first time that she had known a lover's kiss, and it thrilled her whole being. owindia did nothing by halves. she was a creature of the wild. her likes and dislikes were strong. when her heart was stirred it was intense, overwhelming. lifting her long slender arms she twined them suddenly around natsatt's neck, and laid her cheek against his. never had she known such real happiness, not even in the days when her mother had enfolded her in her loving embrace. and thus all through that day she lived in a world of dreams. her mind was ever with natsatt, and she pictured him speeding over the snow on his way down to the trading post. her father did not notice her far away look, nor her abstracted manner, for he himself was lost in a world of deep thought. he sat hour after hour before the fire with his knees close up to his chin, staring straight before him. he only bestirred himself to replenish the fire or to eat his frugal meal which owindia prepared. he sat in this position until midnight. then he rolled himself up in his blanket and slept till morning. when he awoke his every movement spoke of definite action. owindia was surprised to see him set to work to take down the numerous pelts from the walls and arrange them in two piles. sometimes he would stand for a while as if debating with himself into which pile he would put certain valuable furs. when at last all the skins had been taken down he tied the two bundles together with stout moose-hide thongs. owindia asked no questions. she understood her father's peculiar moods and knew when to be silent. he would tell her his plans at the proper time, she felt sure. putting on his snow-shoes, and swinging the larger bundle upon his shoulder, klitonda left the lodge and strode rapidly across the open until he came to a place where three trees stood quite close together. up among the branches was his cache, where he kept his supply of moose meat safe from prowling dogs and wolves. tying a long moose-hide cord to the bundle, and taking the other end in his hand he climbed one of the trees to the scaffold of poles above. then drawing up the heavy bundle he placed it in the centre of the cache, and with a grunt of satisfaction returned by the way he had come. once back in the lodge his tongue became unloosened. "little one," he began, "my heart is much stirred by what the stranger told us. the white men have come, and have built the trading post. they will help us to drive back the chilcats. as i sat by the fire last night i saw a strange sight. klota, your mother, seemed to be standing by my side, and she was pointing toward the mountains of the rising sun. and as i looked i saw the passes filled with people of the white race coming toward me. i am sure now that they are on their way into this country, and will help us." "perhaps you were dreaming, father," owindia replied. "no, no, it was no dream. i was awake, and know it was real. so, little one, we must hurry away from here, and bear the great news to our people. they will not refuse to rouse to action when i tell them about the white men, and what they will do for us. i shall take these furs as gifts to the scattered bands. you must come with me. we shall hasten away at once, for there is no time to lose." owindia knew how useless it would be to argue with her father when once his mind was settled upon some definite line of action. with a sigh she gathered up her few belongings, tied them in a small bundle, and took down her light snow-shoes from two pegs driven into the wall. she did not cherish the idea of leaving the snug cabin for the long marches over the dreary wastes of a snow-shrouded land. she wished to remain where she was, for the hope was strong within her heart that natsatt would shortly return, and what would he think when he found the place deserted? she kept these thoughts to herself, however, and obediently followed her father out of the cabin, with her small pack suspended over her shoulders. once outside the lodge klitonda paused and stood for a few moments lost in thought. then lifting up his face, he uttered words such as owindia had never heard him speak before. "great spirit," he began, "and klota's great father, listen to klitonda. give the ayana people hearts of fire, and strength of grizzlies of the mountains, that they may rise and drive back the chilcats. send the white people into this land like the wild geese when the ice leaves the rivers, and the snow disappears, that they may help us." he ceased, and stood for a few moments looking straight before him. then without another word he strode forward into the sombre forest, with owindia following silently after. for days they threaded their way over the great silent land. spectres they seemed gliding through forests, climbing steep hills, winding along sloping mountain sides, and dotting here and there large inland lakes. occasionally they stayed their steps where a few lone hunters and trappers had their camp. at each place klitonda would spend the whole night talking to the eager few gathered about the camp fire. formerly one topic, and only one, was the theme of vital importance, and that was the hated chilcats. now the interest was greatly intensified by the story of the advent of the white men. deeply interested in his subject, and a natural orator of much repute among the tribes of the north, klitonda as a rule succeeded in imparting to his hearers some of his own enthusiasm. but, alas, after he left, the fire generally burned low, and sometimes went out altogether. in the presence of their chief the ayana people could be stirred for a time, but the fear of the chilcats was too strong for the impression to last. klitonda's stay at such places was always short. miles beyond he knew there was a large band of indians, and thither he and owindia turned their faces. it was a cold late afternoon as weary with their long march, they reached the encampment, and here that night klitonda related again the marvellous tale he had come so far to tell. for this moment he had been longing since the day he had started forth from his lonely lodge in the wilderness. surely now these hunters would respond as they listened to the story of the white man, the opportunity for better trade, and the assistance they would receive in driving back the chilcats. but as he talked his keen eyes noted the apathy upon the faces of those before him. he even detected signs of hostility, which was different from anything he had ever experienced in their midst. they had always treated him with marked respect even though they did not carry out his wishes. when at length he ceased the usual exclamations of assent were wanting. a deep silence prevailed, which to klitonda was most ominous. he could not understand the meaning of such action. when, however, old nagu, the crafty medicine man, rose slowly to his feet, light dawned upon the chief's mind. in this man he saw his bitter opponent, his violent enemy. he recalled the day, over a year ago, when he had mortally offended this wily impostor. he had refused to pay the customary tribute, or "medicine," of valuable furs and skins to this man. he had told him that his incantations were all a farce, and that he himself was a useless humbug. for years klitonda had despised the vain pretensions of this creature. he had kept his thoughts to himself, however, and had paid the required tribute, until that day, when roused by the insolence of the man, he had expressed his feelings in no moderate terms. klitonda had yet to learn that the way of the reformer is hard, and that people held in thrall by the ingrained superstition of ages, are not easily taught to open their eyes to the bright light of a new and an ampler day. such a task at any time is difficult, but it is increased tenfold when the acknowledged leaders, whether they be prophets, priests or medicine men are themselves debased, and are seeking for material gain and personal influence. and such was nagu. those who honoured him, he favoured; but woe betide the man or woman daring enough to offer any opposition. so standing there in the midst of his people, he hurled his pent-up anger at klitonda. subtly concealing his own personal injury he upbraided the chief as the cause of all their present trouble. he had been stirring up strife, had killed the chilcat brave, and thus brought upon the ayana people the extra vengeance of the coast tribe. and what were they now to do? the chilcats were coming in full force, and if klitonda were not delivered up terrible would be the consequences. during his harangue the medicine man had worked himself up to the highest pitch of fury. he foamed, raved, and gesticulated like a madman, while all the time his eyes glared upon klitonda with the most intense hatred. during this attack the chief stood like a statue, with owindia crouching near at his feet. the latter was terrified by the scene before her. but not a movement of her father's face betrayed the state of his feelings. it was only when the medicine man had ceased and the murmurs of approval had subsided, that he took a step forward, and looked around upon the assembled natives. a sadness, mingled with pity might have been detected in his eyes as he stood there. then he lifted his right arm and pointed to the medicine man. "will the ayana people listen to such words as that creature has just uttered?" he asked. "they know it is not klitonda who is to blame for all their trouble; it is their own cowardly hearts. where is the spirit of our ancestors? where is the power of our once famous ayana tribe? there was a time when the call to battle was like the sweetest of music to our people. they gloried in war. klitonda would rouse the ayana to action. but they would rather be slaves. they wish to crawl like dogs at the feet of the chilcat wolves. klitonda is your chief. he has never failed his people yet. he stands here to-night; his daughter is there," and he partly turned as he spoke and pointed to the pathetic figure of owindia crouching upon the snow. "take your chief; take his daughter, and give them to the chilcats that you may be safe. then go and tell your little ones, and when they are grown let them tell their children that you were afraid to fight; that your hearts were like water, and your arms like straw, and you gave up your chief and his daughter to those wolves of the coast. how will it sound? you hunters and trappers, answer me that. klitonda is willing to give himself, nay to die for his people. here he stands, come and take him." he paused, and waited for some one to advance. but none moved. what hunter would dare to lay hands upon that chief, of whose courage and prowess they were well aware? they did not even look upon his face, but sat or stood with downcast averted eyes. their chiefs words had cut deep, for they knew that they were true. only the medicine man glared like a wild beast, but to him klitonda gave no heed. the latter waited to see what the people would do. but finding that they remained silent and inactive, he turned to owindia and took her by the hand. "come, little one," he said. "let us get back to the wilderness. our people do not want us." not a word was uttered, and not a hand was raised as father and daughter left the camp, and turned their faces toward the black, silent forest. the chief had come to his own, to help, to uplift them; but his own received him not. they preferred the flesh pots of serfdom to the freedom of a larger and a fuller life. klitonda was accustomed to discouragements. he could meet death without a tremor. when face to face with avowed enemies his heart thrilled with the joy of conflict. but when it came to downright opposition and repulsion by his own people it was different. next to owindia they were nearest his heart in affection. for them he had toiled and suffered, and for them he was willing to die. their pitiable downtrodden condition moved him deeply. though he had often lashed the men with stinging words in the hope of stirring the spirit of manhood within them, there was really no anger in his heart. he had looked upon their strong, lithe forms; he had studied them at their games, in which they rivalled with one another in feats of endurance. oh, if he could only utilise such strength in a more worthy cause, how much might be accomplished. he had watched the bright-eyed comely maidens, and a sadness always filled his heart, for he knew that the more beautiful they were the sooner would they be likely to fall captives to the wily chilcats. even the little babes in their moose-skin bags touched him. what trials and sorrows they had ahead of them--the same life of serfdom as their parents. for the cowardice of their forefathers the little ones must tread the cruel trail of affliction. so on this night of the rejection as he and owindia pushed speedily on their way, there was no feeling of bitterness within his heart except for the medicine man. he knew that that wretched creature had much to do with his present failure. he himself was free from his dominating power. but not so the rest of the tribe. owindia uttered not a word as she followed her father through the shadowy forest. she was tired not only in body but also in mind. the trying ordeal through which they had just passed had almost overcome her. she knew that now they were exposed to two dangers, one from the chilcats; the other, from their own people. surely no outcasts were ever placed in a more lamentable position than were these two waifs of the night. no word of complaint, no outcry at the injustice done to him, broke from klitonda's lips. he was not like the cur, which rushes away at a kick it has received. he was rather like some lordly monarch of the forest, which deeply wounded seeks some quiet spot to be alone in its great agony. no sleep came to his eyes that night. amid a friendly thicket of fir trees he made their camp, and while owindia slept, he either sat before the fire, or paced restlessly up and down among the trees. he was most alert, and at every sound he listened intently, partly expecting an attack from his own people. that they were contemplating handing him and owindia over to the chilcats he had not the slightest doubt. when he was present with them he knew they had not the courage to seize him. but under cover of night they might make the attack, expecting to find him asleep. all the next day they continued on their journey, back to the lodge in the wilderness. owindia was well accustomed to the trail, and did not find it difficult to keep up with her father. although grieving over what had recently taken place, a sweet peace dwelt in her heart. natsatt was constantly in her mind, and the thought of him cheered her through the long hours of the day, and she fell asleep at night thinking of her lover. could natsatt have seen the graceful swing of her lithe form, and beheld the rich colour of perfect health mantling cheeks and brow, he would have been more enamoured than ever. owindia confided none of her happy thoughts to her father. he was too much engrossed with his own cares at present. she was content to keep them hidden away within her own breast, like dew-kissed flowers nestling in some secret dell. the second night klitonda was too weary to keep watch. he felt safer now, and believed that they would not be followed so far into the forest. he remained for a while, however, after owindia had fallen asleep, watching the dying embers. then he rolled himself up in his warm wolf-skin blanket, and was soon in slumber deep. chapter vii tokens silence prevailed for a few minutes in the indian encampment after klitonda and owindia had left. all sat or stood with bent heads, each waiting for some one else to speak first. nagu alone cast his eyes furtively around. he was pleased at the defeat of the chief, but somewhat disturbed by the stillness which reigned. he partly divined the cause, and believed that the indians were ashamed of their own cowardice, and the way they had treated klitonda. he knew how his own influence even now hung in the balance, and it needed only a few to make a decided stand, and all would join them. and while this unnatural quietness brooded over the place a score of hunters glided into their midst. their arrival at this moment was most opportune. the tension was relieved, and all began to talk at once. the subject was klitonda, and the message he had delivered. nothing was said about the medicine man or the part that he had played in defeating the object of their chief's visit. but the returned hunters at length learned the whole story when nagu had betaken himself to his own lodge. they were a score of strapping braves, and had travelled far that day. but all sense of weariness disappeared as they drew aside and earnestly consulted with one another. out in the wild during the long nights around their camp fires they had discussed many things concerning their own land, and the dominant sway of the chilcats. for their chief they had the most profound respect. they believed that with a band of men to support him the invaders could be driven back. this idea had been gripping them hard for some time, and had drawn them together more than formerly. kindred spirits they were who had now emerged from the forest at this critical moment. the medicine man was not satisfied with their presence. he watched them from his lodge, and endeavoured to hear what they were saying, but all in vain, for the young men spoke low, and kept their counsel to themselves. had nagu drawn near just then it would not have been well with him, for these braves were in no mood for interference from this creature whom they were beginning to despise. next morning, bright and early, they glided away from camp, and followed the tracks made by klitonda and his daughter in the pure white snow. their eyes were keenly alert, and they moved forward with scarcely a sound. they were evidently watching for something besides the chief and owindia. it was almost dark, when, about to emerge from the forest to cross a small lake, they paused abruptly, and crouched back among the trees. out in the open their eyes had caught sight of a lone lank timber wolf. he had stopped and was sniffing the tracks he had found upon the snow. presently he lifted his head and threw his nose into the air. the hated man smell had drifted to his sensitive nostrils, and that spelled danger. but ere he had time to beat a retreat a half dozen bow strings twanged among the trees, and as many pointed arrows hurtled through the air, and sank deep into the brute's lean side. with a wild yell of agony the wolf gave a tremendous bound into the air and then rolled over in the snow, its body quivering in the throes of death. it did not take the hunters long to rush from the forest, and examine their victim. soon a sharp knife was produced, and with much deftness the heart was removed from the animal's body. it was apparent that the wolf was needed neither for its skin, nor for food. there was another motive for its death. with the heart warm and bleeding thus procured, the braves formed themselves in a circle about the grewsome object. then each hunter drew forth an arrow, and inserted its point deep into the soft flesh. no word was spoken during this performance, which had the appearance of a religious ceremony, bloody though it was. then facing the forest to their left they held aloft their dripping arrows, and as one their voices rang out: "as the heart blood of this wolf dyes the points of these arrows, so twenty ayana hunters will never cease until these same points are stained with the heart blood of their enemies. let these blood-marked arrows be tokens of their resolve, and let the great spirit bear witness." this done they sped on their way, leaving behind them the body of the wolf, its blood flowing forth, and turning the white snow to a crimson hue. by this time darkness had settled over the land, but the hunters heeded it not. with never a single hesitation they followed the tracks which stretched out far ahead. ere long the moon rose full and bright above the tops of the pointed trees. it rode high in the heavens, and dimly illuminated the long cathedral-like aisles of the silent forest. the trees threw out straight trailing shadows like sharp pointed lances. it was a scene of surpassing beauty; light and shade, peace and grandeur; the full triumphant moon above, the gem-besprinkled carpet of snow below. and through this magic palace sped the feet of the ayana braves. their hearts were not stirred by the splendour which surrounded them. to them this fairy world held no fascination. their hearts were not enthralled by nature's alluring witchery. it was midnight when at length their steps grew slower, and they moved more cautiously. through the keen night air drifted the scent of smouldering wood. presently a rough "lean-to" was faintly discerned several rods ahead. they peered keenly forward, but no one was visible, and not a sound disturbed the intense silence. the hunters did not approach any nearer now, but remained crouched upon the snow in a watchful attitude. it was a keen night, but the young men did not seem to mind it. for about two hours they kept watch over the little camp. then they noticed klitonda rise to his feet and rekindle the fire from a few hot coals. at once the young men stepped quickly forward and stood before the chief. turning, the latter saw them, and leaped for his bow and arrows. then standing defiantly before the place where owindia was lying, he faced the young men. he believed that they had come to attack him and to take him back as captive. he was, therefore, much surprised when one of the braves advanced and lifted his hand as a sign of peace. still klitonda was not satisfied, and remained ready for any emergency. perhaps this was only a ruse on the part of these braves. why had they followed him so far into the forest unless they had some sinister motive in view? and thus standing there in the light of the moon he appeared a most formidable antagonist. a man of powerful build, and of great stature, he seemed now a veritable giant. his aspect at this moment was enough to cause even the stoutest heart to shrink. the advancing brave hesitated, and then spoke. "great chief," he began, "the ayana braves are no enemies to klitonda. they bring peace. they come to serve their chief, not to harm him. they followed hard upon his tracks until they found him. they bring tokens of their allegiance. will the great chief receive them?" he paused, and klitonda lowered his bow. "why do the ayana braves come here?" he replied. "do they wish to mock their chief? but, stay, klitonda is their chief no longer; they have rejected him. he is an outcast. his own people would give him over to the chilcats. his plans have failed, they are like this," and klitonda seized a handful of snow, and let it fall slowly downward. "the great chiefs words are only partly true," the young brave quietly returned. "there are twenty braves standing here, whose hearts are true to their chief. they would follow him to death on behalf of their country. they bring these tokens of their faith--tokens stained with blood. as they are red from a wolf's bleeding heart, so may they be more deeply stained by the heart blood of the chilcat wolves." saying which the brave stepped forward, and handed klitonda the blood-marked arrow. one by one his companions did the same. not a word was spoken during this performance. klitonda received them all, and held the arrows in his right hand. he looked at the tokens, and then at the young men standing before him. "what will klitonda do with these?" he asked, holding forth the score of arrows. "keep them," was the reply, "and when the great chief wants the twenty ayana braves, let him send the tokens, and they will come swift as the wind." to these words klitonda said nothing. he stood looking beyond the braves far off into the forest. the unexpected appearance of these young men was affecting him deeply. the great weight which had been pressing upon his heart was somewhat removed. all of his own people had not rejected him. there were twenty braves who were ready to stand by his side. there was comfort in the thought. he wished to speak, to tell all that was in his heart. but words refused to come. he was like a dumb man. the braves saw the struggle which was taking place in their chief's mind, and his silence impressed them more than a long oration. presently klitonda turned as if to place several sticks upon the fire. as he did so he saw owindia standing quietly near. upon her face was an expression of joy. she had been a silent witness of all that had taken place. the braves had seen her when first she appeared, but they gave no sign that they were aware of her presence. but twenty hearts thrilled as they saw her standing near her father. klitonda held out the arrows to owindia. "take them, little one," he said. "they will be safe in your keeping. is it the will of the ayana braves," he continued, turning to the young man, "that their chief's daughter should guard these tokens which they have brought?" "ah, ah," burst at once from a score of lips. "let the chief's daughter keep the blood-marked tokens." thus in the depth of that great forest twenty resolute braves gave their allegiance to klitonda their chief. indians they were, in the rough, untouched by any of the refining influences of civilisation. and yet they were real sons of mother nature. their word was their bond, and having once made their vow of allegiance nothing could induce them to break it. chapter viii the vanguard to enter a region never before trodden by white men, and to erect a fur trading post where the sole inhabitants are uncouth indians, means courage of no ordinary degree. and, yet, when "ranger" dan forced his way beyond the rocky mountains, with his ten companions, and built the trading post fort-o-venture at the confluence of the yukon and the segas rivers, the thought that he had done anything out of the ordinary never entered his mind. so accustomed had he been for long years to the perils of the wilderness that the dangers he and his men encountered in their hazardous journey were of but passing notice. his companions did not fully understand their leader. months before when ranger dan had searched long and diligently for a number of determined men to accompany him to the great river west of the rockies, many people believed that he was taking leave of his senses. "why," they asked one another, "should a man at his advanced age wish to undertake such a journey? surely it was not for gain, as dan had acquired more than ordinary of this world's goods in his years of trading with the indians. what, then, was the object of the expedition?" often the traders east of the mountains had turned their eyes wistfully westward, and longed to know what lay beyond those towering snow-capped peaks. stray rumours at times had drifted to their ears of the extent of that unknown region, with its abundance of fur-bearing animals. but hitherto no one had dared to cross those northern ranges and solve the mystery. indians told weird tales of the wildness of the land, of treacherous rivers, foaming rapids, and natives, numerous and blood-thirsty. little wonder, then, that ranger dan found it difficult to obtain enough men to accompany him on his apparently mad venture. when asked as to the purpose of the undertaking he would always give a quiet smile, and stroke his long beard before replying. "i've something lost beyond those mountains," he would say. "it's been lost for years, and i must try to find it. i've a treasure over yon, and doesn't the great book say that 'where your treasure is there will your heart be also'? i guess those words apply to this world as well as to the next." and so dan's "treasure" story passed from mouth to mouth. "he's after furs," said some. "no, it's gold the fool's seeking," replied others. "that's the treasure he thinks he'll get over yon." after much difficulty dan was able to find ten men who were willing to undertake the journey. liberal pay induced several to join the expedition; while others were lured by the spirit of adventure. all had led a roving life for years, and here was an opportunity for new and further excitement. as the days passed ranger dan was enabled to learn much about his companions. amid the dangers of the way, the hard tracking, and packing over the long portages their real natures stood out clearly defined. they were men unaccustomed to discipline, of unbridled passion, and ready to desert their leader at any critical moment. only upon natsatt, the reserved young half-breed, did he feel that he could fully depend. ranger dan was a stern man, and during his long experience in the wilderness had ruled with a firm hand. when in charge his word was law, and he would brook no opposition. of large build and great stature he was a man to command immediate respect. many an offender had reason to remember the flashing gleam of his wrathful eyes, and the sledge-hammer blows of his tense knuckles. "when i'm in command," he had often said, "i'm going to be obeyed, else what's the use of having a leader." he talked but little, and at times he would stand facing the west, with a far away look in his faded grey eyes. each night around the camp fire natsatt would bring forth his little mouth-organ, and play several simple tunes. then all talking would cease and the men would lie back and listen to the familiar strains they had heard years before. ranger dan always enjoyed such moments, and his face would brighten as he listened, although occasionally a half-suppressed sigh would escape his lips. natsatt often watched his leader, and felt that there was something troubling his mind of which he and his companions were not aware. he longed to know of what he was thinking as he stood gazing far off into space. as the days passed his respect for ranger dan increased. he seemed to be tireless, and his knowledge of woodcraft was wonderful. but it was when they settled down to the steady work of building the post at the mouth of the river that his respect developed into admiration. dan at once set the men to work preparing timber for the building. there was little time to lose, for the season was advancing, and soon cold weather would be upon them. never once did he hesitate as to the position or size of the house. the most suitable site was chosen close to the river, and here the post was erected, with store attached. in a few weeks the work was well under way. built entirely of hewn logs, chinked with moss, and this covered with soft clay found along the bank of the river, it was a structure capable of withstanding the most severe weather. it seemed almost like a fort so large were the logs which had been rolled into place, and securely fastened upon one another. glass for the small windows there was none. caribou skins, devoid of hair, and scraped thin, were stretched across the openings, and these let in some light when the door was shut. two large stone fire-places were erected, at which their cooking was done. these would serve to give light as well as heat, for it would be necessary to reserve their small supply of candles they had brought with them. the building was completed none too soon, for winter swept down upon them much sooner than they had expected. the river became solid from bank to bank, snow covered the land, and the frost became stinging in its intensity. the days were short, and the nights long. it was necessary for the best hunters to scour the surrounding hills and forest for moose and mountain sheep. natsatt had the best luck of all, and by means of his excellent marksmanship he was able to add much to their larder. the first two months of severe weather passed away most pleasantly. there was very little for the men to do, and they enjoyed the long rest after their hard labours since leaving the eastern side of the mountains. the cheerful fires made the large room almost as light as day. dry, soft wood was plentiful, and they burned it without stint. cards formed the chief amusement, interspersed with singing of songs, and story telling. it was a time of general good fellowship. they were a little company alone in the vast wilderness. "what more could men desire?" they asked one another, "than a life such as this? abundance of game, long hours of sleep, work of the lightest, and no cares to distract the mind." during the whole of this time no indian had visited the post by day. canoes had passed up and down the river during the fall, but the occupants had not disembarked to examine the new building upon the bank. if the natives came at all it must have been in the night, departing without leaving the slightest sign of their presence. often the men discussed the matter before the open fire. there was a general impression that they were being watched; that indians were prowling around, though keeping warily out of sight. "it isn't natural," commented larry dasan, a big burly canadian. "i've helped build a dozen trading posts in my time, an' before we had the first logs laid the siwashes were always around us like flies--men, women, papooses, and lean dogs galore. they were coming and going all the time. but here," and he threw out his right hand in disgust, "not a d---redskin has set foot on the premises by day, an' it's been four months since we arrived." "me no savvey wat it all mean," replied pierre goutre, a small frenchman. "bad beezness dis. no injun, no fur, no monee, hey? ol' man heem mak' beeg meestake, me tink. heem send natsatt an' tony to round up injun. mebbe dey'll ketch 'em." the men generally indulged in such free conversation when ranger dan was not present. at times the latter would take his snow-shoes, and tramp the woods for hours. he wished to be alone--to think. to him the games and idle chat of his men were of no interest. he was playing another game in which the heart alone was concerned, and he had staked much upon the throw. he needed the trade of the indians of this land, as the furs would reimburse him for the heavy expenditure he had made. but he could do without their trade if only they would come to the post. if from far and near, from forest depths, mountain lakes, and turbid rivers, they would gather to look upon the white men, and the building they had erected. if once he could see them, then they might go their way without making the smallest purchase from the store. if only he could behold their dusky faces even for a few moments, he would be somewhat satisfied. he believed that somewhere in this region would come the one for whom his heart had so long been yearning. and even though she did not appear surely among all the bands of the north he would hear some word of her, whether she were dead or alive. men had called him a fool. but what did he care? how could they understand the deep passionate longings of an old man's lonely heart? he missed natsatt from the post, and anxiously awaited his return. that he and tony would bring some word of the indians he had no doubt. but when the storm burst over the land his anxiety developed into fear for the absent ones. when at length tony staggered in almost exhausted from his hard battle with the raging of the elements, ranger dan felt sure that natsatt had been lost, unless perchance he had found refuge in some indian camp. this latter gave him but little comfort, for tony had not met a single native, neither had he seen any signs of recent camp fires. natsatt had become very dear to the old ranger's heart. he had conversed with him more than with the others, and they had numerous things in common. every night dan would lie in the bunk and listen to natsatt playing old familiar airs. but with the young man away the days and nights seemed uncommonly long and dreary. it was the second evening after the storm that they were all gathered about one of the fire-places. they were discussing again for the hundredth time natsatt's probable fate. to go in search of him they knew would be useless. his tracks had long since been obliterated, and the snow was too deep to find his body should he have perished in the wilderness. ranger dan was about to turn into his bunk, when the door suddenly opened, and natsatt entered. had his ghost appeared out of the night his companions could not have been more astonished. they greeted him as one from the dead, and plied him with all sorts of questions as to his experience in the storm. the news of vital importance natsatt reserved for ranger dan alone. he waited until the others had gone to bed. then drawing his leader aside, in a low voice he told him all he had learned about the fierce chilcats, and what a menace they might prove to the trading post. dan became deeply interested in the story, and asked the young man many questions concerning the coast tribe, and their domineering sway over the ayana indians. "this is all new to me," he at length remarked. "i must have time to think it over, and decide what is the best to do. if what you have just told me is true it may help to explain something which has been puzzling me for years. you had better rest now, for you must be greatly wearied after your long trip. i am very grateful to the chief klitonda for saving your life. he must be a remarkable man, and a very exceptional indian." natsatt said nothing about the chief's daughter, owindia. he did not wish his companions to know of the prize he had found in the wilderness. his love was too sacred a thing to be bandied about on the lips of coarse minded men. he had heard much of their conversation in the past, and knew what to expect if he divulged his great heart's secret. he had thorough knowledge of the lives of some of these men. little respect had they for native women, considering them merely as their lawful prey. he trembled, therefore, with apprehension as he thought of owindia. such beauty and charm of face and form could hardly escape their hawk-like, greedy eyes. he himself had often laughed at a number of their base jokes. but now his heart grew hot within him. how could he endure such remarks about owindia? no, they would not be repeated in his presence, he was determined about that. he would guard her to the last. absence of several days had increased his love for the chief's daughter. the post seemed unusually lonely and uninteresting since his return. he longed to be back again to the little cabin in the forest. he did not even mention his secret to dan. he knew he could trust the old ranger, but he hesitated about mentioning it now when his leader's mind was worried over the chilcats. no, he would say nothing at present, but wait for a more favourable opportunity. it did not take ranger dan long to make up his mind concerning what natsatt had told him about the coast tribe. one night was sufficient for him in which to decide, and the next morning he explained his position to his men. he told them how essential it would be to fortify the post lest the chilcats should come, and find them unprepared. he accordingly ordered the men into the forest to cut suitable trees for the barricade he intended to erect. thus the days of repose were at an end. some of the men murmured at the task which confronted them. but dan was obdurate, and commanded them to obey or to leave the post. there was, therefore, nothing for the objectors to do but to fall in line and work, for to leave at such a season of the year would mean almost certain death. trees of a suitable size were felled, and drawn to the post on a rough sled made for the purpose. they were all carefully trimmed, and their tops hewn to sharp points. as it was impossible to dig trenches in which to place the trees it was necessary to build a heavy frame work for their support. thus day by day the work steadily advanced, and ere long one side of the post was protected by a most formidable barricade, which was almost insurmountable for the most agile warrior. only for a few hours each day could the men remain at their work. at times it was bitterly cold, which often severely tested their patience. dan worked with his men, at the same time supervising everything. as the days began to lengthen the weather grew warmer, and the work advanced more rapidly. the post stood but several rods from the river. to the latter dan ran two rows of trees, thus forming a narrow passage through which water could be carried in case of an attack, and also to form a means of retreat to their canoe if necessary. spring was upon them by the time the work was completed, and the men were thus enabled to rest awhile from their labours. as soon as the ice left the river dan expected the indians to arrive, if they were to come at all. it was the time after their long months of hunting when they would wish to dispose of their furs. so far no further word had been heard of the chilcats. dan was not surprised, for he knew that they had a long distance to travel, and the river was the only feasible route when the snow had left the ground. every morning when he arose he partly expected to see some of the ayana indians before night. as the days passed, and none appeared, an anxious expression was seen upon his face. natsatt noticed it, and sympathised with his leader. he, too, was longing for the appearance of the natives. surely klitonda and his daughter would be among the first to arrive. how he yearned to see owindia. her image had been constantly in his mind since he had left her in the little lodge long weeks before. had she, too, been longing for him? he wondered. he found it hard to dissemble his feelings so as not to arouse the suspicion of his companions. but at times they did chaff him about his absent-mindedness, and the far-away look in his eyes. if only he could confide his secret to some one he knew it would be a great relief. often he was on the point of telling everything to dan. but each time an indefinable barrier seemed to rise between them, so the pent-up words which were ready to pour from his yearning heart never passed his lips. chapter ix chivalry it was a day long to be remembered when the ice ran out of the segas river. the weather had been mild for some time, and slowly the solid icy giant weakened, loosened its grip upon the banks, and began to break up into thousands of fragments. the current was swift, and steadily the water rose. at last an ominous grinding sound was heard as the great heaving mass started for the yukon. it surged along the shores, and threatened to tear away the building which had been erected. several large cakes of ice were hurled against the barricade, and remained stranded, while their companions passed on without doing any damage. ranger dan breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the river clear. he could look forward now to the coming of the indians. surely they would arrive soon. but dan's anxiety was as nothing compared to natsatt's. the latter was impatient for the time when klitonda and owindia would appear. the days seemed unusually long. his eyes would often search the river for the expected canoe which would bring his loved one to him. a week had passed since the ice ran out, and no indians had arrived. then, late one evening, just as the sun was preparing to dip below the horizon, natsatt saw a small canoe shoot swiftly around a bend in the river, and approach the post. his heart beat fast as he beheld owindia in the centre of the craft deftly handling her slim paddle. hurrying forward he reached the river just as the canoe ran into the shore. a radiant smile overspread owindia's face as she saw her lover waiting to receive her. to natsatt she seemed more beautiful than ever. her cheeks were flushed by the healthy exercise, and her eyes were sparkling with joy and love. but as she stepped ashore a natural shyness possessed her, which caused her to shrink back a little. natsatt, too, hesitated, for standing by his side were a number of men from the post. in his first delight at seeing owindia he had forgotten his companions. how he longed to seize the maiden in his arms and greet her with a true lover's kiss. but in the presence of these men he realised that it would not be wise. they knew nothing of the fire burning within his heart, and would misinterpret the act. owindia stood abashed before the rude stares of these men. she was pleased that natsatt remained standing quietly by her side. and yet she was much disappointed. for weeks she had dreamed of this meeting. she had pictured her lover rushing down to receive her, and enfolding her in his strong arms. but she had never imagined that others would be present. "say, bill, what a squaw!" gasped one of the men, whose eyes were fairly bulging with astonishment. "good heavens, man! i never thought there was such a creature in the whole country. we are certainly in luck." before any reply could be made natsatt stepped forward and grasped klitonda's hand. he had noted the quick startled look in owindia's eyes as she listened to these personal remarks. he was fearful lest the traders should go too far, not knowing that the maiden understood every word. he believed that ere long he would be forced to clash with these men. but now he did not desire a disturbance. he was naturally of a peaceful disposition, and would endure much up to a certain point. but when that had been reached it was well for the most daring to be aware. so now by this sudden action in greeting klitonda he hoped to divert his companions attention from owindia. "great chief of the ayana," he began, "natsatt bids you and your daughter welcome. the white men have come to meet you. they would be your friends." his words had the desired effect, for one by one the men stepped forward and grasped klitonda's hand. their friendliness pleased the chief. he looked keenly into the various faces before him, and then turned his eyes to the formidable barricade to the right. but no word did he speak. he stood quietly before them, his commanding figure drawn to its fullest height. for weeks he had been looking forward to his meeting these men who would aid him against the chilcats. now it had come to pass, and he was satisfied. the white men had treated him with respect, and his heart was happy. in the meantime natsatt had moved aside, and was standing close to owindia. neither spoke, for words were unnecessary. their hearts thrilled by each other's presence. natsatt hoped that his companions would shortly saunter away, and leave them alone. in this, however, he was disappointed. they had no inclination to depart, for after shaking hands with the chief, they turned their attention to his daughter. to them owindia was but an ordinary indian maiden, though more than commonly beautiful. they believed her to be about as intelligent as the native women they had met beyond the mountains. "come, lads, let's welcome the squaw," said larry dasan. "she's gripped me heart already, an' i'm going to be the first to shake hands with her." "ye'll have plenty of rivals," laughed tim burke. "the rest of us may take a hand in this little affair too. i'd go to the devil fer a squaw like that." natsatt's heart beat fast, and the blood surged madly through his veins as he listened to these men. he maintained his composure, however, until they began to tip winks to one another, and to utter expressions which are not lawful to record. then he straightened himself up, and stretched out a warning hand. "be careful, men," he began, "for this maiden understands the english language. and, besides, i don't think you should say such words about any woman, no matter if she is an indian." a loud laugh was the only response to these words. the men were not in the least disconcerted. that owindia understood what they were saying troubled them not--they were too coarse for that. "so you're going to stand by the squaw, are ye?" sneered larry. "that's your game, is it? want her for yourself, eh? squaws ain't women--they're truck. the devil made 'em. they haven't souls. they're only made for the use of men." "if the devil makes them, he's done a fine job on this one," responded pete tarquill, whereupon a laugh ensued. "look here, men," and natsatt moved closer to owindia as he spoke, "my mother was an indian--call her a squaw if you like. but she was a woman as well, true and tender. let me tell you this: i am a half-breed, and am not ashamed of it. speak again as you have just spoken, or meddle with this maiden, and you will answer to me." "oh, ye needn't do any bluffing," larry replied. "you've shown your true colours to-night, a combination of white an' brown, or i should say white an' red. fine mixture, that. father a siwash, an' mother a ----" the last words had scarcely left his lips ere natsatt leaped toward him, and with a blow fair between the eyes, hurled him headlong to the ground. with an oath he endeavoured to regain his feet, only to go down again quicker than he rose. "got enough, eh?" natsatt asked when at length larry did not attempt to renew the contest. "you've been itching for trouble for some time past, and i hope you're satisfied now. not much fun, is it?" then he returned to the rest of the men. "got any more remarks to make about indian women?" he queried. "if so, now's the time to say them." no one replied, and a deep silence prevailed. the men had seen enough of what natsatt could do, and no one was anxious to meet larry's ignominious fate. at that moment ranger dan was seen to emerge from the stockade, and hurry quickly across the open. "what's the meaning of this?" he demanded, looking first at the prostrate man and then at the irate natsatt. next he caught sight of the chief standing near. "who is this indian?" he demanded, "and why didn't you tell me of his arrival?" "he is klitonda, chief of the ayana," natsatt replied, "and this is his daughter, owindia." at once dan stepped up to the chief, stretched out his hand, and addressed him in indian. during the scene which had just taken place klitonda had stood amazed. he did not understand what was being said, but the fight needed no words of interpretation. "so these were the white men," he thought, "the ones who were to help him against the chilcats. what did they mean by fighting among themselves?" but when ranger dan spoke to him his face cleared. "i am in charge of this post," dan began, "and very sorry am i that i was not here to welcome the great chief of the ayana, and his daughter. come into the store, and forget what these men have done." without a word klitonda obeyed, and followed dan to the post. owindia came behind, and natsatt walked along by her side. the latter did not care now what his companions thought, neither did he pay any attention to the angry scowls which the defeated larry cast upon him. if it was war the men wanted he would let them have it. but it was to be war in the open on his part, no matter what they might do. he would no longer conceal his love for the maiden. perhaps when it was known that he was her lover and champion she would be left alone. he spoke to her in a low voice, telling her how glad he was to see her, and how long the time seemed since he had left her. owindia looked up, and a bright smile illumined her face. "we must never be parted again, little one," he said. "i cannot live without you." again she smiled, but said nothing. she was too happy for utterance. she walked as in a dream through the open door of the barricade, and then into the building. her eyes roamed about the room in wonder, for her curiosity was much aroused by the things she saw. owindia was but a child in the ways of the world, and this building, rude and rough though it was, made a deep impression upon her mind. she could eat but little of the food which was placed before her, and paid scarcely any attention to the conversation which was going on between her father and ranger dan. natsatt sat near, and to him she told about their visit to the ayana camps, their rejection, and the action of the score of young hunters who had followed them into the forest. "and where are the arrows now?" questioned natsatt, much interested in her story. "in the canoe," was the reply. "owindia has them carefully hidden there." "and have you been in your lodge by the river ever since?" natsatt asked. "ah, ah. ever since. but it seemed so long. i thought the ice would never leave the river." "you wanted to come, then? you were as anxious to see me as i was to see you?" the light in owindia's eyes as she turned them upon her lover's face told their own tale. it was her mute answer, and natsatt was satisfied. ere long klitonda rose to go. ranger dan pressed him warmly to stay there during the night, and offered the store where he and his daughter could sleep. but the chief shook his head. he preferred the open, and would there build his camp fire. in the morning he would erect a temporary lodge. owindia followed her father from the room, passing the men who were sitting silently on the rough benches. they had been watching the young lovers as they talked together, and in their hearts a feeling of jealousy was smouldering against the half-breed who had won the affection of this beautiful maiden of the forest. chapter x the pawn in the game when morning at length broke over the land there was an unusual scene outside of the post. a large band of ayana indians had arrived during the night. they had drifted in from the forest, men, women, children, and dogs, and were encamped in little groups along the river, and among the trees. it was an animated sight which met natsatt's eyes as he wended his way toward the spot where klitonda had erected his temporary lodge. he moved slowly, for the natives interested him. the curiosity of the children as they watched the white man did not disturb him. it was nagu, the crafty medicine man, who arrested his attention. the creature was squatting before a small fire, with his knees drawn up almost to his chin, looking first at the post, and then away to klitonda's lean-to. in his eyes burned a fire of hatred, mingled with jealousy. natsatt knew nothing of the vindictiveness of nagu's heart toward klitonda, and he wondered at the fierce expression he now beheld. but could he have looked deeper and have read the tumult raging within the breast of the medicine man, his own calmness would have disappeared. nagu feared the coming of the white men. to him they were portents of evil. over them he had no control. he possessed no charm whereby he could bring these newcomers under his sway. he blamed klota for turning klitonda against him. and if a woman, who was only half white, could exert such an influence over her husband, who was a chief, what could he expect from people who were all white? he remembered only too well klota's sharp tongue, and how she had laughed at his vain pretensions. would not these white traders do the same, and cause him to be despised by his own people? he was, therefore, in no enviable frame of mind as he sat this morning by his smouldering camp fire brooding over his troubles. his eyes followed natsatt as he proceeded on his way toward klitonda's lodge. what thoughts the presence of the young man brought to nagu's mind would be hard to divine. but at length his head drooped low until his face touched his knees. thus he remained for some time, unheeding everything that was taking place around him. meanwhile natsatt had arrived at the little lean-to, and found klitonda and his daughter busily engaged with a pile of skins, sorting them out and laying them in various heaps near by. a smile of joy broke over owindia's face when she saw her lover standing before her. natsatt shook hands with the chief, and then taking a step forward caught the maiden in his arms, and imprinted a kiss upon her lips. there were no scoffing white men to witness this greeting. there was only klitonda, who gazed with wonder at what he beheld. at once natsatt caught owindia's hand in his, and stood with her before the astonished father. "great chief of the ayana," he began, "natsatt loves your daughter. will klitonda give owindia to natsatt as his wife? he will be good to her. surely the great chief will not refuse." klitonda looked first into his daughter's happy face, and then upon the young man standing by her side. immediately the light of uncertainty cleared from his eyes, giving way to an expression of pleasure. he caught their disengaged left hands, and brought them together. "the chief of the ayana gives his daughter to the young white man," he said. "let their hearts be one. but," and here he hesitated, "will the white man take owindia far away beyond the mountains of the rising sun? klitonda will miss owindia. his heart will be very sad and lonely." "natsatt will not take owindia away yet," was the reply. "he will stay here awhile, and maybe he will stay always. would that please the chief?" "ah, ah," klitonda responded. "that will be good. when the chilcats are driven back, and the ayana are free once more, this land will smile all the time, and klitonda will be happy." thus for over an hour natsatt stayed at the lodge, and assisted the chief and his daughter with the furs. to be near owindia, to look into her eyes, and to watch the varying expression of joy upon her face was supreme happiness. owindia's heart was too full of rapture to allow her to say much. the occasional glances she gave the young man were more eloquent than many words. how could he ever bear to be separated from her? he asked himself over and over again. how could he live if anything happened to her? suppose the chilcats should steal her away? or his companions, what if they should try any of their base tricks, which they had practised elsewhere, so he had heard them boast? his hands clenched firmly together, and a fierce expression leaped into his eyes, which caused owindia to start in surprise. "it is nothing, little one," he laughed. "i was just wondering how i could ever live without you, and what i should do if any one tried to take you from me." "i'm not afraid of anything now," was the gentle reply. "i know you will protect me always, always." natsatt walked back to the post with a light heart. the fear of what his companions might do or say could not quench the spirit of elation which dominated his very being. he moved forward with a firm step, and head held high. his chest expanded, and he drank in great draughts of the fresh morning air. how good it was to be alive, he mused. how marvellously everything had changed since owindia's arrival. the spot seemed no longer dull and commonplace. the atmosphere breathed peace, the sun smiled its warm radiance, and the few early-returned birds twittered their joy. everything in nature was rejoicing with the young lover. he found dan standing in the door-way, looking forth upon him as he approached. since early that morning the old ranger had watched with the keenest interest the arrival of the natives at the store. he had sat on a stool behind the counter and noted every movement of the indians. at first sight it would seem as if his mind was intent upon business, and anxious for barter. but it was soon evident that something else engaged his attention. he paid little or no heed to the men, but gazed earnestly upon the women. whenever a squaw crossed the threshold he riveted his eyes upon her face. he seemed to be expecting some special person, and each time his countenance expressed disappointment as he turned away his head to observe a newcomer. the indians had brought no furs with them, and said nothing about trade. they examined everything in the store, however, and left apparently satisfied with their first visit. dan waited until all had departed. then he went to the door of the stockade and watched them moving away to their various lodges. he knew they would return and perhaps bring back valuable furs. he was accustomed to the ways of the indians, so their silence did not trouble him. for some time he remained almost motionless, his heavy form bulking large in the door-way. his right hand clutched at his long shaggy beard, while his faded grey eyes gazed off among the trees in an abstracted manner. his face was unusually grave, telling plainly of some weight which was pressing upon his heart. had he not waited months for the coming of the indians? had he not anxiously counted the days before their expected arrival? and they had come, he had looked upon them, and had learned nothing. he knew there would be others, and the thought gave him some comfort. but this first disappointment was somewhat hard to bear. it was a beautiful morning. not a breath of wind stirred the tapering points of the fir trees and jack pines, whose long trailing shadows lay sprawling upon the ground. squirrels scolded, and birds warbled as they flitted here and there. spring had come in reality, bringing with it the great renewal of earth and air. but dan had eyes for none of these, neither were his ears attuned to nature's dulcet harmonies. he was living, as he had often lived, in the past. it was a vision he beheld of a similar spring day years before. he saw another trading post, and a fair, lithesome form walking up the trail, and humming catches of an old song. her dark, clear eyes were sparkling with animation as she held out to him a handful of wild flowers, several sprays of which she had wreathed in her jet black hair. oh, but she was fair to look upon, the very embodiment of health, beauty, and joy. he had something to live for then, and the days passed like an elysian summer. but now he was old, and she was nowhere near to comfort his declining years. where was she? what had become of her since that spring over twenty years before? the vision suddenly faded, and in its stead natsatt stood before him. the far away expression disappeared from his eyes, and the old look returned. he was the commander once again. "where are the rest of the men?" he asked. "i haven't seen any of them for some time." "i don't know," was the reply. "i haven't seen them, either. perhaps they are strolling about among the lodges having friendly chats with the indians. i myself have just been over to see the chief." "have a care, lad," and dan laid a heavy hand upon the young man's shoulder as he spoke. "there is to be no fooling, remember, with the indian women out yon. by heavens! if i catch any of you men meddling with those squaws i'll shoot you like dogs that have been worrying sheep. i've never had any post degraded when i was in command, and i'm determined that this won't be the first. my word is law here, and i'll be judge and executioner combined if necessary. when i wanted a woman from the camp i took her, and we were lawfully joined together. but i strongly advise you to leave them alone entirely. there should be some white woman beyond the mountains who'd be only too glad to marry such a lad as you." during this speech, which was a long one for the ranger to make, natsatt's face at first flushed with anger. this, however, gradually faded, as he noted the pathos in dan's voice. "i hope you don't take me for a human bloodhound," he replied. "i am not a saint by any means, but i have never harmed a squaw yet, and i have always lived in the north. my mother, as you know, was an indian woman, and for her sake at least should i not respect the women of her own race?" "sure, sure," responded dan. "but--" "will you please hear me through?" natsatt interrupted. "i might as well tell you now as at any other time what is on my mind. i visited the chief's lodge this morning for the purpose of seeing his daughter, owindia. of all maidens i have ever met she is the fairest, and i believe the noblest. i love her, and i know she loves me. why should we not, therefore, marry when the opportunity arrives?" ranger dan looked keenly into the animated face before him, and his heart warmed toward the young man more than ever. he reached out and seized natsatt's hand in his. "lad," he said, "i believe your heart is right, and that you love the maiden. it would be no use, i see, to try to turn you from your purpose. but wait until you can be joined in holy wedlock. i have seen too many unholy unions, and they never prosper. they must be sealed in the presence of the great father above. i must see the lass myself." "but did you not see her, sir?" natsatt questioned. "she was standing near her father last night by the bank of the river." "was she? well, i didn't notice her. but come, lad, i have something to say to you to-day. my heart and mind have been deeply stirred by what you have just told me. come into the store where no one will hear us. we must be alone." somewhat surprised, natsatt followed his leader into the building and seated himself upon a stool by dan's side. "you have wondered," the ranger began, "why a man at my advanced age should undertake such a work as this. why should i wish to spend so much money upon building a fort in the wilderness with so many odds against me? but, lad, this post is only a pawn in the game i am playing. there is a purpose back of it which is very near my heart. listen and i will tell you. "years ago i maintained a trading post among the indians far to the south, right amidst the mountains. my wife was a native woman whom i had married years before. we had several children born to us, but only one lived--klota we called her. she was the pride of my heart, and as i watched her grow and develop into all the charms of maidenhood, my cup of joy was full to overflowing. we were great companions, and her voice was like the sweetest music to my ears. often she would ramble about the forest, and return bringing beautiful wild flowers she had gathered. then one day never to be forgotten, she disappeared so mysteriously as not to leave a trace behind. she had been away as usual, and when she did not return at night we became greatly alarmed. search was made, but all in vain. days passed into weeks and weeks into months, but no word ever came of our darling klota. the blow was a heavy one to my wife. she faded, and at length left me. i laid her to rest there by the trading post, and abandoned the place. no longer would i live amid scenes where i had experienced such mingled joy and sorrow. from that time i devoted my life in seeking to find some trace of my lost child. at times i believed that some accident had befallen her, that either she had been drowned, or torn to pieces by bears, for savage grizzlies were common in those parts. but my principal conviction led me to think that she had been stolen away by marauding indians. never for a moment did i imagine that she had been taken westward. what seemed to be an impassable range of mountains barred the way, and beyond was an unknown region. no, she had not gone in that direction i felt certain. either south, east or north could she have been taken, if taken at all. i, therefore, determined to scour the land in the vague hope of finding my child. "thus for almost twenty years i spent most of my time in visiting the numerous camps. no band of indians was too isolated for me to ferret out. i was looked upon as eccentric by the white traders and trappers. they gave me the name of "ranger" dan, a title which has stuck to me ever since. they thought i was travelling for trading purposes, and little realised the object of my lonely wanderings. at length when the last spark of hope had almost died, a ray of light pierced the gloom which gave me new heart to continue my search. "i had penetrated some distance into the interior, and while there i met several indians who had ventured far westward beyond the rocky mountains. they gave me the first information i had ever received of this region, and of the great river flowing through the land, which the natives called the 'ayan.' they related, among many interesting things, the story of a maiden who had been stolen away from a trading post years before by a band of indians from a savage tribe living along the coast. as they were hurrying along with the girl they suddenly met a powerful ayana indian. the captive had thrown herself at his feet and pleaded with him to save her. this he did by hurling himself upon the coast indians, and killing every one. the victor had then taken the maiden to himself as his wife, and her beauty and charm of manner were known by all the ayana people." here dan paused and remained lost in thought. "and was she your daughter?" natsatt eagerly asked. "was it klota?" "i am not certain," was the reply. "i could learn nothing more from the indians. however, the more i thought about it the more i became convinced that the stolen maiden was my own darling child. but there is one thing which has sorely puzzled my mind. if klota was that captive, why did she never come back?" "perhaps the indian who married her refused to let her do so," natsatt suggested. "i have thought of that," dan replied, while a sigh escaped his lips. "it is hard to tell of the many things which have been beating through my brain. anyway, this expedition, and the erection of the post are the outcome of what i heard. nothing may come of it all, and in that case i shall be the heavy loser. but it was my last hope. a trading post would be the only way by which the indians could be speedily gathered. thus, you see, this post is merely a pawn, though an important one, in the great heart game i am playing. but, there, we have talked enough for to-day. you know my secret, and may be able to give me much assistance in my search. god grant that we may hear some word soon." chapter xi foes without and within natsatt had much to think over after he left the ranger. he could not get the story he had just heard out of his mind. his thoughts reverted to owindia, and what klitonda had told him about her mother. she had white blood in her veins, and he had the dim impression that the chief had said her name was klota. of this, however, he was not certain. formerly it was no more than of ordinary interest, as east of the mountains it was nothing unusual for indians to marry half-breed women. but since he had heard dan's story he was anxious to know more. he would make careful inquiries, however, before saying anything to the ranger about the matter. it would be better to find out definitely before filling his old leader's mind with any false hopes. he noticed that now his companions treated him with marked coolness. they would converse together, but whenever he approached they would either disperse or maintain a frigid silence. larry, especially, favoured him with surly looks. revenge was plainly written in his eyes, making natsatt realise that here was a man who needed careful watching. such action on the part of these men only caused the young half-breed to be more on his guard than ever. for himself he cared but little. he was accustomed to the brutal tactics of rough, heartless men. he did not fear the entire gang, as in his heart he believed they were too cowardly to offer him any bodily harm. but with regard to owindia it was different, and he became fearful as he thought of what they might attempt to do to her. after supper, which was eaten in unusual silence, natsatt left the building and strolled over to klitonda's lodge. here he found owindia alone, for her father was away visiting several indian camps. she was sitting on a large bear-skin, gazing intently upon several objects before her, and did not hear natsatt's soft footsteps. but when she at length turned her head and beheld her lover standing near, she gave a slight cry of joy, and rose quickly to her feet. "and what is my little one doing to-night?" natsatt asked, as he enfolded her in his arms, and imprinted a kiss upon her lips. "counting the tokens," was the reply. "see, they are all here, the blood-stained arrows the ayana hunters brought. owindia keeps them safe." "do you think they will ever be needed?" natsatt questioned, at the same time stooping and picking up the arrows. "my! they are well made, and sharp too." "but none too sharp for the chilcats," was the low response. "oh, that there were ten times the number! then owindia's heart would be lighter." "do not worry, little one. all those coast dogs cannot harm you now when i am here to protect you. you are not afraid, are you?" "not now," and owindia turned her love-lit eyes up to the young man's face. "but sometimes i have a strange feeling of dread here," and she placed her hand to her heart as she spoke. "it is the same to-night. it tells owindia that the chilcats are coming, and will try to steal her away, and kill her people." "come, little one," natsatt commanded, "and let us walk down by the river. you have been brooding too much about the chilcats. the night is fine, and we will listen to the music of the water, and forget all troubles." owindia at once obeyed her lover's request, and together they wended their way among the various lodges until the edge of the stream was reached. they walked slowly along the bank for some distance above the village. here they seated themselves upon an old fallen tree, and looked out upon the river flowing sullenly by. it was a balmy evening, with not a breath of wind stirring the trees. overhead, the stars were tumbling out one by one, and twinkling down upon the young lovers. sounds of voices drifted up from the camps, mingled with the occasional snarl or bark of a dog. but natsatt and owindia had neither eyes nor ears for what was taking place around them. they were too much absorbed in each other to care about anything else. they were living in a little world of their own, with not a jarring note to disturb the sweet harmony. forgotten for the time were the maiden's fears. she felt secure in the presence of the strong man at her side. and the many things he was telling her held her spellbound. he related to her again the story of his own past life, his numerous wanderings, and the marvellous things he had seen. some day he would take her to see them for herself, so he told her. they would have, too, a little home of their own, where fear of the chilcats would never worry them. "how strange it will all be," owindia at length remarked. "i know so little of the ways of the white people that i am afraid they will laugh at me. i shall make so many stupid mistakes that you will feel ashamed of me at times." "never, little one," was the emphatic reply. "i shall be proud of you. even now you are much superior to many white women i have met. you are beautiful, gentle, and remember so much of what your mother taught you. she had white blood in her veins, and was very wise, was she not?" "ah, ah. she seemed to know everything. she said she wanted me to grow up to be a good woman. she would often watch me for a long time without saying anything. sometimes she had a far away look in her eyes, and when i would ask her what she was thinking about, she would give a start, and laughingly say that she was dreaming about her father and mother, and of the days when she was a little child." "did your mother ever tell you why she left her happy home?" natsatt eagerly asked, feeling sure that now he was to find an answer to the question which had been puzzling ranger dan for long years. "ah, ah. she told me something, but not all. she said she had been stolen away by a band of cruel coast indians one bright summer afternoon, as she was wandering in the forest near her father's home. she had pleaded with them, but they had only laughed at her tears, and had hurried her forward. then they met an ayana indian, my father, who rescued her. that is about all i know." "but why did not your father take your mother back?" natsatt questioned. "did she never wish to return to her old home? did she not know how her father and mother would grieve about her?" "ah, but she did go back. my father took her; but the old home was deserted. some indians they met told her that her mother was dead, and that her father had gone never to come back again." "oh, i see," natsatt mused, half to himself. "so there was nothing for your mother to do but to return with her husband?" "nothing." "and your mother often talked about her parents?" "ah, ah. very much; but mostly about her father. she said he was so kind, and she loved him dearly." "would you like to meet your mother's father some day, little one?" natsatt asked. "have you ever thought about him?" owindia looked up quickly into her lover's face, but under the pall of night she could detect no hidden meaning there. "have i thought of him?" she at length slowly replied. "i have dreamed of him by night and by day. i have always believed that he is living yet, and that sometime we shall meet. maybe when we go beyond the great mountains of the rising sun i shall see him. but how sorry he will be when he hears that his daughter klota is dead. he will grieve sorely, for he loved her." to these words natsatt made no response. he was thinking deeply of what he had just heard. there was no doubt now, and he would be able to tell dan all he had learned. but there was a difficulty in the way. he knew that the ranger would feel badly when he heard about klota's death, and that would be only natural. but would he at once abandon the post, and go back beyond the mountains? in that case owindia would have to go too, and would she be willing to leave her father so soon? "why is natsatt so still? why does he not speak?" a voice pleaded at his side, which roused him from his reverie. "i was thinking, little one," he replied, "and for a moment forgot where i was. but, come, we had better go back. it is dark, and your father will wonder where you are, should he return to the lodge and not find you there." together they slowly retraced their steps along the river. on their left stretched the great forest, black and silent. ahead they could see the lights of the numerous camp fires. not a thought of danger entered their minds so much taken up were they with each other. they were passing close to a heavy thicket of trees, when, without the least warning, two forms leaped upon natsatt, and bore him to the ground. a half-smothered cry of fright escaped owindia's lips, telling plainly that something, perhaps a hand was placed over her mouth. natsatt at once realised the cowardly nature of the attack, and the hot blood of a hundred generations surged madly through his veins. in falling he had partly loosened his assailants' grip, and before they could fully recover he dealt one a savage blow with his clenched fist, and sent him reeling backwards. springing nimbly aside he met the second with a kick that doubled him up, causing him to give vent to a deep groan of pain. not waiting for another charge natsatt bounded to owindia's side, as she was being borne away among the trees. he could see very little, but could hear the noise her captor was making. no lioness bereft of her cub could have hurled herself forward with greater impetuosity than did the enraged lover. he reached the maiden's side, and ripped away the arms which were holding her fast. dropping his burden the cowardly cur turned to face the half-breed. but he was as a child in the clutch of that passion-inflamed man. natsatt's hands reached for the villain's throat, and gripped with the suddenness and intensity of a steel-trap. for a few seconds there was a wild struggle, a gurgling, choking noise, and then the sound of a form dropping heavily to the earth. "lie there, you dog," at length came from natsatt's lips, as he groped his way to where owindia was standing. "where are you, little one? come quick, and let's get out of this. there's no time to lose." finding the maiden, he hurried with her as fast as possible through the rough and night-enshrouded forest. he breathed a sigh of relief when at last the lights of the camp fires twinkled among the trees. his first impulse was to take owindia to her father's lodge, and then hasten to the post to appraise dan of the base attack which had just been made. this idea, however, was soon banished from his mind, for upon reaching the open where the indians were encamped he found them all greatly agitated, and talking in a most excited manner. "what is it?" he asked of the first indian he met. "the chilcats have come!" was the terrified reply. "they are over there in the forest. they are hiding, ready to attack us!" natsatt waited to hear no more. he went with owindia to her father's lodge, where he found the chief sitting calmly at the entrance of the rude abode, as if nothing unusual was taking place. he tried to persuade klitonda to come with his daughter into the post. but the former shook his head. no, he preferred to remain where he was. he did not fear the chilcat dogs. "then let owindia come," the young man pleaded. "let her be safe, anyway." the maiden looked first into the face of her lover, and then at her father. a struggle was going on within her breast. there were tears in her eyes, when at last she took natsatt's hand in hers, and placed it to her lips. "owindia must stay with her father," she simply said. "he will need her now more than ever." natsatt realised that her words were final, and that no inducement could shake her resolve. dan would need him at this critical moment, he well knew, so he must not delay longer. bidding farewell to the chief and owindia, he left the lodge, and hurried across the open toward the post. chapter xii the messenger klitonda knew of the news which was agitating his people, for he had been the first to see two terrified ayana indians speeding by his lodge with the tidings of dire woe. but he had asked no questions, and did not even go forth to discuss the matter with his people. that they would huddle together in fear, and then speed away like frightened rabbits he was well aware. of what use, therefore, would it be to talk to them, and try to arouse them to definite determined action? all of his talking in the past had seemed in vain, so of what avail would words be now with the enemy so near? only upon the white men did he feel that he could depend for assistance. but how few they were. it was true, they had their strong barricade, and deadly guns would guard every loop-hole. but the chilcats were wily, and if they had come in great numbers it would be impossible to withstand them for any length of time. his mind turned to the score of young hunters who had made their vow of allegiance, and had given their tokens. with their support a strong stand could be made. he believed that they were not far off, awaiting for the blood-stained arrows. but whom could he send? he looked toward owindia, seated just within the entrance of the lodge. she was watching her father's face, and trying to interpret the thoughts which were beating through his brain. a small fire outside made it possible for her to see his features quite distinctly. his eyes glowed with a fierce light, such as she had seen there the night her mother had been killed. he sat bolt upright, with every muscle of his body tense and rigid. he was not like the tiger waiting for the onset of the hunters, and ready to spring forth with savage destruction. he was more like a scarred veteran of a hundred fights, not afraid of the conflict, yet cautious, and wary. he wished to strike, but only at the right moment, with such force and suddenness as to repulse his adversaries with overwhelming confusion. "little one," he suddenly began, "have you the tokens safe?" "ah, ah, father. they are over there," and the maiden pointed to a corner of the lodge. "do you want them?" "we must use them now, owindia," her father replied. "the chilcats are near, and some one must take them to the young hunters. i cannot go, as i must stay and help the white men. will you--?" the question died upon his lips, for suddenly without a sound there appeared at the door of the lodge an indian of the dreaded chilcat tribe. one lightning glance was sufficient for klitonda to realise the identity of the stranger. he leaped to his feet, and seized his hunting axe which was lying near. owindia shrank fearfully back into a corner of the lodge at the terrible expression upon her father's face. the visitor neither moved nor exhibited the least sign of alarm. he stood calmly in the door-way, watching klitonda's infuriated demeanour. his coolness caused the chief to hesitate as he was in the act of raising the weapon for the blow. had the man betrayed the slightest degree of fear klitonda would have smitten him to the ground without the least compunction. but brave himself, he always admired it in others, even though they were his most deadly enemies. he paused, and glared upon the intruder. "why does not the chief strike?" the chilcat queried in a quiet voice. "what does the dog want in klitonda's lodge?" came the fierce reply. "does he come here to mock the chief of the ayana? are the coast dogs waiting outside to kill their enemy, and steal his daughter? they will never have her, no, not while klitonda has breath in his body." "let the chief of the ayana put aside his axe," the chilcat responded. "let him sit down. klukwan has come with a message from his leader who is waiting for his return." "no, klitonda will stand. he will not sit while a chilcat dog is within his lodge. whatever you have to say, say it at once. speak." "does the chief of the ayana know that the chilcats are near; that they are lying among the trees? does he know how many, and how strong they are? does not his heart tremble as he hears this? the chilcats have come from far. they know that the white men are here, and would take the pelts from the ayana indians. they know, too, that klitonda's heart is one with the traders from beyond the mountains of the rising sun. will the chilcats allow this? will they hide like jack-rabbits among the trees, and let the white men take the furs? no. they have come for revenge. they are ready to drive back the white people. then let the chief of the ayana beware, for he cannot escape them. the chilcats are swift as wolves, and their fangs are long and sharp." "klitonda does not fear the coast dogs," was the savage reply. "they are not wolves; they are dogs. let them come; let them bark, that is all they can do. the chilcats have no heart. they crawl among the trees, they sneak up in the night. their hearts are like water. why should klitonda be afraid of papooses? bah!" "the ayana chief is surely talking wind," the visitor responded. "the chilcats are no dogs, and their hearts are not weak. were their hearts weak when they drove back the ayana braves in the great battle at tagish lake? does klitonda wish to meet them to-night? does he long to see the chilcats come from among the trees like hungry wolves? does he wish to see his people killed around him, and he himself carried as a captive back to the coast? how could the proud klitonda endure that?" "the chilcat dogs will never take klitonda beyond the mountains," was the fierce rejoinder. "how can he help it?" "he will fight, and the white men will fight too. has klukwan seen how strong the white traders are behind their wooden walls?" "bah! what do the chilcats care for a row of trees? walls of stone cannot stop them, and how then can those sticks?" "but there are men behind those walls who know how to fight. their guns roar like thunder, flash lightning, and vomit death from their mouths." "bah! what do the coast tribe care for thunder, lightning, or death? the great spirit will fight for them. he will rend the rocks in pieces to help the chilcats, for they are his children." klitonda did not at once reply to these words, but stood gazing upon the stranger as if lost in thought. "then for what purpose has klukwan come to the lodge of the chief of the ranges?" he at length demanded. "is it to mock him? if the chilcats are so strong what are they waiting for? why do they send one of their number to klitonda? go back and tell your leader that he is nothing but a cowardly dog." "klukwan has come," was the slow response, "with a message from his chief's son. he would tell klitonda how strong are the chilcats, and how useless it is for him to fight against them. but the chief's son is brave and noble. he does not wish to kill klitonda, and his people. he would spare them." "what does the chief's son want?" klitonda asked, while his brow darkened and he turned toward owindia. the chilcat saw the look, and the expression upon the father's face. "ah, ah. the chief of the ayana has thought aright," the messenger returned. "let him give his daughter to the son of the chilcat chief, and klitonda will be safe. but the white traders must go, and never come back again. the ayana indians, chief and all must trade only with the chilcats. such is the message. klukwan has spoken." during these words owindia had risen partly to her feet. in her eyes had leaped a look of wild fear. her whole body trembled. the chilcat brave seemed to fascinate her, like a bird charmed by a serpent. she glanced alternately at klitonda and then at the stranger. she noted the look upon her father's face, and well knew what his answer would be. she saw him raise his arm, and beheld the hunting axe lifted to strike. then with a sudden bound she sprang to her feet, and caught the arm as it was in the act of descending. the weapon fell not upon the head of the visitor but upon one of the poles supporting the lodge, which snapped in twain as if it had been a match. the chilcat stood as if rooted to the spot. he had not even tried to evade the blow, and not a sign of fear could be detected upon his face. but his eyes, looking straight into owindia's, shone with the light of gratitude. brave himself he could appreciate, savage though he was, bravery in others, and especially in a woman. her beauty appealed to him. he noted every movement of her graceful body, the long, slender arm which reached up to stay the fatal axe, and the deep flush mantling her nut-brown cheeks. he had heard much about this maiden, and he realised now how true were the reports concerning her which had drifted over the mountains to the coast. little wonder, then, that the chief's son desired to possess her. what chilcat brave who would not be willing to fight, nay even to die for her. for an instant klitonda looked into his daughter's face, and his rage was somewhat subdued by surprise. "child! child!" he demanded. "what do you mean? why didn't you let me finish the chilcat dog?" "would you kill a defenceless man, father?" she replied. "has he not come into our lodge? when did klitonda ever do such a thing before? surely he is not himself to-night." for a few brief heart beats the chief looked intently upon his daughter. then his face softened, and the muscles of his body relaxed. "you are right, little one," he assented. "klitonda forgets himself to-night. but, oh, there was reason. they would steal owindia, my only child, away from me, and they have sent this dog with the message. "see," and he turned fiercely upon the chilcat, "take this axe to the chief's son. show him how heavy and sharp it is. tell him that klitonda, chief of the ayana, and chief of the ranges from a long line of ancestors, will never give up his daughter. he will die first, and owindia will die with him. go, leave my lodge, lest my rage get the better of me." silently the chilcat reached out his hand and seized the axe. quickly he turned, and without a glance at either the chief or his daughter left the lodge. owindia, who was close to the entrance, slipped out after him, leaving her father standing alone, sombre and thoughtful. klitonda did not notice her departure, for there were too many things passing through his mind. he was thinking of the white men at the post, and also of the score of young hunters who had followed him into the forest with the blood-stained tokens. ere long owindia returned, and sat quietly in a corner of the lodge unnoticed by her father. upon her face was an expression of deep determination. the light of a great resolve shone in her eyes. no longer did her body tremble with apprehension. an inward strength seemed to possess her, which calmed her every fear. at length klitonda dropped upon the fur-skin robe at his feet, drew his knees up to his chin, and remained a long time in deep, silent thought. night drew on apace, and the confusion around the various camp fires gradually subsided. but deeper than all else was the silence which reigned within klitonda's lodge, where father and daughter kept watch, each racked with wild, varying emotions. chapter xiii a maiden's will while klitonda stood face to face with the chilcat messenger strange, deep thoughts were surging through owindia's nimble brain. she knew that her father did not fully comprehend the seriousness of their situation. she felt sure that what the chilcats said they would do they would perform to the bitter end. they had been victors too long to be lightly turned aside from any object upon which they had set their hearts. her father had contemptuously called them dogs, but she knew that they were dogs in the real sense of the term, keen, swift, and relentless. she studied as only an anxious woman can, the face of the visitor in an effort to read his thoughts. she admired his coolness, and calm indifference to danger. were all the chilcats as brave as this one? she wondered. if the messenger was so full of courage what must the chief's son be like who had sent him forth? what message would this man take back with him? how would he interpret her father's action, and how long would it be before the chilcats began the attack? she thought of her father, her own people, and of her lover within the post. the end she could easily foresee, and a tremor shook her body. they would be slain, and she herself carried away captive. with her loved ones gone what would there be in life for her? but with them alive and safe there would still be hope in her heart. she remembered the story her mother had frequently told her of the maiden, who long ago had offered up her life to save her people. she had been thrilled by the tale, and often she had recalled it as she sat alone in the lodge out in the wilderness. at times she had thought that she herself would like to do such a deed as that, and she pictured the pride which would thrill the hearts of her own people as they related the story to their little ones around the camp fires. that was the dream; but here was the stern reality with none of the golden halo of romance. such were the ideas which occupied her mind as she crouched there in the corner. but when she had leaped to her feet, and diverted the blow of the descending axe she became firmly convinced as to the course she should pursue. after her father's wild action she well knew that the chilcats would give no quarter unless something intervened, and that something must be herself. she watched the messenger receive the axe, and as he left the lodge she glided silently after him out into the night. he was moving toward the forest, but paused when he heard the light steps behind. the reflection of the fire dimly illumined his features, which expressed surprise at the sight of the maiden. for an instant owindia's heart faltered, but seeing that the indian looked not unkindly upon her, she took courage and glanced up beseechingly into his face. "what does the ayana squaw want?" the messenger questioned, noting her embarrassment. "will the chilcat braves wait until to-morrow?" she asked in a low voice. "will they stay until then from making the attack?" "why does the squaw request this?" was the reply. "why should the chilcats wait? klukwan has the ayana chief's answer. see, here is the token of battle," and he held forth the hunting axe. "ah, ah. owindia knows. but there is another way. if the chilcat braves will wait until to-morrow night just as the sun is sinking beyond the tops of the trees, owindia will be at the great white rock in the valley with a different message." "and what will that message be?" the chilcat queried. "the chief's son must know, or else he will think that klukwan is a sly fox, and is playing with him." "tell the chief's son," and here owindia straightened herself up in a firm dignified manner, "that his heart's desire will be there." "what! the ayana squaw?" "ah, ah." "and she will be the message?" "ah, ah." "the squaw will not fail? if she does not come it will be bad for klukwan." "bah! owindia is the daughter of klitonda; she has white blood in her veins. she does not lie. she will be there. go!" re-entering the lodge owindia sat down upon a bear-skin rug, and gave herself up to thoughts of no enviable nature. she glanced often at her father's immovable figure before her. but no help could she expect from him. she had to bear her burden alone, and even natsatt could not assist her. to mention her purpose to either her father or her lover would only mean the defeat of her plan. how dark and terrible appeared the future. to leave the land of her birth, to forsake her own people, and never again to look upon the face of the one who had brought such rapturous joy into her young life. she would see natsatt, no doubt, on the morrow, but that would be the last time, and she must betray nothing of her scheme to him. how she longed for her mother as she crouched there. it seemed that she had grown so old and care-worn of late. she thought of her happy girl-hood days, when she had played by the river, and rested so contentedly at night by her mother's side. was she thinking of her? she mused, and did she know anything about her child's troubles? thus through the long hours she sat and thought, starting at the slightest noise, thinking that the chilcats were upon them. toward morning she laid her weary head upon a pillow of furs, and tired out, slept. it was late when she awoke. her father had been long astir, and had their frugal breakfast ready. he was unusually talkative this morning, and more tender, so owindia thought. he confided to her the plan which had been revolving through his brain during the night. "little one," he began, "the chilcats are near, and will soon be upon us. there is no time to lose. where are the tokens?" "safe, father," owindia replied, going at once into the lodge, and bringing forth the score of arrows. "but what will you do with them?" "carry them to the hills, little one. the hunters, i believe, are fishing at the great lake. by travelling fast one should reach the place by night." "and are you going yourself, father?" owindia questioned. "is there not a young hunter in camp who will go? what about tesla or atlin? each is strong, and swift as the wild goose." "bah! they are no good. they make a big talk when they know they are safe. but when the chilcats are near they are frightened at their own shadows. it is the same with most of the ayana braves. no, klitonda must take the tokens himself. at first he thought of sending his daughter, but that would not do. the way is too long, and there are many dangers. you stay in old kluan's lodge to-night, but if the coast dogs come, go into the post; you will be safe there." with a sad heart owindia helped her father make ready for his journey. then she bade him good-bye, and watched him until the shadowy forest hid him from view. she believed that she should never see him again. amid the trees whither he had just disappeared she too would soon go, and what then? some time she spent within the lodge, gathering together her few belongings. most of them were simple trinkets, several of which had been given to her by her mother. next, she braided her long black hair, and coiled it deftly about her head in the same manner as her mother had often done. she had no mirror in which to look, and, therefore, had no idea what a pleasing picture she presented as she sat there alone. natsatt had told her time and time again that she was very beautiful, more so in fact than any woman he had ever seen. she wanted him to admire her very much on this last day he should ever look upon her face. how would he like the way she had her hair arranged? she asked herself. leaving the lodge she walked slowly toward the river among the various camps pitched near. she noted that most of the indians were packing up their belongings, and some had already taken them to their canoes. several had departed, for the arrival of the chilcats had stricken terror into their hearts. reaching the bank of the river owindia walked along the shore for some distance. she wished to be alone, to think over the step she was about to take. seating herself at length upon a stone she gazed down pensively at the water flowing by close at her feet. it was a warm day, and the sun poured its hot beams upon her head. the birds twittered among the branches of the trees, and darted here and there through the air. squirrels scolded, and butterflies zig-zagged to and fro. but owindia heeded none of these. her mind was upon other things, and she had neither eyes nor ears for the beautiful things of nature. time did not matter to her now, for the day had to be passed somehow. there was no attraction for her at the camp since her father left. as for natsatt, she almost dreaded meeting him. her love was so strong and deep that she feared when in his presence her resolve might weaken. perhaps it would be better to stay where she was away from the post, and never see him again. she had about made up her mind to move farther up the river around a bend in the distance, and there remain hidden from view, when a step near arrested her attention. glancing quickly around she beheld the very person of her thoughts rapidly approaching. forgotten for the moment was her firmly-settled resolve, and a bright smile illumined her face as she rose to meet him. "why, little one, i have been looking everywhere for you," natsatt cried, as he caught her in his arms. "so you have been sitting here all by yourself. what have you been doing?" "only thinking," the maiden replied, looking up lovingly into his face. "ah, that was what you were doing, eh? thinking of me, no doubt, and wondering why i was so long in coming. but i couldn't find you for some time." "i was thinking about you but the chilcats would come into my mind too." at the mention of the chilcats natsatt's face became grave, and his sunny smile disappeared. "yes, owindia," he said, "we are in a serious position. the coast indians have come in strong force, and unless we can make terms with them they will be upon us in a short time, perhaps to-night. i cannot believe that they will attack us without sending some one first to have a talk with ranger dan. surely they do not wish to destroy the white men, but merely force them to leave the country." "and will the white traders go if the chilcats demand it?" owindia eagerly asked. "no. our leader would never consent to that, i am sure. remember, we can put up a great fight behind those walls if all the men will only stand firm. but if we do go, owindia must go too. if not, natsatt will stay." "the white men must go," owindia replied, and then she told about the chilcat messenger's visit to her father's lodge the previous night. she mentioned only two of the demands which had been made, and was careful to say nothing about herself. "they may come to-night," she said in conclusion, "and if the white traders do not go the ayana people will be destroyed. they cannot fight long against the chilcats. oh, let them go while there is time!" "don't be afraid, little one," and natsatt placed his arm tenderly around the maiden as he spoke. he noted that she was trembling, and attributed her fear to the presence of the enemy. "but come, i must go back and tell dan what you have told me. it will be necessary for him to know what demands the chilcats have made. and you must come with me, darling, into the post. it will not do for you to stay outside, for you will be in great danger. all last night i worried about you. you will be safe within the walls. ranger dan and natsatt will see to that." but when the young man rose the maiden clung to his arm. "don't go yet," she pleaded. "stay a little longer. owindia cannot go into the post now. she must wait awhile. will not natsatt make some music? owindia's heart is full of fear, and the sweet sounds will help her to be strong." natsatt needed no second bidding, so drawing forth the mouth-organ he at once began to play. forgotten for a time were the chilcats, and as he played owindia felt her courage rise. the chord of high resolve within her breast was again stirred. the old feeling of fear was banished, and she was willing to do, and to die if necessary for those she loved. little did natsatt realise what thoughts were passing through the mind of the young woman at his side. he believed that she had told him all, and that no veil separated their hearts of love. he was rapturously happy himself in the presence of owindia. the charm of her face and manner appealed to him more than ever. and even when they rose to go owindia delayed, threw her arms about his neck, and looked into his eyes with such beseeching tenderness that the young man was completely transported with joy. he was still in a state of bliss as he left her to make his way to the post, promising that when night fell he would come for her to take her to a place of safety behind the wooden walls. owindia had not said that she would go. she had merely told him to wait, and with this answer natsatt had to be content. owindia walked slowly back to her father's lodge. occasionally she turned and looked longingly toward the large door of the barricade through which her lover had gone. she paid no heed to the indians, neither did she see the medicine man intently watching her some distance off. she did not know that he had been observing her as she walked along by natsatt's side. she could not see the look upon the crafty creature's face, nor the malignant gleam which shone in his eyes. at the entrance of the lodge she seated herself, and watched the sun as hour after hour it dipped lower in the west. at length it swung just above the tops of the tallest fir trees, ready for its final plunge out of sight. then owindia rose to her feet, entered the lodge, and picking up a sharp knife slipped it within the bosom of her dress. next she seized the small bundle she had made ready, hurried outside, gave one final glance toward the post, and disappeared among the trees. chapter xiv captured when klitonda left his lodge on that warm summer morning, he plunged at once into the forest, and struck a course straight for a mountain peak far away in the distance, towering high above its fellows. at its base lay a placid lake, abounding in fish, where he believed many of the indians were encamped. here he expected to find the young hunters upon whom his hopes were fixed. a rough, crooked trail wound through the wilderness, and along this he travelled. occasionally he paused and listened, for he knew that on his right, and not far away, the chilcats were lying in ambush. he suspected that a number of the band would be scouring the forest for game, and it would, therefore, be necessary for him to advance with the greatest caution. hardly a sound did he make as he glided stealthily among the trees, his eyes and ears keenly alert to every object and noise. open wild meadows at times stretched out before him, and these he skirted, keeping well within the sheltering shadows of the friendly borders. he was thinking deeply as he proceeded, for much was at stake, and he knew that in order to win out against the coast tribe strategy rather than physical force would be necessary. klitonda was no mere machine speeding through the forest, but a stern vital reality, whose breast throbbed with mingled emotions of hatred toward the chilcats, and an intense love for his only child, and the welfare of his people. after clearing what he believed to be the extreme outward limits of danger, he no longer paused to listen. the chilcats would not be so far afield, so he imagined. he felt secure now, and in this sense of security lay his immediate danger. he became less cautious, and gave himself up to various plans for the overcoming of his enemies. but klitonda might have known that he was never safe when the coast dogs were anywhere within the borders of the country. he did not know that several of the hated tribe had been sent out to ascertain the whereabouts of the various ayana bands. they had been travelling for some time, and coming to a little stream which purled gently through the forest, had stopped to drink, and to rest beneath the shade of a large fir tree. all unconscious of the presence of his enemies, klitonda was hurrying on his way. for weary miles his course took him through a region where not a drop of water could be obtained. here the ground was parched and dry. the few trees, and what scanty vegetation there was, were stunted, and maintained a precarious existence. fires had swept over the land years before, and large trunks stood out gaunt and lifeless amid this scene of desolation. klitonda longed for water to cool his parched lips. the heat was almost unbearable, stifling in its intensity, with not a breath of air to give a moment's respite. in addition to this there were innumerable swarms of flies. they were persistent creatures, surrounding the traveller, and attacking him with the utmost ferocity. at times they almost blinded him as he hurried onward. he had been accustomed to these pests from infancy, but never had he known them to be as bad as they were on this day. he remembered how his parents had often built smudge fires, around which men, women, and children would crowd, preferring the blinding smoke to the torture of the insects. klitonda now looked eagerly forward to the little stream, which he knew was not far off. there he could stop, slake his burning thirst, and eat some of the dried moose meat he had brought with him. he had thrown aside all precaution, and with bent head speeded down the slope toward the water, which ere long he heard rippling through the forest. reaching the bank he threw himself down upon several stones, and in this prostrate position drank eagerly of the sparkling brook. the murmuring sounds around him deadened his ears to any other noise, so he did not hear the soft footsteps of six robust chilcats as like tigers they glided upon their prey. klitonda had satisfied his thirst, and had lifted his head, and was about to regain his feet, when in an instant his enemies were upon him. with a gurgling roar of rage klitonda recoiled at the attack like some mountain grizzly suddenly startled in its den. with a terrific backward bound he bore the clinging chilcats with him, and for one brief minute it seemed as if this giant of the forest would free himself from his adversaries. his rage was like that of a madman, and his strength appeared almost superhuman. he tossed the chilcats about like so many playthings, and could he have laid his hand upon his axe, firmly secured in his belt, he would soon have made an end of the whole six opponents. but his arms, legs, and body were so enmeshed by merciless arms that he found it impossible to shake himself free. he staggered to his feet, but could not stand in an upright position for any length of time, and ere long he was forced to the ground, with five chilcats seated upon his body, while the sixth securely bound his feet, and fastened his hands behind his back with strong moose-hide thongs. when klitonda realised that all further resistance would be in vain, he remained very quiet, and watched his captors with an air of apparent indifference. when it was possible to fight he did so with all the strength at his command. but when once overcome, and helpless, he could show his enemies how an ayana chief could bear defeat. the chilcats having firmly bound their captive drew aside, and conversed together in low tones. what they said klitonda could not tell, but presently they returned, unbound his feet, and commanded him to rise. this he did without an instant's hesitation and stood before them awaiting their further orders. not a shadow of uneasiness marked his face, as drawn to his full height, he confronted the chilcats. his eyes alone betrayed the tumultuous emotions which were stirring within his breast. they glowed like two living coals of fire, and well it was for the coast braves that the chief's hands were tied. in fact so powerful did he seem standing there that the chilcats placed another thong about his wrists for greater security. they could not well afford to lose so valuable a prisoner who had luckily fallen into their hands. then for the first time a sarcastic smile played about klitonda's mouth. "the chilcats are cowards," he said. "they are six to one. they sneak up like dogs. they are afraid to fight. they know the strength of the chief of the ayana, and fear him when bound. they tremble as they look upon him. their hearts are the same as jack-rabbits. bah!" "let klitonda talk," replied one. "the chilcats care not what he says. he will do more than talk when he is taken before the chief's son. he will not sneer then. he calls the chilcats dogs, but remember dogs can bite. but, come, it's time to be on the way, for a long trail lies ahead." klitonda's bow, hunting-axe, and sharp knife were taken from him. he was not surprised at this, for it was only natural that they should disarm such a noted antagonist. only about the token arrows did he feel anxious. he had dropped them by his side as he stooped to drink, and in the struggle and excitement which ensued the chilcats had not noticed them. if they remained there the ayana indians might find them, and come to his assistance. there was only a very slight possibility of their being found by the right persons. it was his only hope, however, and he felt somewhat relieved when at last they left the place and the arrows remained undisturbed where they had been dropped. the chilcats took special care that their prisoner should not escape. they were armed with guns, which had been supplied by the white traders along the coast. they were proud of these weapons, and by means of them they believed they were almost more than a match for the interior indians. in all their unscrupulous barter with the ayana they would never trade a musket for any price no matter how tempting. it was their policy to confine the defeated people strictly to their primitive weapons, as less formidable in case of an uprising. klitonda walked in advance, and even if his hands had been free he would have had no chance whatsoever of evading the watchfulness of his captors. the chilcats wished to take their prisoner back to camp alive. but rather than lose him they would not have hesitated to shoot him down. and this klitonda well knew. the chilcats had a number of old scores to settle with him, and shooting would be too easy a death. they had other choice punishments in reserve for this ayana chieftain. klitonda made no effort to escape. he walked more like a conqueror than a bound prisoner. proudly he carried his head like some monarch of the forest. they might curb his body, but not his defiant spirit. he strode along at such a rapid pace that his captors found it difficult at times to keep up with him. he did not seem to mind the heat nor the flies now, for he had other things of a more serious nature to trouble him. he was thinking of the wreck of all his plans, and what would become of the white men, and his own people. that the former could hold out for any length of time against the overwhelming numbers of chilcats he could scarcely believe. their post would be destroyed, and they themselves most likely killed. and what would become of owindia? who would protect her? there was little wonder that at such thoughts klitonda should fiercely strain at the gripping thongs. oh, to be free once more! with hands unloosed he would face the whole chilcat horde. he did not fear death, if he could meet it in the midst of his enemies, with hunting axe in hand. but to be bound like a cur, and to endure all the insults which would be heaped upon him, with an ignominious death in the end, were like gall and wormwood to the proud chief. thus all through that hot afternoon they sped on their way. the sun sank low in the west, and at length disappeared behind the trees. the air became cooler, and the innumerable flies ceased their pitiless torture. the trailing light of day hung lingeringly over the land until night at length rose slowly up from forest and valley, and folded her in its diaphanous mantle. the narrow trail became lost in the deepening gloom, and the wayfarers were forced to depend upon the sense of touch rather than sight to guide them forward. their progress became slower, and the chilcats crowded closer to their prisoner, fearful lest they should lose him in the darkness. no stars were visible, for thick clouds had drifted in from the coast, and a plaintive wind began to moan among the trees. but steadily they pressed onward, until at length a light pierced the murky gloom straight ahead. then the chilcats paused, while one of them lifted up his voice, and gave a succession of short shrill calls. soon an answer came speeding back, so without further hesitation they hurried onward out of the night toward the cheerful fire. to klitonda the place seemed alive with indians crowding around the genial blaze, for the night was now chilly. they were evidently preparing to leave, for their guns were lying near, while their hunting axes and sharp knives were in their places. they were a hardy, formidable band of warriors which met klitonda's gaze. one glance was sufficient for him to interpret the purpose of their preparations. the post was the object of their attack, and the dark night would stand them in good stead. for themselves they had no fear. the ayana indians they held in such contempt, that they did not think them worthy of consideration. instead of prowling about the chilcat camp they believed that they were hurrying off to their mountain fastnesses. as for the white men they were not so sure. they, accordingly, had several braves lying in ambush watching the post, who would hurry back with the news should the white traders sally forth for a night attack. the chilcats, therefore, felt no immediate danger, and were laughing and chatting about the fire as klitonda drew near. at once considerable excitement ensued at the presence of the outcast chief. forgotten for a time was the contemplated raid upon the post, and all turned their attention to the prisoner standing in their midst. klitonda uttered not a word, but gazed calmly upon his enemies. he noted their leader, the chief's son, and a slight curl of contempt flickered about the corners of his mouth as he watched him. he was smaller than the ordinary chilcat, fat, and possessed of a weak, sensual face. stupidity and arrogance were plainly stamped upon his features. so this was the creature who made war upon the ayana, and demanded owindia for his wife. better, so klitonda thought, that his daughter should be dead than to live with such a brute. he was surprised, too, at the deference paid to him by his men, and how implicitly those around the fire obeyed his slightest word. this leader was evidently fond of pow-wows, when he could give vent to his oratorical powers. "bamba is pleased to see klitonda, chief of the ayana," he began, turning to the captive. "but where is his daughter? why is she not here too?" "dog of a chilcat," was the low growl-like response. "why speak such soft words? klitonda knows their worth. owindia will never be the wife of such a cur as bamba. the chilcats are squaws. they are afraid of klitonda. he stands here in their midst. unfasten these thongs. with all his warriors about him, does he fear one ayana brave?" "why does klitonda say such things?" was the sharp reply. "does he not know that he is in the hands of the chilcats? does not his heart tell him that soft words will come better from his lips?" "bah! klitonda is not a jack-rabbit. he has said that the chilcats are squaws, but no he was wrong, they are papooses." during this conversation klitonda was standing close to the fire, while the coast indians were gathered near, surrounding their leader. as the word of contempt fell from the captive's lips, bamba turned and pointed to a tree standing in the shadows several rods away. "take the ayana chief, and fasten him there," he commanded. "bamba would talk to the chilcat warriors. make the dog safe, neck, body, and feet. quick." klitonda was immediately seized, and hurried across the open. with his back placed against the tree he was bound as bamba had directed. and there he was left alone facing his captors, who were now gathered about the fire in eager consultation. klitonda knew that escape from such a situation was impossible. the thong about his neck was alone sufficient to bind him, apart from the others around his body and ankles. it drew his head back against the tree in a cramped position, forcing him to look upwards, and only with extreme difficulty could he observe the warriors sitting near the fire. the wind swayed the trees, and the cold air drifted into his face. but though his body was bound, his indomitable spirit was free. thongs, and the power of the chilcats could not curb that. he knew what to expect from his merciless enemies. what the outcome of their consultation would be he had not the slightest doubt. but no matter what they might do he would be klitonda, the ayana chief, to the bitter end. chapter xv the spirit of klota when owindia left her father's lodge and entered the forest a great dread came upon her. once she stayed her steps as if uncertain what to do. the wild beating of her own heart was the only sound she heard. she was tempted to turn back and give up the undertaking. but the thought of the promise she had made and what the chilcats might do if she did not appear nerved her heart and gave her courage to go forward. down among the trees she moved, then across an open valley, where stretched a long meadow of wild grass. on the farther side was the large rock, which she had mentioned as the place of meeting. her steps lagged as she approached the spot, and a sigh of relief escaped her lips when she found that no one was there. taking up her position by the rock, she leaned against it, and looked down the valley. the soughing of the wind was the only sound which fell upon her ears. how lonely it was, and the darkness was fast deepening. her eyes wandered away among the dim arches of the forest and she fancied she could see dozens of chilcats hiding among the trees and peering forth upon her. the suspense now became terrible. she could have endured almost anything except this time of waiting. just when her patience was about exhausted two shadowy forms glided from somewhere she could not tell, and stood before her. so suddenly did they appear that she started, and with difficulty suppressed a cry of fright. "come," was the brief command. "the chilcat braves will take the ayana maiden to the chief's son." there was nothing for owindia to do but to follow. her guides led her along the edge of the wild meadow, keeping close within the shadow of the forest. she wondered somewhat as to the wariness of their movements, but asked no questions. the braves walked fast, and the maiden found it hard at times to keep up with them. the lower part of the meadow terminated at the foot of a steep hill, covered with jack-pines, firs, and dead trees. up the side they moved, the way becoming more difficult, owing to the underbrush, fallen logs, and the fast-gathering darkness. having reached the summit they paused a moment to rest. then descending the opposite side, they ere long came to a ridge of jagged rocks. from the midst of the latter a light pierced the gloom. it was a camp fire, around which several forms were gathered. it did not take them long to reach the spot, and owindia was glad enough to warm her numb hands before the pleasant blaze. next she looked around for the chief's son, expecting to recognise his person by the respect which would be paid to him by the others. she saw, however, only a dozen braves, who all seemed of equal importance. the men noticed her questioning look, and interpreting its meaning hastened to explain. the chief's son was beyond the hills with most of the indians, so they told her, and would arrive at almost any time. they were to keep her until he returned. owindia said nothing, but she intuitively felt that they were not telling her the truth. why were there so few of them hiding on this hillside among the rocks? it was a most unlikely spot for a large band of indians to encamp. then she noticed that the two braves who had guided her to the place did not remain long, but took their departure after a few moments' conversation with the rest. she racked her brain in an effort to solve the problem. little attention was paid to her by the indians sitting around the fire. even when she rose to her feet and moved about they appeared not to notice her. she had come of her own free will, and had evidently believed the story they told her about the chief's son. it was therefore unnecessary to keep a strict watch upon her. owindia thought much of natsatt, and wondered if he would ever know what she had done for his sake, and for her own people. what would he think and do when he could not find her at the lodge? he would go there, she was sure of that, and how surprised he would be when she was nowhere to be found. perhaps he was there now, calling her by name. she listened intently as if expecting to hear his voice. her heart throbbed with a longing which no resolve could quench. it was sweet even in her misery to feel that his love for her was strong and deep. no matter what her life might be in the future the memory of that time since she had first met her lover would ever remain like a light shining in the darkness. thinking thus she glanced toward the braves seated about the camp fire. the chief's son had not yet arrived. what was keeping him? she wondered. was he not expecting her? did not the messenger tell him that she was coming; that owindia, daughter of the ayana chief, was willing to give herself up to save those she loved? how soon would it be after she met him ere he would lead her and his band back over the mountains to the coast? would all the warriors be willing to go? she mused. they had come a long way, and to return without driving back the white traders, and punishing the interior indians, simply for the sake of an ayana squaw would be galling to their haughty natures. some, at least, would rebel she felt certain. a sudden thought flashed into her mind, causing her to cease her restless pacing, and to remain perfectly rigid, while her eyes stared out wildly into the blackness beyond. it was like the voice of some one standing near. "there is trouble," it seemed to say. "those chilcats around the fire are opposed to the action of the chief's son. they have spirited owindia away, intending to keep her hidden for a time. they have heard what the messenger said. the chief's son is encamped near the post, and if owindia does not go to him to-night he will believe that she has changed her mind. he will, accordingly, fall at once upon the white traders, and attack the ayana people." owindia's course now became clear. she must get away as quickly as possible, and hurry to the chief's son. suppose she should be too late! she had not the slightest doubt about this new idea which had come to her mind. she only wondered that she had not thought about it sooner. she looked toward the fire. the men were sitting as before, talking and paying no heed to the maiden in their midst. they knew nothing of the agitation which was stirring her breast, but imagined that she was waiting impatiently for the arrival of the chief's son. owindia continued to move to and fro, but kept steadily edging away from the fire. farther and farther each time she advanced, until at last with one furtive glance behind her she plunged into the thicket, and hastened up the hill among the tossed and tangled rocks. her heart beat fast, and occasionally she paused to listen. hearing nothing she continued on her way. reaching the top of the hill she dropped behind a thick bush to rest. the chilcats evidently had not missed her, so she hurried forward down the opposite side of the hill straight toward the meadow which she had so recently left. she did not mind the darkness, and never once did she stumble as she worked her way through the forest without any trail to guide her. her feet were light even though her heart was heavy. her one desire now urged her onward. she must reach the chief's son before he began the attack. by going back to the large rock she would be able to direct her course. at length the place was reached and once again she stopped to listen. no sound could she hear excepting the wind in the tree tops. there was no sign of any battle taking place at the post, and nothing to tell her that the chilcats were advancing. leaving the rock she started forward in the direction she believed the coast indians had their camp. it was only a supposition on her part. nevertheless she must search until she should find them. she was not so certain of her course now, and walked more cautiously. the trees became larger the farther she went and there was less underbrush to impede her progress. had it been daytime she could have seen some distance ahead. often she stopped and listened, hoping to hear something to direct her steps. at length she came to a sudden standstill for there right before her the light of a fire fell upon her eyes. slowly she advanced, and ere long she was able to see many forms gathered around the place. it was a big blaze, and fiery cinders were whirling up into the night, making strange fantastic figures in their flight. the chilcats had not made the attack. there was some comfort in the thought. but with one fear removed the old one returned. how was she to face that band of indians? how would they treat her? what would they do to her? how helpless she felt, there in the wilderness, with her enemies so near. how she longed for the strong presence of her father. and her mother, did she know of what her only child was doing? was her spirit near her this night? she wondered. she believed somewhat that the spirits of the departed were on earth. she had heard it so often on the lips of old indians that it would have been remarkable if she had not been impressed with the belief. "mother, mother," she breathed. "be with owindia to-night. let your spirit strengthen your child in her trouble." silently and slowly she approached the chilcats. she did not hurry as she wished to observe them for a while before they saw her. there was no watch kept so no one opposed her progress or gave warning of her presence. several large trees were right in front, a few rods from the squatting natives. behind one of these she glided, and thus obtained a good view of all that was taking place. she beheld one, whom she decided was the chief's son, surrounded by his warriors. his appearance did not appeal to her, and a shiver shook her form as she thought how soon she would be his wife, and therefore his abject slave. the longer she watched the less courage she had. how could she step forth and face those men? what were they talking about in such an animated manner? she wondered, and why were they delaying the attack upon the post? she could not understand what they were saying, but once she thought she heard the name of klitonda mentioned. they were evidently talking about her father, and what were they saying? how she longed to leave and flee away from the place back to the post. she turned her head and looked into the dark forest. how like a friend it seemed to her. it would shelter her from those human wolves, for it had always been her friend, and she loved it. she turned her head slowly and regretfully to look again upon the chilcats, when an object on her left arrested her attention. it was the form of a man with his back against a large tree, and from his unnatural position she was certain that he was fast bound. the light was dim and uncertain so she was unable to distinguish his face. but something about the figure seemed familiar, especially his large size. whoever he was he must be a prisoner, she thought, captured by the chilcats. no doubt they were now discussing his fate as they squatted before the fire. a feeling of pity stole into her heart for this unfortunate captive. perhaps he was one of the ayana indians. suppose he were her own father! the idea came with a startling intensity. he might have been captured by the enemy and brought into camp. with owindia to think was to act, so slipping from her concealed position she hurried across the open, fearful lest the chilcats should observe her. she did not go straight to the tree, but with native instinct made a somewhat circular movement back into the forest and thus reached the tree behind the bound man. the latter could not see her, and if he heard her light step he paid no heed. carefully owindia peered around the large bole, and one quick glance was sufficient to tell her that the captive was in very truth her father. instinctively her hand slipped to the knife safely concealed within her jacket. she would cut the thongs which bound him fast, and set him free. she was about to stretch out her arm, when she hesitated and lowered the knife. her father must not know that she was there. he must think it was some one else. nothing would induce him to leave the place knowing that his own child would be left in the midst of the hated coast wolves. a thought flashed into her mind, so placing her face close to the tree she whispered so her father was sure to hear: "the spirit of klota is near klitonda. she will cut the thongs and save him from the chilcats. do not delay an instant but hurry back into the forest." this done, with three swift deft strokes she severed the bonds which held him, and the captive was free. when klitonda heard the voice, and felt the thongs give way, he had no doubt but that it was klota's spirit which had come to him in his time of need. without a moment's hesitation he obeyed the command, and with the agility of a wild-cat leaped to one side and was instantly lost to view amidst the darkness of the forest depths. no sooner had her father disappeared than owindia took his place and stood with her back against the tree. all had happened so quickly that if the chilcats had glanced in that direction they could have hardly detected the brief space of time when no one was standing there. when they did look they beheld what they believed to be the form of the ayana chief securely bound as they had left him. that he should escape did not even enter their minds. they, therefore, paid little attention to him so engrossed were they with their conversation concerning what they should do with their important captive. owindia now determined to wait until the chilcats should find her, and every moment would give her father time to place a long distance between him and his enemies. the coolness of the night pierced her body, and caused her to shiver and wish for the warmth of the fire. how long would the indians remain talking? she wondered, and what would they say and do to her when they discovered what she had done? the time dragged slowly by, and her body became very weary. she had endured so much mental strain during the day and evening that she longed to lie down and rest forever. at length, however, a movement took place among the chilcats. she saw them rise to their feet and advance to where she was standing. it did not take them many seconds to ascertain that something was wrong. they then rushed toward her, caught her by the arms and hurried her over to the fire. a wild babel of voices at once ensued as the truth dawned upon the warriors' minds. they knew they had been outwitted, and by a squaw at that! how could they ever endure such humiliation? they would be the laughing-stock of all the tribes along the coast for years to come. they found the cut thongs lying by the tree, and they needed no words from the maiden to explain who had done the deed. owindia stood close to the fire, to every appearance the calmest of them all. with hands clasped before her, and bent head she seemed the very embodiment of an abject slave, willing to obey the slightest command of the most menial of the whole chilcat tribe. but such an attitude was most deceptive, and not one of the warriors realised the magnificent courage of her heart or the subtle keenness of her active brain. she saw and understood more than they imagined. when at last the confusion had subsided she was rudely pushed before the chief's son, who was standing somewhat apart from the others. he had been watching her most intently, and was mentally comparing her with women of his own tribe. he had heard that she was beautiful, but never until he now set his eyes upon her did he fully comprehend that the half had never been told him. her flushed face, and the strange light which shone in her eyes added to her loveliness. with savage impetuosity he longed to possess this wonderful creature. what were the spoils of war, the punishing of the white traders when passion was in the balance? he had never been taught the virtue of self-restraint. even from a child his every wish had been gratified by indulgent relatives. when he grew to manhood none thought of crossing the will of one who in course of time would be chief of the tribe. in war and conquest he delighted, especially with a defeated people who had not the spirit to oppose his exorbitant demands. he was all for self, and friend or foe he would lightly sacrifice in order to accomplish any desire upon which he had set his heart. arrogant, voluptuous, and conceited through smooth-tongued flattery he knew little or nothing of opposition. that this maiden, even though a chief's daughter, should refuse his slightest behest never once entered his dull mind. women of his own tribe had ever sought his favour, and his smile or word of approval had been to them like the nectar of the gods. what, therefore, should he expect from a squaw of a conquered people? "bamba is pleased to see the daughter of the ayana chief," he began. "but what has she done? she has set klitonda free, and does she not fear the anger of the chilcats?" "owindia is not afraid," was the quiet reply. "she is willing to die, if necessary, for the sake of her father, and her own people." "and has the chief's daughter come to bamba's camp to be his wife?" the chief's son asked. "ah, ah; if he will lead his warriors back beyond the mountains to the coast, and interfere no more with the white traders and the ayana indians. if he will do that owindia will be his wife." bamba hesitated before replying, and a deep silence reigned among the chilcats. much depended upon his answer. the rebel indians had returned and were now standing among their companions. when they had missed their captive they had hurried back to the main camp just as owindia was discovered standing by the tree in her father's place. they were not alone in their desire to attack the whites, but were the only ones who had courage enough to attempt to thwart their leader's design. "is it the wish of the chilcat warriors," bamba asked, turning to his men, "to return to the coast if the daughter of the ayana chief will go with them?" "no, no," came the emphatic response, followed by a confusion of numerous voices. "the chilcat warriors will not return. why should the chief's son ask them to do such a thing? they will be laughed at when they go back, and the whole tribe will say that an ayana squaw turned their heads." bamba was astonished at such words, and a hot anger filled his heart. what did his men mean by such action? never before had they opposed his will, and why should they do it now? he turned angrily upon them. "your leader, the chief's son, orders you to go back," he cried. "refuse if you dare." "the warriors do refuse," came the answer from several lips. "let bamba beware or else his warriors will leave him. they are not papooses. they will fight without him. let him take the ayana squaw, and go back to the coast, the rest will stay and fight the white traders." bamba was in a rage, and poured forth a torrent of words at his men. but they had no effect upon the determined chilcats, who merely listened to him with sullen faces. seeing that he was making no impression but only embittering his warriors against him, bamba turned toward owindia who all the time had been standing quietly before him. "bamba will answer the ayana squaw's question in the morning," he said. "he cannot tell her now. but she must stay, for bamba wants her. she has won his heart. never has he seen such a beautiful maiden. he will make her his wife at once." "owindia will not wait," was the decided reply. "she wants her answer now, and if the chiefs son will not give it to her she will go away at once. bamba is but a child. he cannot rule his warriors." with this owindia turned and started to leave the place. but bamba rushed forward, and caught her by the arm. "stay," he demanded. "the ayana maiden will never leave until she becomes the chief's son's wife. she shall stay." owindia with a quick movement threw off his hand and stepped back a pace or two. the fire of determination shone in her eyes which bespoke danger. her right hand slipped within the bosom of her dress, and brought forth the sharp pointed knife. "keep back," she cried. "lay another hand upon me and you will feel this. bamba has deceived owindia. he promised by his messenger to leave the country and go back beyond the mountains if klitonda's daughter would become his wife. he cannot do it, for his warriors will not let him. owindia has done her part, and bamba must not stop her. if the chilcats force her to stay she will bury this knife into her own breast before she becomes the wife of bamba the coward." bamba was now furious with rage. he would have seized the maiden, and made her his own by main force. but he feared that deadly knife, and the flashing eyes of the one who held it. at this critical moment the warriors came to his assistance. "let not the ayana squaw fear," the spokesman said. "she must stay here to-night, and then to-morrow she can go back to her own people. let her not try to escape, for it will be impossible. she will be safe here. no one will harm her, for the chilcat warriors will protect her with their lives. klitonda's daughter has a brave heart." slowly owindia's tense arm dropped by her side. then she replaced the knife within her bosom, and a sigh escaped her lips. "it is well," she replied. "owindia will stay to-night. she will trust the chilcat warriors, but not their leader, the chief's son." chapter xvi the voice of the deceiver when natsatt left owindia, the day they had parted from each other, his heart was full of blissful joy. he recalled every word the maiden had said, as well as her tokens of affection. he entered the post like one in a dream. how good life was to him, he believed. what joy there was in living when he had so much to live for. he hardly thought of the presence of the chilcats, as deep passionate love had driven everything else from his mind. he was rudely brought back to earth when once inside the post. there he found much activity going on. the men were strengthening the fortification, looking after the guns and ammunition, while several were carrying supplies of water from the river. some cast surly looks upon natsatt as he entered, which affected him not in the least. it was only when he met ranger dan was his composure shaken, and his dream-castle knocked to pieces. "where in the devil have you been for such a length of time?" the ranger demanded. "the rest of the men have been hard at work, while you have been loafing. over to see the squaw, i suppose. i brought you into this country to work, and not to mope around like a love-sick fool." natsatt's face flushed under his leader's words, and he was tempted to reply in the same coin. he checked himself, however, knowing that anger would be of no avail. he wished to keep on the good side of dan, especially so now as his companions were turning against him. "do not judge too harshly, dan," he replied. "i admit that i have been neglecting the post this morning, but perhaps i have done something else which is just as important, if not more so." "in what way, young man? making more love to the chief's daughter? that no doubt is more important in your eyes, but not in mine, remember." "don't be too sure of that, dan. suppose i have learned something for which you have been searching for years? would you not consider that important?" "hey? what is that you tell me? something important? there is only one thing which is of vital importance to me, and it's not likely you have learned anything about that. would to god you had!" "but i have, dan," natsatt insisted. "the chief's daughter told me, and i intended to speak to you about it before, but the arrival of the chilcats drove it out of my mind. it's about klota." at that name dan's face underwent a marvellous transformation. the sarcastic expression disappeared, and an eager light shone in his eyes. a tremor shook his body, and reaching forward he laid a strong hand upon the young man's shoulder. "speak, speak, quick! and let me know what you have heard," he demanded in a hoarse whisper. "is she alive? is she here?" "no," natsatt replied. "she is not here; she is--" his voice faltered, and he was unable to finish the sentence. how could he tell this old man the truth? what effect would it have upon him? perhaps it would break his heart. dan noted the hesitation, and truly read the meaning. "dead!" he breathed. "you needn't say the word. i know it already." he stood for a few seconds looking full into natsatt's face. in his eyes dwelt an expression the young man had never seen there before. it told of the last abandonment of hope, and the end of all earthly desires. he tottered for an instant, and then sinking upon a bench near by, buried his face in his hands. "dead!" he murmured. "my beautiful klota dead! is it possible! is it possible! no flower of the forest was as fair as she. no step was as soft as hers. no eyes ever shone with such a light, and no voice of bird was half as sweet as hers. and so she is dead! the babe i held to my breast; the little one who toddled by my side; the child who roamed with me in the woods is dead. why did i ever live to learn it? why did i not die thinking that she was still alive? what has been the use of all my wanderings, heart-aches and longings?" he paused, and sat for some time lost in thought, a pitiable object of despair. natsatt did not dare to disturb him, and neither did he wish to do so. that bent head, with the hair so white and thin touched him deeply. he longed to go to him, place his arms about him, and tell him how he sympathised with him in his trouble. but he shrank back at the idea, feeling sure that the sorrowing ranger would resent such an act. at length dan lifted his head and looked into natsatt's face. "did the girl tell you how klota died?" he asked. "did she give any details?" "yes. she said the chilcats did it." at this the old man leaped to his feet. his weakness had disappeared. his appearance at this moment caused the young man to step back a pace. "the chilcats, you say?" he demanded. "the chilcats killed my klota?" "that is what owindia said." "and how did she know? did any one see them do it? tell me, quick." "she saw the deed herself. she was there when it was done." "god in heaven!" burst from the ranger's lips. "it must be true. and those brutes killed my only child, my darling klota, and i was not there to save her! but surely others must have been there besides the girl. how did she escape?" "her father arrived, and meted out a speedy revenge to one of the chilcats, and the other got away. there were only two of them." "her father, you say? and who was he?" "klitonda, the chief of the ayana. klota was his wife, and owindia is his only child." at these words dan stared at natsatt as if he had not heard aright. the young man seeing his perplexity hastened to explain. "do you not understand?" he asked. "owindia is none other than klota's daughter. of her you need not be ashamed, for she is the most beautiful maiden i ever saw." "owindia is her name, so you say. and she is beautiful, too. but what beauty can ever equal my darling klota. but see, laddie, i must look upon her. she is klota's child, and therefore my child. she must come here at once, and stay at the post. the chilcats are prowling around, and we cannot tell what might happen to her. i have lost one, but it is something to find another who might be a true daughter to me in my old age. she must not stay here in the wilderness. i shall take her out to civilisation, and whatever money can do for her it shall be done. that will be something to live for. will she refuse to go, do you think? will she care to leave her father?" "i feel quite sure that she will go," natsatt replied. "that is, she told me she would go anywhere with me." "will go with you," repeated the ranger. "then she loves you, and has given you her heart. she will not care for an old man. education will mean nothing to her, and why should it? why should one born in this land care for the ways and benefits of civilisation?" "but she does care, dan. she has often told me how she longed for other things, and is never tired of hearing about the great world beyond the mountains of the rising sun, as she calls it. she learned much from her mother, and is anxious to know more." "true, quite true, lad. she would not be klota's child if she did not wish to learn. my mind was so set upon making money that i neglected to give klota the education she should have had. i was punished for it. perhaps now i can make amends with her child. yes, she must come to the post. and, let me see, she must have a room all by herself. where can she stay? ah, i have it. we will fix up the store. a bed in the farther corner, a table near by, and we will straighten things up a bit. klota's child shall have the best we have to give, and that will be none too good. help me, lad, to make the room as cosy as we can, and then you must bring her here!" dan was quite enthusiastic now, and the old expression of hopelessness had left his face. he had something to live for. forgotten for a while were the chilcats as he and natsatt set to work to make the store as comfortable as possible. it took them some time to arrange things to dan's complete satisfaction, and then he stood back, and viewed the room. "it isn't much after all," he remarked. "if we only had a few pictures to hang on the walls, so they wouldn't look so bare; a looking glass, a few chairs, and some rugs for the floor. but it's all we've got. i guess we'll have to wait until we get outside where we can buy such things." "suppose we never go outside?" natsatt questioned. "suppose the chilcats will not let us?" "don't you worry about that, lad," was the reply. "what do i care for a pack of measly indians? haven't i lived among them all my life? they'll never attack us; they're too cowardly for that. when they see our defence, and some of their men get knocked over, they'll soon beat a retreat. we're snug in here, and can stand a long siege." "do not misjudge the chilcats, dan," natsatt answered. "if what i have heard is correct we shan't be rid of them in a hurry. they are great warriors, and are determined to drive us out. they have never been defeated, and are most blood-thirsty and cruel. klitonda knows all about them, and he has told me many things." "what you say, lad, may be true, but remember, they have never yet run up against white men with ranger dan in charge. i have an old score to pay back now, have i not? did they not murder klota? i am just longing to get at them. my blood tingles, and my fingers twitch. i am an old man, but there is the spirit of youth in my veins still. i was somewhat of a fighter in my younger days, and i guess i can fight some yet, especially against the chilcat murderers. but, there, that will do. we have talked too long already, and it's getting late. you had better hurry off for the maid. i am anxious to see her. in the meantime i shall find out what the men are doing outside. they are inclined to loaf of late, and are quite surly at times. there seems to be something brewing, which i can't altogether fathom. but if they try any of their ugly tricks with me it won't be well with them, i can tell you that." natsatt knew full well that there was something wrong with the men, and he was fully aware of the cause. but he did not wish to be a tale-bearer. he, therefore, left the store and made his way over to the chief's abode, while dan went out to see what the men were doing. natsatt was not long in reaching the lodge where he expected to find owindia. he noted that most of the indians had left the place, and that those who remained were carrying their few belongings to their canoes preparatory for a speedy departure. at the chief's lodge no one was to be seen. the robes remained inside, while several kettles were found outside. he called owindia by name, but received no reply. what had become of her? he wondered. perhaps she had gone back to the shore where he had found her that day. he started for the river, and had gone but a short distance when he came to the lean-to of nagu, the medicine man. he did not wish to speak to the creature, and was about to pass when the conjurer suddenly arose from his squatting position and stood before him. upon his face was an expression of diabolical hatred, and his hands and arms moved to and fro in an excited manner. "what's the matter?" natsatt demanded in the native tongue. "is anything wrong? what do you want? i have nothing to give you." "nagu, the great medicine man, wants nothing," was the savage reply. "he would not take anything from the half-breed dog. why does he come here? why do the white men come into this country? they will never go out again. the chilcats will fall upon them, and there will not be one left. does the half-breed think that he will take away the chief's daughter beyond the great mountains?" "yes, the half-breed thinks he will," natsatt replied. "all the chilcats on the coast cannot stop him. he is not afraid of them." "the half-breed's words are big," nagu rejoined. "but he does not know the chilcats, and he does not know the chief's daughter. he thinks he does, but he is mistaken." "what do you mean? i don't understand you," and natsatt looked keenly into the creature's cunning eyes as he spoke. "does the half-breed want to know? will he like to hear what nagu can tell him?" "yes. what can you say that will trouble me?" "nagu can tell much, for he has seen and heard. he saw the chilcat messenger in klitonda's lodge. he listened to what was said, and he saw the chief's daughter go away. what does the half-breed think of that?" "you saw the chilcat messenger in the chief's lodge, and watched owindia go away with him," natsatt repeated in a puzzled manner. "your words are strange. do you know what you are saying?" "ah, ah, nagu knows. the chilcat chief's son sent for klitonda's daughter. he wants her for his wife." a great fear now leaped into natsatt's heart. he felt that he had not heard aright. and yet there could be no mistake. the medicine man had spoken, and what reason had he for doubting his words. all his calmness had left him, and a nameless something overwhelmed him. owindia gone away to be the wife of a chilcat! it could not be. he would not believe such a thing about owindia. it angered him to think that any one would say such a thing about her. he remembered her words that afternoon, and her clinging affection. "you villain!" he cried. "you lie! why do you tell such a story to me? do you think i will believe you. owindia is not such a creature as you are to turn away from the one she loves." the medicine man's eyes grew smaller until they became like two narrow slits. his hands and arms ceased their wild movements. "the half-breed thinks that nagu lies, does he? let him think so, then. but he will find out in time, and he will remember that he was told the truth." "but why should owindia go to the chilcats?" natsatt queried. "are they not her enemies? why should she leave her father, and her own people?" "nagu has spoken," was the reply. "he has told the half-breed what he has seen and heard. if he does not believe him let him go to the chilcat dogs and learn for himself." natsatt looked for a short time upon the medicine man, and then without another word left him, and went back to klitonda's lodge. he wished to be alone to think over what he had just heard. perhaps it was all a base lie. he knew much about the wiles of these northern conjurers. they would stoop to any depth in order to further their evil designs. but what purpose could nagu have now? why should he concoct such a story about owindia? what object could he have in view? but try as he might he could not banish the horrible thought from his mind, that there was much truth in the story. and where was klitonda? what had become of him? surely he would not let his daughter go to the chilcats. he would rather see her dead than that such a thing should happen. thus the more he racked his brain for a solution of the problem the more mysterious it became. he stayed for a while at the lodge, hoping that owindia would appear. but when she did not come he at length made his way slowly back to the post. he dreaded to tell dan what he had learned. what would the old man say, and how would he feel? he found him with the men in the large room adjoining the store. the ranger looked expectantly up as natsatt entered, but said nothing when he saw that he was alone. he noted the disappointed expression upon his face, and realised at once that something was wrong. he waited, however, until supper was ended, and then drawing the young man into the store questioned him eagerly about the maiden. and natsatt told him the whole story just as he had received it from the medicine man. "i can't understand it," he said in conclusion. "it is not like owindia. she would never do such a thing. i cannot believe that she would leave me to go to the chilcats. she is too true for that. and besides, her father would not let her go." "it is certainly strange," dan replied. "the medicine man may have invented this lie for some purpose, you can never trust one of those creatures. but speculation won't do us any good. we must find out where the girl is. if she is with the chilcats, and has gone of her own free will, i don't see that we can do anything. but if they have stolen her away, and are keeping her as prisoner then by heavens! we've got to do something, and the sooner we make a move the better." "that's my opinion, too, dan," natsatt quietly remarked. "do you think i could stay here all night knowing that owindia was out there with those devils against her will? we must know the truth at once." "and what is your plan, lad?" "with your permission i shall visit the chilcat camp to-night, find out if she is there, and learn the strength of the coast indians. it is certainly important for us to know." "you are right, you are right," the ranger mused. "we should know how many there are who have come against us. but it will be a difficult undertaking. however, it can't be helped. you have my consent to go, but be very careful. i don't want to lose you." chapter xvii in the forest depths when natsatt started upon his perilous task he knew how necessary it would be for him to proceed with the greatest caution. he believed that the post was being watched by chilcats who were lying in ambush. he, therefore, slipped quietly out of the door in the barricade, and crept by the side of the wall until he came to the river. along the bank of this he swiftly moved until he had gained the shelter of the forest some distance above. here he paused and listened most intently. the night was very dark, and he could observe nothing astir. with the greatest care he skirted the edge of the woods, passed the chief's lodge, and down to the wild meadow below. he knew the region well, as he had hunted all over the place, and had a good idea where the chilcats were encamped. he found it difficult to move without making any noise, and his progress was accordingly slow. he did not cross the meadow as he knew what sharp eyes indians had. instead, he made a long detour around the upper end and came down on the opposite side until he reached the rock where owindia had waited for the chilcats. here he stopped to get his bearings, and then began to thread his way to the left through the dark and silent forest. he little realised that he was following the same course, in fact almost the exact route which owindia had taken but a short time before. no sense of fear came into his heart as he moved steadily forward. he was so accustomed to the forest that almost instinctively he directed his steps. how far he was from the camp he could not tell, but he believed it to be somewhere straight ahead. he expected that the chilcats would have a number of men stationed among the trees to give warning in case any one should approach. it would be necessary to escape these if he should ever get close to the main body of indians. his progress, therefore, became much slower the farther he advanced. nothing could he observe for some time, and he began to think that after all he might be astray, when a faint glimmer of a light broke through the night. he stood perfectly still for a while, and then step by step he proceeded. larger grew the light, which he was soon able to tell came from a camp fire. his action became now more cautious than ever. he glided from tree to tree, pausing for a brief space behind each to make sure that no one was near, and that he had not been observed. ere long he was but several rods away, and he was enabled to obtain a good view of the whole camping ground. he was surprised not to see a large band of indians clustered around the fire. but looking carefully he found that they were there lying upon the ground apparently asleep. only one person could he see sitting before the burning logs, and his heart gave a great leap when he saw that it was owindia. she was seated upon a stone, her head bent forward, and her eyes fixed intently upon the burning coals at her feet. natsatt's blood tingled, and his hand closed hard upon his musket. how he longed to rush forward, seize her in his arms, and bear her away. he felt sure that she was not there of her own accord, but had been carried away captive. he was not afraid to face the whole band if it would do any good. but what could he do against such a number of chilcats. no doubt some of them were asleep, but a few would be awake. he wondered, too, why no watch was kept upon owindia. no one seemed to notice her, and how easy it would be for her to slip away into the forest and escape. if she only knew that her lover was not far off watching her, he believed that she would make the attempt. but how could he attract her attention without waking the indians? a sudden thought flashed into his mind. it was a risky thing to do, but he was willing to make the attempt. placing his hand beneath his buck-skin jacket he brought forth his little mouth-organ, and raised it to his lips. then out upon the night air floated a low sweet tune, which he had often played for owindia, and one she loved most dearly. no sooner had the first notes sounded out than a weary head by the fire was raised, and a pair of startled eyes searched the dark forest depths. owindia recognised that sound, and it brought a new hope into her heart. she had never expected to hear it again, and it brought back memories of happy days. then a great fear came upon her. the chilcats would hear it, and her lover would be in great danger. oh, if he would only stop, and go away. why should he risk his own life for her sake? what could she do to warn him? it was not long before a movement took place among the sleepers, and head after head was raised to listen to the strange sound which had disturbed their slumbers. but the music suddenly ceased. natsatt saw what was taking place, and lowered the instrument from his lips. in truth he somewhat relished the wonder he had aroused among the natives, and only with an effort could he resist the temptation of giving them a little more excitement. but he knew that further music would bring them to their feet, and that would mean an end to all his hope of getting owindia away. he, therefore, watched and waited to see if she would make an attempt to come to him when the indians were again in slumber deep. that they had taken the music for the song of some unfamiliar bird was quite evident from their readiness to resume their disturbed slumbers. with owindia, however, it was different. her heart was beating wildly, and when the music ceased, and she saw the warriors once more asleep she breathed a sigh of relief. how she longed to leave the fire, and go to natsatt. but she had given her word that she would remain until the morning, and the chilcats had promised to take her back. she would keep her promise no matter what the others might do. lifting her hand she made the motion for natsatt to go away. she also shook her head as a sign that she could not go with him. the eager, watchful lover saw the signal, and it puzzled him. what can she mean? he asked himself. it would be very easy for her to come to me now, and why does she not do so? then the medicine man's story came into his mind. was there truth in it after all? had she come to this place of her own free will? but where was the chief's son? he could not see him near her side. where else would he be if she had become his wife? perhaps he was waiting to take her back to the coast, that the indian marriage ceremony might be performed there in the presence of all the tribe. that owindia did not make any effort to leave the chilcats and come to him when she knew that he was near, gave him good ground for his suspicion. if such was the case he might as well go back to the post. there was nothing more for him to do. he could not carry her away by main force, and neither would he attempt it. if she preferred the chief's son to him he would make no further effort to save her. this was one voice which spoke to him. there was another, however, which he could not silence. it told him there must be some reason connected with the affair; that owindia loved him still, and would gladly flee to his arms for protection if she could. there was something holding her back. there was a purpose in her strange action. it was this idea which stayed his feet, and kept him at his watch amid the trees. he could not take his eyes away from that form crouching before the fire. why does she not lie down? he asked himself. she must be very weary. at times she would lift her head and look straight toward the concealed lover. he knew that she could not see him, but it thrilled his heart to know that she was thinking of him. how long natsatt remained in that one place he could not tell. he only knew that night was speedily advancing, and that the early northern dawn would ere long be breaking upon the far-off mountain peaks. the fire was still burning, for occasionally owindia had risen and replenished it from a pile of dry wood lying near. natsatt believed he could see another reason in this besides that of warmth. she evidently dreaded the darkness among those indians. she needed the fire for protection as well as for comfort. at length he determined to quit the place and go back to the post. the indians would shortly be stirring and it would not be well for him to be found lurking near. but just as he took one long lingering look upon the maiden, and was about to turn away, he saw a form moving slowly forward from the background. natsatt stayed his steps, and his hand grasped more firmly the musket. as he saw the figure of an indian emerge into the fire light and bend over the maiden he quickly brought the weapon to his shoulder. but in a few seconds he lowered it and stood watching the scene before him. the indian had spoken to owindia and she had risen to her feet, and was facing the brave. what they said natsatt could not tell, as he was too far away and their voices were low. when, however, a strong arm reached out and was placed around the maiden he had no doubt as to the object of the man's visit. it must be the chief's son, he thought, endeavouring to draw owindia aside while the others slept. but the maiden had thrown off the arm which had been placed about her, and stood defiantly before the intruder. suddenly a knife gleamed in owindia's hand which she held threateningly before her. at this the brave retreated a step, and then in a twinkling of an eye he reached out, gripped the maiden's wrist, and wrenched the shining steel from her grasp. what would have followed is hard to say had not natsatt acted upon the impulse of the moment. he longed to shoot the villain where he stood, and if it came to the worst he would be forced to do so. but another idea had come into his mind. he would try the effect of his mouth organ upon the chilcat brave. again bringing it forth he placed it to his lips, and produced a series of such plaintive, doleful sounds that the indian paused and looked wonderingly into the forest. as the notes continued, growing more uncanny all the time, an expression of superstitious fear overspread his face. the whole band of chilcats by this time were thoroughly aroused, and had leaped to their feet. trained from early days to believe in strange apparitions, and weird, ghostly inhabitants of forest, mountain, and glen, it was but natural for them to imagine that now they were surrounded by unseen creatures who belonged to this northern region. had it been a war-whoop which had aroused them from sleep they would have rushed forward with shouts of defiance. physical courage they did not lack, but what chilcat brave could face those horrible invisible beings, who only made their presence known by the doleful sounds they emitted from time to time? on almost any other occasion natsatt would have been much amused by the consternation he was causing among the proud and arrogant chilcats. as it was it brought much satisfaction to his heart to see them standing huddled together like a flock of dazed sheep. where were the glory of warrior, and the thrill of battle in the presence of that unseen power so full of mystery and awe? owindia alone seemed unaffected by the sounds which were disturbing the stillness of the night. the chief's son had shrunk away from her, and had flung the knife amid the trees that his men might not see what he had been doing. he, too, stood like the rest and listened apprehensively to the wails which were falling upon their ears. it was only when the sounds ceased that the chilcats aroused from their temporary fright, and began to talk to one another in an animated manner. they remembered how they had been awakened during the early part of the night, when they had imagined it was a northern bird singing among the trees. now they believed it was the same creature which had been hovering near through the hours of darkness. several suggested that the white men had much to do with the noise, and that they were exercising some evil power against the chilcats. natsatt, in the meantime had retreated swiftly and silently away from the place. he knew that he could be of no further assistance to owindia. he had done her one good turn, and had learned the strength of the enemy. after a while he walked less cautiously, for he felt sure that the chilcats would not attempt to follow. so engrossed was his mind with what he had seen that he forgot all about the braves whom he believed were watching the post. in fact he had never been certain that any were there; it was only a supposition on his part. he did not as before skirt the wild meadow but moved boldly across the open. he had gained the opposite side and had plunged again into the forest, when, without the slightest warning a form leaped upon him out of the night. recoiling as from an electric shock he felt the brush of cold steel against his face, and knew that he had escaped the deadly blow of a hunting axe as if by a miracle. then with a bound he grappled with his adversary, caught him about the body, and endeavoured to hurl him to the ground. it was no weakling, however, who had thus so treacherously assailed him, but one whose thews were like whips of steel. that he was a chilcat natsatt had not the slightest doubt. a burning rage filled his heart, and nerved him to almost superhuman effort. he realised that it was a struggle to the death, and he must not give his opponent the slightest advantage. he must be wary, and reserve his strength as much as possible. not a word was spoken as there in the darkness they strained and wrestled with each other. the hard panting of the men told of the desperate struggle which was taking place. backward and forward they reeled and staggered. a small root or a twig tripping one or the other would soon have ended the conflict. but each kept his feet with marvellous dexterity. presently natsatt's right hand was brought in sudden contact with the indian's face, and with a lightning movement his fingers dropped to the coarse throat, and closed. there was no escaping that grip, which never relaxed for an instant. the native endeavoured to tear away that death-dealing clutch, but in vain. the more he struggled the firmer the fingers seemed to press. his breath came in short fitful gasps. his body weakened, his knees trembled, and soon natsatt was able to force him to the earth, still holding tenaciously to the throat like a determined bull-dog. natsatt did not wish to kill the indian, and in the darkness he could not tell how much injury the fallen man had received. for a few seconds he maintained his merciless grip, and then let his fingers slowly relax. he sat for a while upon the prostrate form, ready any instant should the chilcat arouse to renew the contest. but the defeated brave exhibited no sign of further wish to fight. that he was not dead natsatt could tell by the breathing he could now distinctly hear. he might be unconscious, he thought, and will recover later. he wished to leave the place and get back to the post. but he desired to have a parting word with his opponent, if he were in a fit condition to understand anything. "who are you?" he demanded in the indian tongue, "and what are you doing here at this time of night?" receiving no answer to his question, he continued: "speak and tell me who you are, or else i will kill you where you lie." he had no intention of putting his threat into practice; he only wished to make the man speak. and in truth his words had the desired effect, for after a slight pause there rasped forth the one word "chilcat." "ah, ah, so that's who you are," natsatt remarked with a sneer. "nice warrior you are, to lie in wait and leap upon a man without giving him a chance. but you found your mistake this time, didn't you? it was not such an easy job after all, was it? now look here, chilcat dog that you are, you've met more than your match to-night. i could kill you here and leave your dead body upon the ground, which is what you really deserve. but i'm not going to do that. i want you to go back to your chief and tell them what the white men are like. that they can fight like grizzlies, and know not what it means to be defeated. tell him, too, that if he wants to attack the post he will have a harder job than he expected. there are men over there stronger than i am, and if you had got into their clutches instead of mine they would have had you torn to pieces by this time." the chilcat made no reply to these words but lay perfectly still as if he had heard nothing. "why don't you speak?" natsatt demanded. "why don't you say something? i've a sharp knife here in my belt which is just anxious to do more than tickle your ribs. i'm thinking that would make you speak. maybe it'll be well to have it handy if you try any of your tricks." "ugh!" grunted the chilcat. "that makes you say something, does it? well, i want you to say more than that. now tell me at once, and no fooling about it either. what is klitonda's daughter doing over there in the chilcat camp? how did she get there?" to these questions the chilcat deigned no reply until he felt the sharp point of steel pressing his side right over his heart. he then gave a struggle, and attempted to rise. "none of that," natsatt ordered. "try it again and i'll drive this knife into your measly carcass up to the hilt. tell me, did the chief's daughter go to the chilcat camp of her own free will?" "ah, ah," the native replied. "and did she go to become the wife of the chilcat chief's son?" "ah, ah." "what did she do that for? why did she leave her own people to go there? did not the chilcats kill her mother? has she forgotten that?" "the ayana squaw wished to save her people and the white traders." "in what way?" natsatt queried, while a faint light of comprehension began to glimmer in his mind. "the chief's son promised to go back to the coast at once if klitonda's daughter would be his wife," was the reply. "whew! i see," broke from the half-breed's lips. "so that's it, is it? and will the chief's son go away now? will he leave the white traders and the ayana people alone?" "the chief's son will not go away," was the slow response. "his warriors will not let him. they wish to drive out the white traders." "and what, then, will the chilcats do with klitonda's daughter? will they send her back to her own people?" to this question came no answer, and from his captive natsatt could learn nothing more. but he had heard enough to give him cause for much thought. his heart thrilled as he mused upon what owindia had done. she was willing to sacrifice herself to save those she loved. he felt somewhat friendly to this prostrate indian for what he had told him. it lifted a great weight from his mind. to know that she whom he loved better than life itself had not been untrue to him, but had taken this step with the noblest motive, brought him much joy. but why did she not come to him when she knew he was waiting for her among the trees? he wondered. it was something he could not understand, although he believed now that owindia did it for some good reason. at length natsatt rose slowly from off the chilcat's body. he still held the knife in readiness lest the native should renew the attack. away on the mountain tops the dawn of a new day was breaking. the light stole down silently and gradually among the secret forest ways. it showed quite distinctly the form of the defeated chilcat lying upon the ground. "get up," natsatt commanded, "and go back to your chief, and tell him what has happened to you this night. tell him, also, to beware of the white men, for they are swift, merciless, and strong." the chilcat waited for no second bidding. he leaped to his feet and without stopping to recover his hunting-axe dashed into the forest, and disappeared from view. natsatt also turned and with the light of triumph shining upon his face walked swiftly back to the post. chapter xviii loyalty there was no more sleep among the aroused chilcats after natsatt left. they spent the remainder of the morning until daylight discussing what they had heard. various views were given as to the meaning of the strange sounds, but all at length agreed they had something to do with the white men. owindia remained silent, and listened to the discussion which took place. she watched the chilcats closely, especially the chief's son, as she felt he could not be trusted. that they had some plan in view for the day was quite certain. they had promised to take her back to the post, and she anxiously awaited for the time to arrive when they would start. she thought much about natsatt, and wondered if he was still hiding among the trees. how she longed to be with him in order to tell him everything, and why she had come to the chilcats. would he ever know? she questioned with herself, or would he believe that she had been false, and left him because she thought more of the chief's son? she was very tired after her long night's vigil, and the excitement through which she had passed. but there was no opportunity to rest. she did not dare to sleep when the chilcats were so near. how could she close her eyes when the chief's son was prowling around. she saw him watching her most intently. in fact he seemed to see nothing else. the indians had begun to prepare their morning meal when the defeated brave glided into their midst. he was almost exhausted, frightened, and his whole appearance betrayed the desperate ordeal through which he had recently passed. he sank upon the ground before the fire, and for a while refused to say a word. the indians looked at him and then at one another in astonishment. they associated his pitiable condition with the weird sounds of the night. had the terrible creature attacked him? what else could it be which could so affect the strongest and most daring warrior of the whole band? at length his tongue became loosened and he told in a few words his encounter with the half-breed, and his own narrow escape. it cost him much to tell the story of his defeat, and it was easy for his companions to notice the sullen anger which burned in his heart, which expressed itself not only in his eyes but also in the short sharp words he jerked forth. the whole band of chilcats was by this time thoroughly aroused. they understood now how they had been deceived during the night. they had been watched by one from the post, who no doubt had made the startling sounds. it stirred them to a spirit of revenge. how the white traders would laugh at them, and call them papooses. but they would show them by action that they were not cowards. this was the feeling of all the warriors and they gave vent to their wrath in no uncertain language. one chilcat had been defeated, but the whites would have no cause for sport when the whole band swept upon them. they, therefore, set at once to work forming plans for the intended attack. some of them drew aside, and spoke in a low voice. what these latter said owindia could not tell. she believed, nevertheless, that their conversation had something to do with her, as occasionally they turned their heads in her direction. she had been much interested in listening to the report the defeated brave had brought into camp. she knew without a doubt that the man who had overcome him must be none other than natsatt. her heart thrilled at the thought. how she should like to see him to tell him how proud she was of him. some men would not have spared an indian who had made such a cowardly attack upon him. it showed to her natsatt's character in a new light. he was brave, strong, and merciful. little wonder then that he should seem to a maiden such as owindia a hero of heroes. the indians had eaten their breakfast before the sun had risen above the tree tops. they then began to make ready for some immediate movement. owindia watched them closely. not a word had been said about taking her back to the post. she was tired after the weary night vigil, and she longed for rest. from what she had heard about the chilcats seeking revenge upon the white traders she began to feel that they had forgotten their promise to her. she must, therefore, find out as soon as possible what they intended to do. the chief's son was standing not far away talking with several braves. walking quietly up to him she remained perfectly still until he suddenly turned and saw her. "what does the ayana squaw want?" he asked, "and why does she come to the chief's son? she has no heart and no eyes for him." "the chilcat brave speaks true," was the calm reply. "owindia has come to save her own people. her heart is with them, but her body is with the chilcats. will the chief's son keep his promise he made to her last night, and take her back to the post?" "the chief's son always keeps his word," was the reply. "he will take her back to the post. but first let the ayana squaw tell how many white traders there are." "owindia cannot tell," came the low response. "the white men are her friends. but let the chilcats be careful how they come near the post." "the chilcats are not afraid of the white traders," and the leader looked around proudly upon his men as he spoke. "in one night the chilcats will be within the post, some of the white traders will be dead, and the rest will go back as prisoners to the coast. the ayana maiden will go, too. does she think to get away from the chief's son so soon?" owindia's heart sank at these words, though she presented a brave face to the boaster. she felt there was only too much truth in his words, and that the defenders at the post had a very slim chance of escape against that determined and ruthless body of warriors. they had come a long way, and were not to be easily deprived of their prey. it was not long before the whole band of chilcats were ready for departure. they were well armed with muskets they had obtained from the white traders along the coast. they carried pistols, too, sharp knives and hunting-axes. they were a formidable band of men, two hundred strong, of whom a force three times their number might have good reason to fear. they advanced with an easy motion, and scarcely a sound did they make as they threaded the forest straight toward the post. owindia, surrounded by several warriors, including the chief's son, walked some distance behind. she knew from their action that their motive for leaving the camp was not to restore her to her own people or to the white traders. what they had in view she could not guess as no one confided to her the secret. after crossing the wild meadow the indians began to spread out to the right and to the left. ere long all had disappeared among the trees except two who remained with the maiden. these led her straight toward the post, over the very way she had recently traversed. reaching the open where the white men would be likely to see them, the two braves placed owindia in front, while they walked behind keeping very close to each other. the maiden thus protected them, and it was not likely that the defenders of the post would fire upon a woman. owindia was then ordered to go forward, and she, thinking at first that they were to fulfil their promise to her, readily obeyed. her step quickened, and soon she would have increased it to a run had not strong hands been laid upon her when they came within speaking distance of the post. "why does the squaw hurry?" asked the indian who was detaining her. "does she think to get away from the chilcat braves? she is mistaken then, for she must stay here." "what does the brave mean?" owindia replied, turning and looking into his face. "does not the ayana squaw speak the white men's tongue?" "ah, ah," came slowly from the maiden's lips. "speak, then, to the white traders, and tell them to come out to meet the chilcat braves, and hold a council here in the open. say to them that they are many, and the chilcat warriors who stand here are only two. they bring a message from the chief's son. he does not wish to fight against the white traders. he would be their friend. let them, therefore, come and talk the matter over with the messengers he has sent. the ayana squaw must say these words, for though the chilcat braves who stand by her side cannot speak the words of the white men, they will understand much of what she says. if she fails to speak what is told her she will never see her own people again." with fast-beating heart, and bent head owindia listened to the brave's words. she comprehended now the treachery of the chilcats' design. she thought of the rest of the band who had separated at the wild meadow. the meaning was all clear to her. they were lying in ambush, hidden among the trees not far off, ready to hurl themselves upon the white traders if they fell into the trap which had been laid for them. her eyes intuitively sought the forest, and she imagined she could see many forms slinking along the edge. the braves noted her look, and read its meaning. "the warriors are there," said the spokesman. "they are watching, and will know what the squaw says." "but what are they there for?" owindia demanded, now looking the indian full in the face. "to watch the council. they wish to be near to see the great white warriors. they have heard much about them, and now desire to look upon them." at these words owindia drew herself up to her full height. she was no longer a cringing indian girl, but a woman thrilled by a nobleness of purpose which could meet suffering and death without a tremor. the white people were in danger. should she repeat those words and draw them forth the blame would be upon her own head. natsatt would come, she was sure of that, and how could she see him surrounded by the coast wolves, and either killed before her very eyes or taken back across the mountains for a worse fate? would she not be a traitor, and what would her father say? it was not so much through reason as by natural perception and instinct of the wild that she arrived at this conclusion. "will the squaw speak?" the brave's voice startled her, and she glanced quickly toward him. "owindia will speak," she replied. "what else is there for her to do?" "be careful what you say," came the warning. "speak only such words as you were told." a faint expression of contempt, mingled with triumph might have been detected upon owindia's face as she turned away from the brave at her side. she looked toward the post. it was as silent as death. the barricade stood out grim and defiant. it was but a small structure there in the wilderness, defended by only a handful of men. yet it was standing boldly up before a hostile band of natives, who for long years had held the land in subjection and cruel bondage. it was the sign of the advent of a new day, the prelude of the coming of a dominant race, strong, progressive, and grasping. the chilcats might beat down those wooden walls, they might annihilate the defenders, and for a time seem to conquer. but they could not through pillage and slaughter stem the current which had already set in small at first, but increasing in force and intensity until it had swept the power from their grasp. owindia knew nothing of this, neither did she realise how great was the import of her own heroic action in seeking to save the lives of those few white traders, the forelopers of a varied throng yet to come. her thoughts were upon her lover. he was behind those walls, and him she must save, no matter what the cost to herself. no sign of life could she see at the post, though she was well aware that watchful eyes were peering through the port-holes of the fortification. she was not far away, and could, therefore, be easily heard. "white traders," she began in a clear, firm voice, "the chilcats ask you to come out here to meet them, to talk with them. but do not come. the whole band is lying among the trees waiting to fall upon the white men, and kill them. owindia gives the warning. she speaks true." the last words had barely left her lips, ere she was rudely seized by the arm, and hurried away from the open, back, amidst the forest, back to the lurking, expectant chilcats. chapter xix shrouded light a feeling of despair swept over owindia as the forest hid the post from view, for she believed she had seen it for the last time. she knew that the chilcats would be very angry at her for what she had done. she saw them emerge from the trees where they had been hidden. with what fierce eyes they beheld her, and she would not have been surprised had they fallen upon her in their fury and torn her to pieces. they were cruel and blood-thirsty for such a deed, so she thought. instead, however, they hurried her back to their camping place, where they forced her to sit upon the ground while they surrounded her in a formidable, menacing circle. the clouds of night had passed, and the sun was slanting down among the numerous tree tops. the day was bright and warm, but owindia shivered as she sat there awaiting the verdict of her enemies. her head ached, and her entire body was weary. the strain of the excitement through which she had passed, and the want of sleep were plainly visible upon her face and form. her eyes stared forth with an unnatural light, which at first the indians did not notice. strange thoughts were rushing through her brain. the babble of voices about her fell meaningless upon her ears. she heard nothing of the harsh words of condemnation which came from the lips of the baffled chilcats. gradually the dusky figures at her side were transformed, and she saw in their stead a band of her own people, all armed ready to drive back the invaders. she was watching them as they crept through the forest. she heard the cries of death, and the yells of victory. she saw her father leading his warriors, and beheld the look of triumph upon his face as he saw the chilcats fleeing before the attack. her heart thrilled with pride, and she gave vent to a laugh, a loud laugh of joy to think that at last their land was free from the enemy. she sprang to her feet and began waving her arms in the wildest excitement. and he was there, too, natsatt her lover, driving the coast tribe before him. how he was fighting, and she was cheering him on. the strange look in owindia's eyes, and her excited manner startled the chilcat warriors. they ceased their talking and stared upon the maiden standing before them. well did they know the meaning of that expression upon her face, and the rapid words which were pouring from her lips. they shrank back with superstitious awe and dread, and more than one indian laid his hand upon his gun. an evil spirit had entered into this ayana squaw, so they believed, and was possessing her whole being. to them this incident was most disconcerting. the bad spirit was abroad and had entered into this woman. it had evidently been surrounding them for days, and had been working against them. no doubt the white men had something to do with the matter, and were inciting the spirit against the chilcats. it would be necessary, therefore, to get rid of this evil one as speedily as possible. already a feeling of fear was spreading among the warriors. every time owindia spoke or approached them they drew back and looked apprehensively around as if expecting that hideous creatures were about to emerge from the forest depths. those braver than the rest realised that unless some action was immediately taken the courage of the indians would soon ebb away, and their hope of defeating the white traders would be at an end. it was a pathetic sight to see owindia standing in the midst of these men, talking at random, and occasionally pointing among the trees, and calling their attention to imaginary foes. "ha, ha," she laughed, "the chilcats are running away. they are afraid of the ayana warriors. look, look, the chief's son has fallen; he is no more. never again will he trouble owindia." these words, added to what she had already said, caused more than a score of warriors to seize their guns, and train them upon the maiden. they determined to delay no longer. the evil spirit must be driven out, and the only way to do it would be to put the maiden to death. the beautiful picture she made with flushed face, and form drawn to her full height caused them to hesitate for a few moments. never before had they seen such a squaw so full of grace and perfect loveliness. hardened though they were their hearts were not altogether unresponsive to a certain pleasure in true beauty. they could worship it in the surge of the ocean, in the ripple of the streams, in the glory of the sunset, and in the laughter of the flowers. it was, therefore, but natural that they should shrink from taking the life of one of whom they had heard so much, and their own eyes had seen. and as they hesitated, and owindia's life hung by a thread, klukwan, the messenger, stepped forward, and raised his arm for his companions to desist. he had been a silent witness of the whole proceeding, and his heart stirred within him at the idea of putting the maiden to death. in fact ever since she had entered the camp he had found it almost impossible to keep his eyes away from her face. how he longed to possess her for his own. she appealed to him not only for her beauty, but for her courage and modest demeanour. "kill not the squaw," he began. "why should she be put to death? when did chilcat warriors ever do such a thing? if the evil spirit had entered into an ayana brave klukwan would not say a word. but this is a squaw, daughter of a great chief. that chief is the chilcats' enemy, but he is a brave warrior, and has a strong heart. the chilcats honour a brave man, even though he is their enemy. this maiden has a strong heart. she saved klukwan's life in klitonda's lodge, and klukwan cannot forget. the evil spirit is in her, and it must not be allowed to get away or it will do harm to the chilcats. bind the squaw fast to a tree, that she may be safe. the spirit cannot get away from her body now that it has taken up its abode there." stepping up to the maiden klukwan placed his right hand upon her arm. "does the ayana squaw dream?" he asked. "does she see strange sights? is the evil spirit speaking through her lips?" owindia turned and looked upon the brave, although she saw him not. a far away expression shone in her dilated eyes, as lifting her hand she pointed out among the trees. "see, they come!" she cried. "the chilcats are among the ayana people; they will steal the women, and kill the men." then she began to sing in the monotonous indian fashion a fragment of a song she had often heard around the camp fire at night. it was but one of the numerous compositions which had been handed down from generation to generation. each had added something to the various pieces, legends, deeds of bravery, and love, until in some cases the crazy jumbles were of great length, requiring often an hour or more for their rendition. owindia learned only the ones which appealed to her heart and mind, especially those telling of the deeds of her forefathers, and their heroism in days gone by. it was only natural, therefore, that her favourite piece should be sung when her mind was so wildly excited. "hark! i hear the chilcats coming. they are coming o'er the ranges; they will steal our wives and daughters, they will slay our sons and husbands. rouse, ayana, to the battle, drive the chilcats o'er the ranges, free our land and save our people, come, ayana, come, come!" having ended these words in the long drawn wail of the indian manner, a sudden fancy seemed to seize owindia's mind. she began to sing snatches of songs and hymns which her mother had taught. some were bright, and gay; others were sombre, and full of much pathos. her voice was as clear and full of sweetness as when natsatt had first heard it out in the lodge in the wilderness. the chilcat warriors were now more firmly convinced than ever that the maiden was possessed of the evil spirit. they were not accustomed to such singing, and the tunes of the english songs and hymns made no appeal to their hearts. the singer must not be allowed to abide among them. nothing but harm would come from her presence. death was the only remedy. such was the opinion of all the chilcats when they had considered the matter except klukwan, the messenger. he would not agree to such a proposition, and appealed to the chiefs son, who had taken but little part in the discussion. "klukwan will stand by the ayana squaw," he said. "she shall not be put to death. let any warrior raise his gun against her and he will answer to klukwan. make the squaw fast to a tree, so she cannot escape. let the chiefs son speak." thus appealed to, and with the eyes of his men turned upon him there was nothing for the weak vacillating creature to do but to give voice to his thoughts. he knew only too well that what klukwan said he would do would be carried out to the bitter end. he did not wish to have friction among his band at such a critical moment, when unity was needed in their attack upon the whites. he believed, too, that some of the warriors would side with klukwan, and disastrous might be the result. according to the superstitious idea which had been instilled into him from childhood he felt that the maiden should die. but he wished to delay her death now, and put off the performing of it in order to keep peace. something might happen, so he thought, which would not make it necessary. she might get well, or klukwan might change his mind and consent to her death. that she should recover he earnestly desired for he wished to possess the maiden, and take her back in triumph to the coast. such a beautiful creature added to his list of wives would make him the envy and admiration of other tribes far and near, as well as among those of his own people. he accordingly gave it as his opinion that the possessed squaw should be taken to the very tree where her father, klitonda, had been bound, and there made fast. owindia made no attempt to resist the rough hands which were laid upon her. she permitted herself to be led to the tree where she was securely tied. she continued to talk, however, about the coming of the chilcats, and occasionally she would sing. but as the day wore away she became silent, and her head drooped. she made no effort to support herself, but allowed her whole weight to bear upon the moose-hide thongs with which she was bound. her face was hot and flushed, which even the air of evening could not cool. it was the heat of fever which was raging through her whole body. when night shut down she was left alone, all the warriors having gone to surround the post. but she knew nothing of time or events. she was living in that strange world of wild unrealities, where the mind seems to depart from its earthly tenement and roams through vast vistas of unknown regions. as the darkness deepened, and the air grew colder her ravings returned. she called for natsatt, and implored him to come to her. now she was with her father out upon the trail, and again she was a little child playing by the side of her mother along the river's bank. she sang, too, not the songs of the indians, but the ones her mother had taught her. night, desolate night, covered her form, but a darkness more terrible shrouded her mind, though it could not silence the music of her voice which floated forth among the trees clear, sweet, and plaintive. chapter xx the call of the heart when natsatt reached the post after his experience in the forest, and his conflict with the chilcat, he found that dan was watching for his return, and eagerly opened the gate in the fortification for him to enter. the rest of the men were astir. in fact a number of them had been on guard all through the night, and were weary after their fruitless watch. as soon as breakfast was over they threw themselves into their bunks, and ere long were fast asleep. natsatt noted that his companions desired to shun him. they neither spoke to him nor made any remark as to his absence. a feeling of conspiracy seemed to prevail which he could not comprehend. he knew why several hated him, but could not understand why all should turn against him. dan alone was unchanged, and to him natsatt told of his experience during the past night, and of his victory over the cowardly assailant. to all this the ranger listened most intently. at times his brow knitted, and his eyes expressed surprise. "i can't understand it, lad," he said, when natsatt had ended. "the lassie seems to be a prisoner among them, but why she did not leave when she had an opportunity, puzzles me." "she went there herself," natsatt replied, "to save us and her own people. i forced that much from the chilcat when i had the measly wretch upon his back. he didn't wish to tell me at first, but when he felt the sharp point of my hunting-knife tickling his ribs in no delicate manner he was quite ready to speak. he was lucky to get off with only the tickling, i can tell you that. he deserved the knife right up to the handle for his base attack." "i'm glad you let him off, lad. never shed blood if you can possibly avoid it. besides, he was down, and could not help himself. so the lassie went away to save us, he told you. it was certainly brave of her. but it's just what her mother would have done. she would sacrifice anything for the sake of those she loved. but there, you go off and have a sleep, while i think over what you have told me. we must save the lassie, but how it is to be done is another matter." natsatt made his way to his bunk, but he found it impossible to sleep. owindia was ever before his mind, and he reproached himself for having left her alone with the chilcats. why had he not rushed forward and rescued her from their midst? he asked himself over and over again. it would have been better to die by her side, trying to save her, than to live without her. he thought of what the chilcat had told him. would owindia really become the wife of the chief's son? would she go back with him over the mountain, and he would never see her again? the idea was too horrible to be entertained even for a moment. he sprang from his bunk. why was he lying there when she whom he loved better than life itself was in danger of being snatched away from him forever? he must go to her. nothing could stop him now. hardly knowing what course to pursue in order to carry out his design, he made his way out of the building toward the great door of the barricade. on the threshold he stopped, for there before him were dan and several of the men, peering intently through several of the port-holes, which had been made in the fortification. that they were deeply interested was evident from their excited manner. natsatt pushed his way among them and at length caught a glimpse of the open space outside the post. at once a half-smothered cry of astonishment escaped his lips, and pushing aside the man nearest him, he put his face close to the hole to obtain a better view. and then he saw all that was taking place; owindia, with the two chilcats by her side. what did it mean? he asked himself. what was she doing there? and as he watched he saw her turn her face toward the post and speak. he could hear every word distinctly, and at first he was puzzled as to her meaning. then the truth flashed upon him. she was sacrificing herself to save them. she would be true to the white men. he hardly heard what she said in conclusion, for his brain was in a whirl of excitement. he knew now that the chilcats had brought her there in order to betray the traders, and how angry they would be when they learned what she had said. what would happen when she went back to the camp? they would no doubt subject her to much cruelty, and perhaps put her to death. no, it must not be permitted. now was the time to rescue her. he forgot for the moment what she had said about the indians lurking on the border of the forest. he saw only the two chilcats who were with owindia. he could fight them, and recover his loved one. he turned away from the port-hole and walked rapidly toward the large door. but dan was by his side in an instant, and laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder. "you must not do it," he said. "it's too great a risk. the devils are among the trees as thick as flies. the whole bunch of us could not save the girl now. the chilcats want to get us out there to cut us down in no time." "but i must save her," natsatt protested. "do you think i mind the whole chilcat tribe when owindia is in danger? let me go to her," and he tried to free himself from the ranger's grasp. "no, you don't," was the grim reply. "you're too valuable for me to lose. you're a little hot-headed now. you shan't go through yon door, so make up your mind to that." natsatt knew that resistance would be useless. he began to see, too, how vain would be the undertaking. he must wait for some other opportunity. dan, seeing the look upon his face loosened his grip and peered again through the nearest port-hole. "they've gone!" he exclaimed, "and have taken the lassie with them. poor thing! she'll have her own trouble, i'm thinking with that bunch of wolves. anyway, their little scheme didn't work, thanks to the girl. but they'll try something else, never fear, and we must be on our guard against them. i'm beginning to see now that we have some shrewd determined customers to deal with." all through the day natsatt paced restlessly up and down in the open between the store and the barricade. he could not sleep, so offered to stay on guard. he did this with a purpose, as a plan was being evolved in his mind and he needed the freedom of the night to carry it into effect. he kept a careful watch upon the open outside the post, but no indian could he observe. silence brooded over the land. there was stillness, too, within the building, for all seemed to feel that night would bring an attack from the enemy. the men spent much of the time looking after their guns, and ammunition. of the latter they had not a large supply. what they had brought with them was simply for hunting purposes, with never a thought of an engagement with the natives. dan divided the powder and balls among the men, advising them at the same time to reserve their fire as much as possible, and not to shoot at random. in the past they had been somewhat prodigal of their ammunition, shooting at whatever they came across, whether bird or animal. hence, when all was divided they had but twenty rounds apiece, and they well knew how little this would serve them in case of a serious or prolonged siege. there was trouble, too, from another source. their supply of provisions, never at any time large, was becoming much reduced. since the arrival of the chilcats the hunters had not gone to the hills after sheep, and now it was impossible to leave the post. a few days at the most would see them almost on the verge of starvation unless they could add something to their larder, which under the circumstances did not seem very probable. it was, therefore, but natural that a deep feeling of dissatisfaction should prevail among the men. they felt that they had been badly treated, and blamed dan for bringing them into the country. they had come for trading purposes, and not to fight indians. they would not have minded a skirmish now and then with the natives if the advantage had been all on their own side. but to be surrounded by a strong implacable enemy, and to be cooped up like prisoners, with an insufficient supply of food was galling in the extreme. they did not complain to dan, but aired their grievances among themselves. natsatt knew but little of what was taking place, as they did not admit him into their confidence. they were naturally jealous of the half-breed, for they noted how dan talked much to the young man, and seemed to enjoy having him with him more than the others. but natsatt did not worry over what his companions felt or said. it was owindia who occupied his mind, and the one purpose of his life was to reach, and rescue her from the chilcats. dan would not give his permission to leave again, he was quite sure of that. nothing could be done during the day, so he must wait until night. the long afternoon wore slowly away, and it seemed to natsatt that the sun was longer than usual disappearing beyond the tree tops. slowly it settled and at length darkness stole over the land. then natsatt was free and ready for action. he had been relieved of guard and there was no work within the post demanding his attention. his companions were seated in the building, enjoying their after supper smoke, so he slipped quietly away, and moved toward the fortification close to the river. he could have gone out by the door, but that would have betrayed his scheme, besides imperilling his companions in case the indians suddenly arrived and found the door unfastened. during the afternoon he had thought out his plan of escape. he would mount one of the large wooden poles which supported the barricade from the inside, and thus scale the wall. the darkness covered his movement, and as he made very little noise the men on guard were not aware of what was taking place near at hand. it did not take him long to spring with the agility of a wild cat up the long leaning brace, and from there to the top of the pointed posts above. with some difficulty he threw himself over and holding fast by his hands lowered himself to his full arms' length. then dropping quickly to the ground, he sped away among the trees, and hid for a brief space among a friendly thicket of fir bushes. he was armed with pistol, hunting knife, and small axe, so he did not fear an attack of one or even two chilcats. but he must keep clear of the main body of the enemy, for against them he would have no chance at all. to one less accustomed to the forest the difficulty and peril of the undertaking would have been almost unbearable. but natsatt was at home in the darkest night amid the wilderness. the black objects whether stumps or stones which stood out with startling weirdness, had no terror for him. it was necessary for him to be extremely cautious lest he should stumble unawares upon the enemy. carefully he groped his way among the trees, keeping close to the river, as he believed that the chilcats would come more in a straight line toward the post. he was thankful that he had escaped the vigilance of the spies, who no doubt were lurking somewhere near. on and on he moved, gliding with swiftness from tree to tree, and always peering watchfully ahead. when he believed that he was opposite the chilcat camp, he turned sharply to the left. before him lay the ridge of ragged rocks, on the side of which owindia had made her escape from the few indians who had lured her thither. over almost the same place where the fire had been natsatt moved, little knowing what had recently taken place there but a short time before. nearing at length the camping ground he advanced more cautiously and partly expected to see the light of a fire darting among the trees. but in this he was disappointed. nothing but intense blackness surrounded him. he began to wonder what had become of the indians. had they all gone to the post, and were they already surrounding the place ready to make their night attack? if so what had become of owindia? surely they had not taken her with them! he paused for a while to listen, but nothing could he hear, except the beating of his own heart. he was about to move forward when a sound fell upon his ears which stayed his steps and sent the blood coursing rapidly through his veins. it was the voice of some one singing, and in an instant he knew it must be none other than owindia's. he could not catch the words though the tune was familiar. why was she singing? he wondered, and where could she be? not by a fire, that was evident, or else he should have seen the light. had she been left behind, and was she singing to keep up her courage? the thought that she was alone gave him a thrill of joy. he could reach her side, talk to her, and induce her to come with him back to the post. hesitating no longer he made straight for the place from whence the sound came. the song still continued, and ere long he was but a short distance away. he peered through the darkness but could see nothing. the song suddenly ceased and all was quiet. natsatt's heart beat fast, and he called "owindia, owindia," in a low voice. receiving no response he raised his voice a little louder, but still no answer. thinking it very strange that he could get no reply, and feeling sure that owindia was but a few steps away, he felt in his pocket, found a match, and struck it. as the light flared up he looked eagerly around, expecting to see her standing before him. the trees stood on every hand silent and grim, though nowhere could he see the maiden. a feeling of awe crept into his heart as the tiny light died out in his fingers. had something happened to owindia? he wondered, and was this her spirit haunting the forest? he took a few steps forward, and then pausing, struck another match. this time his effort was rewarded, for as the light illumined the darkness for a few seconds his eyes rested upon the form of the maiden standing upright against a fir-tree about three paces to his right. chapter xxi by the water-gate the match which natsatt held burnt down, scorched his fingers, and went out. but no physical pain did he feel. the agony and rage which possessed his heart numbed his body to any other lesser sensation. it was a terrible ten seconds as he stood there in the darkness with that picture of the one he loved burned upon his brain. then he leaped to her side, and spoke to her, pleading with her to speak to him, and tell who had done the dastardly deed. his words were all in vain, for owindia gave no sign that she was aware of his presence. wondering much, natsatt again struck a match, and peered keenly into her face. he beheld her eyes filled with a wild unnatural light, and not looking at him, but staring straight into the forest. he noted how drawn and haggard was her face, and limp and helpless her body. in an instant the truth flashed upon him, and filled him with an overwhelming dismay. was this his own owindia, the one he loved better than life itself? could it be possible that her reason had deserted her? he had loved her before with all the passion of his ardent nature. but now a deep yearning pity mingled with his affection. she needed his help more than ever. drawing forth his hunting-knife he severed the bonds which bound her to the tree and, her body thus released slipped in a helpless heap at his very feet. quickly stooping, he caught her in his arms. he seized her hands in his and for the first time noted how hot they were. he felt her face and found that it, too, was burning with a fire which he knew could only come from a raging fever. "owindia, owindia," he murmured, "speak to natsatt. he is here." then he lowered his head and imprinted a kiss upon those hot lips. "you are mine," he continued, "and nothing but death can separate us now. oh, to meet the villains who treated you thus cruelly!" next the helplessness of his position swept upon him. what was he to do? owindia could not walk, and how was he to get her back to the post? the chilcats were already before the fortification, he believed, and would surely capture him should he attempt to go in that direction. but suppose he did reach the post how could he gain admittance? the indians would not let him pass, and there would be no way by which he could communicate with his companions. he was certainly in a difficult position. he could not remain where he was for if the chilcats returned and found him there his situation would not be enviable. neither could he build a fire, for the light would surely attract any native who might be prowling near. he must get owindia away and at once. perhaps he could find a sheltered place beyond the ridge of rocks where he could build a fire, and thus lie in wait for an opportunity to steal back to the post. while these thoughts were passing through his mind owindia was still lying quietly in his arms. she had not spoken a word since the song had died upon her lips. she was not a heavy burden, in fact her lover was surprised at the lightness of her body. he could carry her without much trouble, he felt sure of that. scarcely had he taken a step forward than she began to talk in her wild rambling manner. now she was urging on the ayana people, calling to them to drive out the chilcats. again it was of her father she spoke. he was in danger and she was trying to get to him. then natsatt's name dropped from her lips, and thrilled the heart of the young man. why did he not come to save her from the enemy? she asked. had he forgotten her that he was so long in coming? "hush, darling," natsatt replied, pressing her more closely to his breast. "natsatt is here. do you not feel his arms around you? he will save you. don't be afraid, little one." still she babbled on, and as natsatt struggled slowly through the darkness, his heart was heavy within him. occasionally he stumbled, and with difficulty regained his feet. his burden which seemed so light at first became much heavier, and at times he was forced to lay her upon the ground that he might rest his arms a little. up and up he steadily climbed to the top of the rocky ridge, then down the opposite side straight toward the river. how long the way seemed. he had never realised that the distance was so great. the trees in the valley were smaller, and much closer together, which made travelling extremely difficult. natsatt's progress was accordingly very slow, and it seemed a long time ere he at length came near the river. here he paused, and placing owindia tenderly upon the ground groped around for a suitable place to build a fire. the bank of the river at this locality was steep and rugged where the ice had torn away the earth in its onward sweep during the great spring rush. in one place a huge hole had been gouged out of the embankment, and as natsatt examined it as well as the darkness would permit, he considered it a favourable spot to make his fire. the high bank would somewhat hide the light from being seen by the chilcats. searching around among the trees he gathered an armful of dry boughs and sticks and soon had the satisfaction of seeing a cheerful blaze illumining the night. next he cut a liberal supply of fresh fir boughs and made a comfortable bed near the fire. upon these he laid owindia, and taking off his own buck-skin jacket placed it over her body. the maiden made no attempt to move, but remained perfectly still and quiet. then natsatt sat down to keep watch, and to replenish the fire whenever such work was needed. hour after hour the young man stayed on guard. at times owindia fell into a fitful sleep, only to awake with a cry, from which she wandered off into other worlds, babbling of them in an unconnected manner. natsatt kept his eyes fixed most of the time upon the maiden's face. how he longed for that vacant expression to vanish, and to hear her speak to him as of old. with her in her right mind the camp in the wild would have been a most blissful spot. he wondered how long the fever would last. suppose she should die, and leave him alone? how could he live without her? oh, to have a doctor near, or some one who knew what to do to help her! would ranger dan know? he mused. he had lived so long among the natives perhaps he had learned something from them. owindia must not die. he looked up into the heavens, and saw the stars twinkling down upon them. he had never thought much about higher things. he had frequently attended the little churches at the mission stations on the other side of the mountains, and had listened to the words of the missionaries. but so full of strength was he that he never felt the need of other help beyond his own. to-night, however, it was different, and he began to wonder what was above those stars. was there any one who could help him in his present trouble? he was thinking thus when the report of a gun winged through the darkness and fell upon his ears. leaping to his feet he sprang up the bank, and listened intently. he had not long to wait, for in a few seconds the sounds of a regular fusillade reached him. then he knew that the battle was on in earnest, and he longed to be at the post to assist his comrades. the shots seemed quite near, and ran in a circle around the spot where the post was situated. the indians had evidently surrounded the place, and were making a desperate assault upon the besieged. presently yells of derision, and at times, of pain, split the night, showing plainly that the white men were meeting the attack with spirited determination. natsatt thought of the insufficient supply of ammunition at the post, and he wondered how long the besiegers could be kept at bay. when the powder and balls gave out there would be nothing left but a hand to hand struggle. he shuddered as he thought of the only outcome of such an encounter. the whites would be out-numbered ten to one, and what chance would they have against such sturdy and blood-thirsty opponents? could his companions hold out until morning? he asked himself. glancing away to the left he saw the horizon brightening with the light of early dawn. the distant mountain peaks were catching the first faint gleam, but the world below was still lost in the mantle of night. natsatt piled more wood upon the fire, and sat down by owindia's side. no change could he see in her staring eyes which often looked upon him with no mark of recognition. his heart was growing heavier, and a deep sigh escaped his lips as he listened to the firing mingled with yells in the distance. how could he ever reach the post, and if he did the defenders would be so occupied that they would not hear him. what was he to do? must he allow owindia to die there by the river without making an effort to save her life. again he made his way up the steep bank, and paced for a time to and fro in an effort to formulate some line of action. dawn was stealing down the mountains now, and bringing into relief objects near at hand. his face was turned upstream, and he was about to discontinue his walking in order to go back to owindia, when his eyes rested upon an object which brought him to a sudden standstill. then a thrill of hope shot into his heart as he looked, and hurrying forward leaped down the bank. there upon the shore, securely tied with a moose-hide thong was a large canoe, which evidently belonged to the chilcats. only this one could he see, although he believed that there must be others not far away. he upbraided himself for not having thought of the canoes before. the chilcats had come downstream in them, and there must be several somewhere in the vicinity. in this craft he saw the solution of the problem which had become so difficult. he found several paddles lying in the bottom, just where they had been left by the late occupants. quickly untying the painter, he gave the canoe a shove and sprang in. it did not take him long to reach the place where owindia was lying. lifting her in his arms he laid her first upon the ground. then gathering up the fir boughs he made with them a comfortable bed in the bottom of the canoe. this done and with the maiden lying upon them, he pushed off, and the current being strong the canoe was soon speeding swiftly down the river. natsatt steered close to the shore, keeping as much as possible within the dark shadows of the tall trees along the bank. he knew it would not do to run any risk, as chilcats might be skulking near the river, and especially so when he came near the post. presently he changed his mind, and heading the craft for mid-stream ran it across to the opposite side of the river. he felt safer now, and could obtain a better view of the post and its surroundings. it was too dark to see far, but as he looked he could tell that the firing from the post had ceased entirely. he was surprised at this and wondered if his companions' ammunition had given out already. perhaps they were reserving their scanty supply for the assault upon the barricade. he knew that dan was too wise a general to allow his men to spend their last charges in a futile fire. by this time he was almost opposite the post, so turning the bow of the canoe he re-crossed the stream, and in a few minutes was close to the water-gate. here he had hoped to make his voice heard, without any danger of the indians seeing or hearing him. but what was his astonishment to find the gate unfastened. he could hardly believe it possible, and thought it must be a careless over-sight on the part of the defenders. had the chilcats made an attack there they could have gained an easy admittance. opening the gate he ran the canoe inside, and leaping out shut to the big portal, and made it fast with the heavy bar kept for the purpose. leaving owindia in the canoe he hurried up to the store, and was surprised to see none of the men inside the fortification. what did it all mean? surely they had not been shot, and crawling within the building were huddled together there. the door leading to the store was closed. he almost dreaded to open it, fearing the worst. a strange silence and awe pervaded the place. at length he lifted his hand, opened the door, and entered. first he went into the large room, where the men were in the habit of gathering. finding no one there he passed into the store, but stopped short on the threshold, for there before him was ranger dan standing alone in the centre of the room. upon the old man's face was a fierce look of defiance. his form was drawn to its full height, and his hands clutched firmly his musket. then the truth flashed across natsatt's mind with a stabbing intensity. the men had deserted the post, and had left their leader to the mercy of the chilcats! chapter xxii traitors natsatt had been absent from the post about two hours before he was missed. dan wanted to see him to discuss certain matters in connection with their mode of defence. but he could not be found. search was made in every part of the building, and along the barricade, but without avail. the gates of the fortification were all fastened, so it was evident that he had not departed by means of them. dan's mind was much perturbed as to what had happened to the young man. he was his main stay, and at this critical time his help was greatly needed. the men discussed the matter with one another, and threw out hints of desertion. they were ready to surmise almost anything of an evil nature concerning the half-breed. their knowing nods and insinuations angered the ranger. he believed that there was some good reason for natsatt's departure, and turned sharply upon his men. "don't be too sure that the lad has deserted," he said. "where could he go if he left the post? this is the safest place in the whole country. so cease your foolish talk about desertion. he'll turn up in good time, never fear." "he's got injun blood in his veins," replied one, "and wherever that streak runs you can never tell what will happen. i wouldn't be a bit surprised if he's gone and joined the chilcats to fight against us. he thinks we'll be wiped out here, and so he wishes to be on the safe side." "never!" dan retorted. "he would not do such a thing; he's too much of a man for that. and as for indian blood, the less you say about it the better. my wife was an indian woman, and my only child had indian blood in her veins. and, listen, the child of my dead child is out there among those chilcat wolves. i would give all i possess to have her with me by my side. say nothing more about indian blood, i warn you. it touches too deeply the sacred things of my heart." the men said nothing more to the ranger just then. they knew from his words and actions that he was feeling keenly about natsatt's departure, and the reference which had been made to indian blood. the ones who were not on duty at the fortification gathered in a little group in one corner of the room, and engaged in earnest conversation. their voices were low, and they kept an eye upon dan who was walking to and fro in the store. they could see him every time he passed the door. "are we to stay here to be murdered by those red devils?" pete tarquill asked, looking around upon his companions. "we can't stand them off for any length of time. our ammunition is mighty low, and our grub is about gone. why, i haven't had a good square meal for days, and now we're down to hard pan. what's the use of us remaining here and dying like rats?" "that's what i say," replied tim burke. "what good can we do by staying? if we had been sent here to hold this place for the queen against those chilcats, it would be different. we didn't come in here to fight indians; we came for trading purposes. i don't want to lose my skin for the strange whim of a half-cracked old man, who has come here after a treasure, as he calls it. did you hear what he said about the child of his dead child being out yon? what did he mean by such words, i wonder?" "maybe that injun squaw that the half-breed's smitten on is the one," spoke up larry dasan, who was still smarting over the knockout-blow he had received from natsatt. "i believe he's come here looking for her. i've always had my suspicion that it was something more than trade that brought him into this hell of a hole. i don't believe he'll leave the place until he gets her, and that he'd be willing to sacrifice the whole bunch of us in the undertaking." "why not ask him?" pete suggested. "if he finds that we are determined to go he might see the reason of the thing. and if he won't consent there is but one thing to do. the canoe is there by the water-gate, and who is to stop us from going? it will not be ranger dan i am certain of that." the men were now determined to abandon the place as soon as possible, and pete tarquill was chosen to interview their leader about the matter. he did not relish the task, but some one had to do it. "i know what i shall get," he muttered. "his eyes would almost knock a man down, even though his fists don't. he's a hard customer to deal with, especially if any one opposes him." nevertheless he made his way to where dan was striding up and down the room. the ranger turned and looked upon him. "isn't it time to change the guard?" he asked. "it must be near midnight. i've been expecting the indians for some time now. the dead of night is their favourite time for making an attack. they like to wait until people get drowsy and off their guard. but they won't catch us napping." "do you think it well to let them attack us?" pete asked. "we haven't the ghost of a chance against the bunch that's opposing us. we have little ammunition, and our grub's about gone. we can't hold out for any length of time." "what do you mean by not letting them attack us?" dan demanded. "do you want to rush them and have it all over in a short time. yes, it would be a short time," and he gave a slight sarcastic laugh. "they'd wipe us out quicker than you could say jack-rabbit." "no, that's not the game," pete replied. "let's take the canoe, and give them the slip. we can do it very well, and get far on our way before they suspect anything." "never!" burst from dan's lips, while his hands clenched firmly together, and an angry light gleamed in his eyes. "i shall not leave, and all the chilcats that ever crossed the mountains cannot make me leave until i get that child. we have twenty rounds each, and we shall give them such a hot reception that half of their number will bite the dust. we can hold out for two days, and by that time we can rush them. think no more about leaving, but go and see that the guard is changed. those who are not on duty had better get some sleep." these words had barely left his lips before several sharp reports fell upon their ears. they started, and then rushed outside. all was in darkness there. dan hurried to one of the port-holes and asked the man on duty what was the matter. "the injuns are outside," was the reply. "we saw their forms creeping upon us and we gave them a warm welcome. they have retreated to the woods. they were mistaken this time." dan immediately gave orders for all the men to go on duty, and scattered them along the barricade. it was only a few minutes before a regular volley came from the forest. the bullets sang over the fortification; they sank deep into the upstanding timbers, while several passed through the cracks between, and buried themselves into the store behind. "reserve your fire," dan commanded, as he moved up and down the line. "we can't afford to waste a single shot. but when you see your man give it to him hot." and this the men did. they waited in grim silence until they saw dim forms slinking through the gloom. the first volley which came from the wooden wall had an immediate effect, for yells of agony and derision split the night air. that the natives who were able had scurried back to the forest was quite evident, and from there continued their rain of death. how the defenders escaped some of the leaden missives was a wonder. but only one man was slightly wounded in the arm. several times the men fired upon the indians, and each time yells rang out through the darkness. an hour thus passed, and the chilcat fire instead of lessening became more furious. they were shooting with greater care now, and the position of the besieged was becoming perilous in the extreme. at any instant several of them might be stretched lifeless upon the ground. the darkness, those slinking forms in the distance, and that constant fire, were all enough to chill the bravest heart. but the men who were guarding the post were not noted for their great courage. they had never been trained to such a life as this. after a terrific volley from the enemy fiercer than any they had yet experienced, several of the men held a hurried conversation. then three of them entered the store, and ere long returned carrying several bags upon their backs. word was passed from man to man, and at once a rush was made for the water-gate. the bar was withdrawn, the canoe shoved into the river, and in a few minutes the men were out in mid-stream heading their craft up the segas river. this flight was made at the moment when dan had gone to the farther side of the barricade where the attack of the enemy was least expected. he wished to be certain that the chilcats were not creeping upon them from that quarter. when he returned he was surprised not to find any men at the first port-hole. he hurried on to the second and found that also deserted. with a great fear in his heart concerning what had happened he hurried along the fortification until he came to the water-gate. feeling round he found that the canoe was gone, and then his gravest fears were confirmed. he stood for a few minutes like a man stricken dumb. then without thinking about the unbarred gate he made his way slowly back to the store. he examined the provisions, and found that they had been raided, and only a very small supply left. the firing of the chilcats still continued and fell upon his ears with a sickening sensation. he realised now that his last hope was gone. but he would die fighting. he would show the chilcats that he was no coward. he gripped his musket firmly in his hand. he felt to see if his pistol was in its place. he was not afraid to die, and perhaps it was just as well he thought. what was there for him to live for? he asked himself. his plan had failed, and why should he go back to the ways of civilisation? he was anxious now for the indians to come. he longed to have one round with them for the injury they had done him. let them come, he was ready. and as he thus stood defiantly in the centre of the room, natsatt appeared before him. at first he thought it must be the young man's ghost which had returned to mock him, and a slight laugh escaped his lips. "dan, dan! what is it?" natsatt cried, going up to the old man and laying his hand upon his arm. "have the scoundrels gone? have they deserted the post, and left you alone?" "gone; the curs have gone!" was the fierce reply. "they have deserted me, and i thought that you had gone too." "did you think that i would leave you? could you not trust me?" natsatt responded. "i left the post last night. but i did it to save owindia. could you blame me when i knew that she was among those wolves?" "and did you find her?" questioned dan with some of his old eagerness. "did you bring her back?" "yes, i found her, and have brought her with me, but--" "but what?" dan demanded, noticing the young man hesitate. "she is sick." "sick? do you say? what is the matter with her?" "fever, i fear, which has unbalanced her mind for a time. is there anything we can do for her?" "where is she?" and dan stepped to the door as if expecting to see the maiden in the outer room. "she's in the canoe at the water-gate." "in the canoe? at the water-gate? i don't understand. i thought the canoe was taken." "come," natsatt replied, "i can't tell you all now. we must do something for owindia at once. i shall tell you later all about it." forgotten for a time were the indians as they hurried along the passage-way toward the canoe. owindia was lying just as natsatt had left her. picking her up tenderly in his arms he carried her back to the building, and laid her upon the bed they had days before prepared for her. little did they then think in what way it would be first used. by the light of the candle dan peered down upon her hot flushed face and into her staring eyes. "poor lassie," he murmured. "it's a pity, a great pity. yes, she's klota's child, i can tell that at a glance. we must save her, lad," and he turned sharply around upon natsatt who was standing quietly at his side. "yes," was the reply, "but how? what about the chilcats out yonder? we can't do anything now that the rest have cleared out." "true, true, i had forgotten about them for the time. they haven't been doing any shooting for the last few minutes. perhaps they have given up the attack, and have gone back to their camp. you watch by the lassie while i slip outside, and see how things look." dan had been gone only a few seconds when he came bounding back into the store. "come quick!" he cried. "they're at the post, and trying to get in." seizing his musket which he had laid aside, natsatt hurried out of the building. peering through a port-hole he could see the chilcats right outside the barricade. when the fire from the post ceased they had become emboldened and rushed forward. they did not yell but like the silence before the destroying tempest they endeavoured to scale the wall and capture the place. several had looked in through the port-holes and saw no one inside. some were climbing upon one anothers' shoulders, and just as natsatt turned around he saw a dusky head appear over the top of the fortification. quickly raising his musket he fired before the venturesome intruder had time to notice his movement. there was a cry of agony, followed by a heavy thud upon the ground. instantly wild yells ensued. no longer were the chilcats silent in their assault. with savage determination dozens of them began to scale the wall, while others hewed fiercely with their hunting-axes upon the strong door. the two lone defenders took up their stand part way between the building and the barricade. whenever a head appeared over the top of the wall it became the target for an unerring marksman. but this could not last long. it was impossible to reach the natives who were hewing at the door, and from the sound of blows, and the splintering of the wood it was apparent that only a short time could elapse ere an entrance would be made. the chilcats seemed to realise that something was wrong within the post. just what it was they could not tell. but the slackening of the fire gave them greater courage in their desperate assault. "this is getting hot!" dan exclaimed, as he rammed down the wad of paper upon the powder he had just poured into the barrel of his musket. "i knocked that fellow off, but there are dozens more to take his place. that door will soon be down, and then it will be all up with us." "let's get out," natsatt replied. "there's the canoe, and it's our only hope. you take what grub there is left, and i'll look after owindia." "we can't do it, lad," the ranger responded. "the devils are at the very water's edge, and would shoot us down in a twinkling if we try such a thing. no, i'd rather stay where i am than be pumped full of holes in the canoe. we can settle a few of them before they knock us out, and that'll be some satisfaction. but, good lord! the door's down! let's at them." dan's words were only too true, for with a crash the barrier gave way, and with wild yells of triumph a score of chilcat warriors leaped through the opening straight toward the two defenders. chapter xxiii the fettered chief klitonda firmly believed that klota's spirit had visited him in the chilcat camp, and freed him from the tree. with all the independence of his spirit, and his hatred to the medicine man, he could not easily free his mind from the teaching of childhood. he still held many things in common with his own people. to him there were spirits of air, earth, mountain, and water. he also retained his belief in his special guardian animal, the wolf. this creature was his totem, and aided him in the chase. seldom had he ever killed a wolf, and to eat its flesh was something not to be thought of for an instant. a figure of a wolf's head he had carved with much labour and care upon the bow of his canoe, the handle of his hunting-axe, his bow, and in fact upon almost everything he possessed. if he had special success in the chase he somehow felt it was due to the good wishes of his totem; but if he took few pelts he believed that his guardian animal was against him. it was, therefore, only natural that on this night of his deliverance from his enemies the superstitious influence of generations of ancestors should strongly possess his heart and mind. to klitonda the voice which he heard was the voice of his lost klota. who else could it be there in the very presence of the chilcats? never for a moment did he think of owindia. he had left her sometime before near the post. how could she know that he was a captive bound to a tree? but had he known it was his daughter who cut the thongs not a step would he have taken from the place. he would either have carried her off bodily, or died fighting by her side. ignorant of who had really freed him, the chief sped away from the camp with remarkable swiftness. there was no trail to guide his steps, and in truth he needed none. he threaded the forest darkness as surely as if on a well-beaten path. a natural instinct directed him, which he had in common with the beasts of the forest, and the birds of the air. he at once set his course not back to the post but far away westward to where he believed the ayana indians were encamped. klitonda's hands were still securely bound behind his back. he tried several times to rend asunder those gripping thongs, but in vain. his arms ached from their cramped position, and the fetters were cutting into his flesh so hard had they been twisted about his wrists. he was anxious for the darkness to pass, and often glanced eastward for the first faint light of dawn. it seemed to him a long time in coming, and when at length he beheld the sky reddening away on the horizon an expression of pleasure might have been detected upon his face. slowly the sky brightened, and the darkness faded. the light tinged the mountain peaks, and stole quietly down to the valleys below. the long silent reaches of the great forest felt the touch of dawn, and awoke to life and action. birds twittered sleepily among the branches and the squirrels began a new day of activity and chattering. occasionally a belated rabbit scurried through the underbrush on its way to its secret burrow. klitonda was earnestly studying the various objects near at hand as he hurried on his way. stones, small and large, arrested his attention. at times he would pause by the side of a rock and examine it carefully. not finding what he was looking for, with a grunt of disgust he would proceed. his course at length led him to the top of a stretch of rough country, barren and bleak. a ridge of sharp rocks ran for miles north and south. searching about klitonda at last found a stone which seemed to suit his mind. lying prone upon his back he brought his wrists directly over the flinty edge, and thus endeavoured to saw through the tough moose-skin thongs. as he could not see what he was doing, the stone often tore his hands instead of the bonds. the perspiration poured in great beads from the chief's face as for some time he frantically struggled to free himself. but the chilcats knew how to tie a prisoner, and as the thongs were wound about his wrists in several coils, he found that all his efforts were in vain. at last he was forced to give up the attempt as useless. he rose to his feet and looked upon the stone. it was covered with his blood, and what had he gained? the sight before him, and the pain he was now enduring aroused him to almost maddening frenzy. he tore wildly at his bonds until the muscles of his body stood out like whip lashes. had not the thongs been of excellent material they certainly would have been rent asunder by the infuriated chieftain. he turned and looked back toward the chilcat camp. no sound did he utter, but the expression of rage and hatred which glowed in his eyes was more terrible than many words. what a seething ocean of passion was surging through the heart and mind of that native of the wilds as he looked. the indignity of the past night, the wrongs and insults of former years all came upon him with titanic might. he was standing upon a rock, and his appearance at that moment was more awe-inspiring than ever. he was the giant of his race, fighting a battle against overwhelming odds. he was a promethean warrior, bound in limb, but free and unfettered in spirit. turning at length he left the place of his defeat, and moved with a quickened pace on his way. the fire burning in his heart was now at white heat, and he needed action as a vent to his feelings. the sun came down the valley, and poured its beams upon his uncovered head. the air became stifling, and his throat dry and parched. he neared the little stream where the chilcats had fallen upon him. he almost scented the water some distance away. cautiously he approached, and looked apprehensively around as if expecting to be again set upon. the water sparkled before him, but ere tasting a drop he looked eagerly around for the tokens he had dropped the day before. they were there just where he had left them, having escaped the keen eyes of his chilcat captors. he let them lie where they were, and turned toward the little brook. how good the water looked to this thirsty chieftain as it purled on its way through a wilderness land. along its banks the grass grew, and wild flowers rioted in profusion. how often had the wild beasts found their way to this stream to slake their thirst. klitonda, too, had knelt at that very place and touched his lips to the water. once he had camped right near. klota was with him then, and owindia was a little baby. after he had stooped down with much difficulty and satisfied his thirst he sat for a while upon a stone partly embedded in the earth. he was thinking of that day, which now seemed so long ago. he remembered how owindia had laughed with delight as she pointed to the brook, and tried to tell them what was in her mind. they had reclined upon the ground watching her with much pride. since then what clouds had swept over his life. klota was gone, and the chilcats were in the land more terrible than ever. the fierce light had faded from his eyes, and a gentle expression had taken its place. but as he thought about the chilcats the old feeling of revenge and hatred returned. he sprang from the rock, and stepped to where the arrows were lying. he was the chief of the mountains again, the implacable enemy of the chilcats. he looked at the tokens before him, tied firmly together with several sinews, by owindia's deft fingers. he could not lift them with his hands, so stooping he seized the cord with his teeth. in this manner alone could he carry them, so without another moment's hesitation he sprang up the slope, leading from the brook, and sped along the trail. the sun rode high in the heavens, and then dipped away toward the west as klitonda paused upon the brow of a steep hill. he knew that his destination was not far off. the scent of a mountain lake drifted to his sensitive nostrils. the chief's mind was somewhat uneasy. what if his people were not there? suppose they had not yet arrived? he knew how many lakes there were, and at times it was uncertain where the largest band of indians would be gathered. he thought of owindia, and what might happen to her and the white men should he have to go farther afield in search of the ayana. the distance was long as it was, and it would be necessary to make haste. descending the slope with much swiftness he at length came in sight of a large lake lying before him like a precious gem in its dark green setting of fir and spruce trees. around the edge of the water ran a shadowy fringe where the silent forest border was mirrored in those clear liquid depths. not a ripple disturbed the glassy surface of the lake, and not a sound could klitonda hear. he was fearful lest the indians were not there. approaching cautiously he soon obtained a better view of the shore just below the slope. then he beheld several thin columns of smoke rising up phantom-like into the still air. his people were there! he moved somewhat nearer that he might observe them. it was possible, he thought, that a band of chilcats might be fishing in the lake, and so he must be on his guard. then he wondered if the ayana would welcome him. if the score of hunters who had given him the tokens were there all would be well. but suppose they were absent! creeping still nearer, and crouching behind a thick low-set fir tree he was able to look right down upon the camp. that they were his own people he soon observed, and the discovery sent a thrill of satisfaction through his heart. he watched them for a while ere going down to join them. there was a large number present, men, women, and children. it was supper time, and they were cooking fresh fish over the coals. the appetising smell was wafted up the slope and made klitonda realise how hungry he was. he had eaten very little since leaving his own lodge by the post. children were playing quietly along the edge of the lake, and the hunters were lying upon the ground. the women alone were working. it was a scene of peace and happiness, such as klitonda delighted to look upon. a feeling of pride came into his heart. they were his own people, and he was their chief. soon the invaders would be driven out, and no longer would the ayana be fearful of their ferocious enemy. they would dwell in peace, plenty, and safety. having observed them for a few minutes klitonda left his hiding place and hurried down to the camping ground. his sudden arrival caused considerable consternation among the indians. they gathered around him and gazed wonderingly upon their bound chief, and his bleeding hands. no questions were asked, and in truth they were not needed. they knew only too well what had happened, for who could bind their mighty leader but the chilcat wolves. klitonda's gaze roved swiftly over the hunters. he saw a number of the young men who had given him the tokens. he said not a word but going to one dropped the arrows at his feet. "cut the thong," he demanded. "take the tokens," he continued, when the young man had complied with his request. "give them to the rest of the hunters," he ordered. "show them the blood marks upon them. they will know the meaning." silently the chief's orders were obeyed, and out of the score of arrows thirteen were delivered. "where are the others?" klitonda asked. "at the great lake," was the reply. "two sleeps from here." then one of the hunters seized his knife, and stepping up to the chief was about to cut the thong which bound klitonda's hands. but the latter drew back, and shook his head. "wait," he said. "do not free your chief yet. listen to what he has to say. the ayana indians see these bound hands. do they know who did it? do they realise that the chilcat dogs are in this land, and did this deed? the spirit of klota came to klitonda when he was tied to a tree and gave him liberty, and he has come to his own people. the sun shines, the streams run through the land, and the birds fly in the air. they are free, but the ayana people are slaves. how long will this last? the time has now come, and klitonda calls the ayana warriors to arouse, and drive back the coast dogs. the white men will help them. look upon your chief's hands bound and covered with blood. klitonda is tired; he has come a long way. he is hungry. but do not give him any food, do not give him a place to rest, and do not cut the thongs which bind his bleeding hands unless the ayana warriors will follow their chief. he will not stay, but will leave this camp. there are warriors here who will come with him," and he looked upon the thirteen young hunters as he spoke, "but they are not enough. some of them are away, and cannot get here in time. who among the rest will take those blood-marked arrows, and follow klitonda?" there was deep silence for a brief space when the chief had finished speaking. the hunters looked at one another as if to know who would be the first to make a move. presently one sturdy young brave stepped forward, picked up a token, and walking over stood by the side of the thirteen pledged warriors. he was immediately followed by another, and then another until soon all the arrows were taken. a keen interest now pervaded the entire camp. the bound chief, and the response of the young men for service had a deep effect upon all. hunters who were reclining upon the ground felt their hearts thrill as never before. they saw, too, the eyes of the women turned upon them in a half-pitying, reproachful manner. they became ashamed of their own cowardice and inaction. rising to their feet several made their way to the side of their chief. others followed their example, and in a few minutes every young hunter in the camp had signified his intention of following klitonda in his great march against the chilcats. chapter xxiv out from the hills when klitonda saw what had happened and that thirty warriors were ready to follow him against the chilcats, a smile of satisfaction brightened his face. his heart was lighter than it had been for months. after years of waiting and hard work something had been accomplished. with thirty men to support him, aided by the whites, he believed that the enemy could be defeated and driven back crushed. he at once gave the order to have his hands freed. when the thongs were cut he looked upon the blood upon his wrists and knuckles, and stood for a moment in silence. then he glanced toward the water as if intending to wash away the stains. "no," he said aloud, "let the blood stay. there will be more blood upon them before the sun is high again in the heavens. let the blood of the chilcats mingle with that of the chief of the ranges." klitonda's hands were numb from their cramped position, and it was some time ere the full feeling returned. he ate the meal which had been prepared for him, at the same time talking to the men who were gathered near. he had much to say to them about the white men, and his capture by the chilcats. "the coast dogs are many," he said in conclusion, "and they will not easily be beaten. great care must be used, and the hearts of the ayana warriors must not fail. now is the time of struggle. now is the only chance left of freeing our land from the invaders." supper ended, klitonda asked for weapons; bow, arrows, and axe. his own had been taken by the chilcats. several bows were brought, and when the chief had tested them he found they were all too weak for his powerful arm. "are these the strongest?" he asked. "klitonda cannot use them. he must have a bow like the one he lost. he cannot go into battle with such as these." his men looked at one another, but made no response. then an old squaw, who had been listening intently to the conversation, entered a brush lodge nearby, and shortly returned bearing in her hand a bow larger than the rest. it was seven feet in length and big around at the middle as a man's arm. it had been carefully made, and was partly wound with the finest of caribou sinew. she held it out to klitonda who received it with surprise. "where did this come from?" he asked, as he examined it, and felt its smooth surface. "no ayana warrior ever bent such a bow as this." "it was used by my father's father," the old woman replied. "he fought with it at the great tagish battle when the ayana were defeated by the chilcats. he died with it in his hand. nasheesh was a little girl then, and her mother gave it to her. it was found on the battle-field after the chilcats had gone away. it was a strong arm that bent that bow, and no one has used it since my father's father died. let the chief now try it." "klitonda will see," was the reply. "bring the strongest sinew in camp for the old one is weak." after some delay the bow was fitted with a twanging cord, and the longest arrow chosen. then klitonda grasped the bow, and standing erect drew the arrow full to the head, and sent it straight to the limb of a tree fifty yards away. the slender twig trembled for an instant, and then fell to the ground, severed as if by a keen knife. a murmur of admiration rose from the onlookers. never before had they realised the strength of their chief's arm, although they had talked much about it. "it will do," klitonda said, as with much satisfaction he looked around upon his men. "as this bow saw the defeat of the ayana in the great tagish battle may it soon see their victory against the chilcats. but come, it is time to be on the move. the day is almost gone, and the night is all too short in which to reach the ayan river." "but is not the chief weary?" asked one of the men. "will he not take a little sleep first?" "klitonda will not sleep," was the emphatic reply. "he will not sleep until after the battle. and if he sleeps then it will be only as a conqueror. if not as a conqueror he will sleep with his own people in the happy hunting ground." the next question to be settled was the route they were to follow. to go by the way of the trail over which klitonda had recently travelled would take too long a time, and the warriors would be weary after the difficult march. the alternative route was down the swift river leading from the lake, and thence down the segas river to the post. by this they could make much better progress, and reach the great river by early dawn. it did not take them long to decide upon this latter route, and then preparations were made for a speedy departure. darkness had deepened over the land as two canoes left the shore and pointed straight across the lake. there were no cries or murmurings from the women, children, and the few old men who were left behind. it would be unbecoming on their part to make any lamentation, and thus weaken the hearts of the warriors. but as those left behind stood upon the shore until the canoes had disappeared from view, they felt that they had seen the last of their sons and husbands who had gone forth on behalf of their land. with much skill the indians guided their canoes down the swift and dangerous stream. there were rocks to avoid, and in one place they had to shoot a foaming rapid. but at length all was passed and in about an hour's time they swept out upon the less dangerous segas river. they now settled down to hard paddling. the current was fairly swift but not swift enough for the leader who longed for the wings of eagles that he and his men might fly over the forest straight to their destination. thus hour after hour they bent to their paddles and in grim silence advanced. klitonda's thoughts were with owindia. what had happened to her? he wondered. was she at the post? had the chilcats made the attack, and if so what was the outcome? would they be in time? he believed that the assault would be made at night, and if the white men could keep back the chilcats for a while they might be able to get there before the end came. the two canoes were in mid-stream, and the banks lined with thick trees were in complete darkness. they did not see, therefore, a canoe drawn upon the shore on their right as they sped by, nor the forms of several men crouching among the trees. had they known that the deserters from the post were there waiting with almost bated breath until the unknown canoes had passed, klitonda would no doubt have forced them to give a quick account of their strange actions. but they knew nothing of what had happened so continued on their way. hardly a sound did they make as their paddles cleaved the water. slowly the night wore on and edged into the dawn of a new day, a day which was to mean much for the ayana people. the trees along the shore became more distinct, and stood shivering from the coolness of the night and the filmy mist which hung like a long thread over the stream. the still weirdness of early morn exerts a peculiar influence upon the heart. it is the time when all the little creatures of forest and air are silent, and the quietness seems to portend future events. it affected the superstitious hearts of the indians in the canoes. they knew that shortly the post would be reached, and the struggle with their merciless foes could not be delayed much longer. it was only natural that the paddles should not move with their former swiftness, and that a number of the men should have grave doubts as to the wisdom of the undertaking. but no such thoughts disturbed the mind of klitonda. his paddle never for a single moment ceased that mighty sweep which his gigantic arm alone could give. he appeared to be tireless. after what he had experienced it was wonderful to his men how he could continue paddling hour after hour the freshest one of them all. an expression of great determination lighted his face. his eyes gleamed with a far away look. he was fighting the battle with his enemy. he was dealing terrific blows, and levelling the chilcats to the ground long before the post was reached. at length he gave the order in a low tone to run the canoes ashore, and when all had disembarked he gave his men a few words of instruction. he did not consider it advisable to go down into the open and thus expose themselves to the chilcats should they have taken possession of the place. they must separate into three bands, and spread off into the forest, and thus come up behind the enemy in three different directions. by this manoeuvre klitonda hoped to frighten the chilcats into believing that a very large band of ayana indians had come up against them. having given careful instructions to his men klitonda chose five to go with him, and the rest were sent over toward the enemy's camp. at once klitonda with his followers struck straight through the forest for the post. they had not gone far ere a faint sound fell upon their ears, which brought them to a sudden standstill. they looked at one another, and without a word sped forward. well did they know the meaning of that sound. the attack had been made and they would be in time. a feeling of exultation thrilled klitonda's heart. the spirit of generations of warriors was beating within his breast. he longed to be at his enemy, to have a hand in the fight. it was the wild volcano of rage and hatred which had been threatening for so long, which had now burst forth. no longer could it be restrained. his blood was up, and what to him were a thousand chilcats? his companions could not keep up with their hurrying chief. his feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground. the sounds of shooting became much more distinct as they advanced. reaching the edge of the forest klitonda became more cautious. he peered forth from among the trees, and seeing the chilcats swarming at the gate of the post the truth flashed upon him in the twinkling of an eye. they had broken down the barrier and were upon the white men. the sound of shooting had ceased, but he could hear the savage yells, and at times cries of pain. his men were by his side now. quickly fitting an arrow to the sinew he drew the bow to its full capacity and sent a missive of death right into that scrambling band of indians. his companions did the same, but their arrows fell short of their marks. a yell of pain and surprise followed klitonda's shot. the chilcats looked toward the forest and as they looked, from two other directions came a rain of arrows, most of which found lodging in the bodies of the besiegers. the chilcats now made a wild rush for the cover of the forest, and as they hurried across the open were met by another shower of arrows from the concealed ayana warriors. but some remained at the post, and hoped to find shelter behind those wooden walls when they had overcome the two lone defenders. it would not do to let their enemy get possession first. klitonda, seeing how matters stood, and that the white men were being hard pressed, stepped forth from his place of concealment. he believed that owindia was within the post, and now that the gate had been battered down she would be in great danger from the chilcats. he surmised that the defenders were hard pressed as they were doing no shooting and seemed to be engaged in a hand to hand struggle with their opponents. with a call to his men to follow he dashed across the open, and with axe in hand fell upon the struggling chilcats. so sudden was the attack that for a minute the besiegers were taken by surprise, and daunted by the towering form which had leaped so suddenly upon them. but the fear was only temporary, for when they recognised the chief of the ayana they gave a yell and turned upon him. klitonda had only his axe in his hand, but as his enemies rushed toward him he levelled them one by one with the terrible sweep of his right arm. they came two and three at a time, and fearful was the struggle which then took place. backwards and forwards they surged and swayed. now klitonda was forced back step by step, and again he made his opponent retreat. the ground around him was strewn thick with the bodies of dead and wounded chilcats. out of the dozen who had set upon him only three were at length left. these seeing how little was their chance of winning against the gigantic chief, turned and fled. one of them ere he left seized a musket which was lying upon the ground, and lifting it to his shoulder aimed it straight at klitonda and fired. there was a deafening report. the chief staggered, threw up his hands wildly into the air and fell forward upon the ground right across the body of a dead chilcat. klitonda's five companions had attempted to follow their leader to the post. but as they were some distance behind they were met by a band of chilcats, and so were forced to retreat to the shelter of the forest. and here amid the trees began a desperate struggle. from tree to tree they fought, both sides watching for the slightest opportunity. the ayana fought with great bravery, and endeavoured to make every arrow tell. ere long their quivers were empty, and they had nothing but their axes left. the chilcats on the other hand not only out-numbered the ayana, but their weapons were superior. armed with muskets they were able to pour a withering fire upon their opponents. their supply of ammunition was abundant, and they were able to keep their enemy from coming to close quarters. could the ayana have engaged in a hand to hand encounter even though the odds were against them they would have had a good chance of winning the fight. but whenever they appeared from behind the trees they were met by a shower of bullets. at length only two of the five were left, and they, seeing that their case was hopeless, made a frantic effort to escape. they turned to flee, but had taken only a few steps when they fell to the ground, pierced by several balls. and the fate which befell these five overtook the rest of the ayana. their arrows which were soon spent could not contend with the more destructive muskets. soon most of them were lying dead or wounded upon the ground, while only a few escaped and made their way back to the lake with the terrible tale of death and defeat. the ayana warriors had made a determined struggle for freedom. but they had not counted upon the overwhelming power of the muskets which the chilcats carried. their primitive weapons, no matter how powerful, were no match for the deadly guns of modern civilisation. chapter xxv into the unknown when the chilcats broke down the door of the barricade and crowded through the opening ranger dan and natsatt sprang toward the store, and stood with their backs against the logs. hope faded from their hearts as they saw the natives surging through the door. but they determined to die fighting hard. two chilcat warriors went down before the fire of their muskets, which caused the others to hesitate for a few seconds. then with a yell of rage they rushed the two lone defenders. with their muskets raised aloft dan and natsatt dealt terrible blows upon the heads of their enemies. notwithstanding the ranger's age he was a veritable giant in battle. his great stature, and the reach of his long arms gave him an advantage over his short-limbed antagonists. natsatt, too, was no mean opponent. strong, lithe, and tall, he dealt sledge-hammer blows, levelling several indians to the ground. the chilcats wished to take these sturdy fighters alive. it would mean much to lead them as captives back over the mountains to the coast. they did not, therefore, use their muskets, but endeavoured to stun the white men with their axes. this was fortunate for dan and natsatt, otherwise they would have gone down in an instant. but fight as bravely as they might it was impossible for two men no matter how strong and brave to hold out for any length of time against such overwhelming odds. the herculean efforts they were making could not last much longer. already they felt themselves weakening, and realised that the fight could not continue much longer. natsatt had just knocked over a venturesome brave, and was turning his attention to another who had rushed up, when a yell was raised from those in the rear. there was a cry of pain, too, and at once the pressure lessened, and most of the chilcats scrambled hurriedly back through the gate. the defenders had no time to ascertain what was taking place outside, for two furious natives still remained, and were besetting them with wild rage. they had been slightly wounded and were burning for revenge. the ranger by leaping aside escaped a blow aimed at his head, and in return brought his shattered musket stock down upon the brave with such a force that the native sank helpless at his feet. another blow and the chilcat lay still. natsatt on the other hand had a much harder struggle. his opponent was more cautious, and watched his opportunity to strike. the half-breed was also wary, but springing back to escape a blow aimed at him, slipped and fell sideways upon the earth. with savage delight the chilcat leaped forward. his axe was raised aloft to strike. it was in the act of descending, when the arm which held the weapon was broken like a pipe stem by the force of dan's musket. with a yell of pain and rage the indian turned upon his new assailant. but he was helpless, and another blow sent him to join his companion in the spirit world. "are you hurt?" dan asked, rushing forward, and assisting the young man to his feet. "no," was the reply. "but that was a close call. i am covered with bruises and blood, and so are you, dan. anything serious?" "guess not. only a few scratches. but we haven't time to think about such things now. we must see what's going on outside." together they rushed to the gate, and were just in time to behold klitonda fall across the body of the dead chilcat. they saw the two braves fleeing for the forest, and then looked upon the fallen indians lying near the chief. "good lord! what a fight he put up!" dan exclaimed. "oh, if we had only been here a few minutes sooner we might have saved the brave chap. but let's bring him inside. maybe there's life in his body yet." hurrying to where the chief was lying, they carefully examined him, and found that life was not altogether extinct, although he was bleeding profusely from the bullet wound. lifting him up with considerable difficulty they carried him behind the fortification. "not in there," natsatt panted, as dan was heading for the post. "where, then?" was the reply. "to the canoe by the water-gate. we must get out of this. there's no time to lose. the devils may be upon us at any instant." without questioning these words dan obeyed, and thus they bore the wounded chief to the river's edge and laid him carefully in the big canoe. "now for owindia," natsatt cried. "i'll look after her while you get some grub together, if there's any left." dan obeyed like a child, and followed the young man back to the store. the fearful struggle through which he had recently passed was having its effect upon him now. he was weaker than he had been for years, and he needed some one upon whom he could depend in the present crisis. searching around he gathered into an old sack their scanty supply of provision, hardly enough to make one good meal for a hungry man. he had just reached the door when natsatt came forth from the adjoining room carrying owindia in his arms. she had hardly moved from the position she had been placed but a short time before. natsatt's heart stirred with pity and love as he saw her lying there, with her loosened hair tossed in confusion about her face. her lips were slightly parted, and she was breathing heavily. her cheeks were flushed and hot, telling plainly that the fever had not yet subsided. as natsatt stooped to lift her his face came close to hers, and upon her hot lips he imprinted a loving kiss. "darling," he murmured, "i must save you, and you must live. don't leave natsatt. how can he live without you?" gathering the maiden up in the blankets which were upon the cot he hurried out and met dan. they had taken only a few steps toward the water-gate when the ranger gave a cry of alarm. "the chilcats are coming!" he roared. "quick; to the canoe!" with a mighty bound natsatt leaped forward, with dan following close at his heels. he reached the canoe, placed his precious burden, blankets and all in the bottom. the craft was at once rushed into the water. "in, quick!" dan commanded. "the devils are upon us!" as the craft left the shore natsatt seized a paddle and glanced around. coming down the long passage-way he saw a score of indians on the full run, shouting and yelling in the most terrifying manner. "drive her," roared dan, "and get beyond the range of their guns. i wish my musket was loaded, i'd give them a parting salute, which one of them would feel." seizing the other paddle he assisted natsatt, and soon the canoe was in the middle of the river, bearing downstream. the foremost of the chilcats seeing their prey about to escape endeavoured to shoot them down in the canoe. in this they were foiled by the high walls which ran several feet out into the water, and by the time the muskets had been discharged the craft had dropped far enough away to be hidden from view. had the indians been outside the barricade they might have done considerable damage. but so anxious had they been to seize the white men, and raid the post that all who were able had rushed within the fortification. when they realised their mistake and rushed outside the canoe was so far away that their shots would have been useless. they accordingly returned to the post and ransacked the place, seizing eagerly upon everything the traders had left behind. they searched among the dead for the body of the ayana chief, and were greatly disappointed when no trace of him could be found. they had hoped to find him only wounded and thus would have nursed him back to life that they might have the pleasure of submitting him to untold tortures later on. in the meantime dan and natsatt had driven the canoe farther and farther away from the post. they expected immediate pursuit, and often glanced anxiously back up the river to see if the chilcats were coming. after a couple of hours' hard paddling and no sign of the enemy was seen they began to think that the indians had given up the idea. there were many other things to occupy their attention. the chief needed attention, and natsatt at length laid down his paddle and moved to klitonda's side, while dan continued paddling and kept the canoe in the middle of the stream. the chief was lying just where he had been placed. putting his ear down close to his face natsatt found that he was still breathing. his eyes were closed, and his lips were firmly pressed together. his long hair was tangled and moist. his head was thrown back, and upon his face was that defiant expression with which he had met his opponents. natsatt laid his right hand upon the chief's shoulder, and gave him a slight shake. "klitonda, klitonda," he called. "wake up. you are safe. the chilcats cannot trouble you any more. klitonda, do you hear?" he waited and watched for a few heart beats, and then the eyes of the chief slowly opened, and looked around in a vacant manner. his lips slowly moved, and natsatt stooped down in an effort to comprehend what he was trying to say. "owindia--klota--chilcats--" came feebly from the dying chief. "owindia is here," natsatt replied, "and the chilcats cannot harm her." "owindia--klota--chilcats--white man," klitonda continued, not heeding the young man's words. then his face underwent a marvellous transformation. the look of defiance faded and in its stead came an expression of triumph. he was driving out the chilcats; he was watching them flee before his people back over the mountains toward the coast. his right arm suddenly shot out, and he partly lifted himself from the bottom of the canoe. "the chilcats are beaten!" he cried. "they run like dogs. the ayana, the ayana are free! klota is avenged--owindia--" he stopped short, and his eyes looked straight before him, wild and triumphant. then his tense body relaxed, his head drooped, and he sank back into the bottom of the canoe. klitonda, the chief of the ranges was dead! with a big lump in his throat natsatt looked silently upon the face of the dead warrior. he had striven faithfully for long years to free his land from the invaders, and was this the end? "poor chap, it's certainly too bad," dan remarked, resting on his paddle, and viewing the lifeless body. "he was a brave warrior, and deserved a better fate than that. oh, if i were only young again i would bring back a regular army, and wipe those vile skunks out of existence. they'll treat the ayana indians worse than ever now, and they will laugh at the whites. good lord! my blood fairly boils when i think of them. but, then what's the use of worrying over what can't be helped. we've got enough ahead of us, i'm thinking, to occupy us for many days to come. that poor lassie hasn't stirred once since we left the post. i've had my eyes upon her face most of the time. what are we going to do with her?" dan's question remained unanswered. they were in an unknown region never before entered by white men. the ayana indians had told them marvellous tales of the ferocity of the natives who live along the lower banks of the river. they were monsters, so they said, with hair hanging to their waists, and living upon the bodies of all indians they could capture. both dan and natsatt knew enough of the natives to realise that these tales were no doubt much exaggerated. with their guns they believed they could easily frighten them away. what concerned them most was their ignorance of what lay beyond. the wild indians they would be willing to meet if they knew that somewhere ahead they would come to some camp or post where owindia could be cared for. they knew that the mackenzie river, east of the mountains, flowed north into the arctic ocean. this river was apparently bearing them in the same direction. would they be borne on and on only at last to reach that great sea from which they could hardly expect to return with owindia alive? she needed immediate care which they were unable to give. the river was swift, and at times it was divided by numerous small islands. they were puzzled as to which channel they should keep, but each time the canoe swept down into the main current again. no sign of indians had they seen. nothing but a dreary wilderness stretched around them on every side. the trees came right to the water's edge. the banks were not high here as farther upstream, but sloped gently to the river's edge. their last morsel of food was now gone and they watched anxiously for some animal to appear upon the bank. they had caught sight of a moose swimming across the river ahead of them, but it was too far off for them to attempt to shoot it. several bears had also been seen along the shore, but they, too, had escaped. thus on and on they sped throughout that long day. the sun beat upon their heads, and the flies swarmed around them. they were both weary from the strenuous ordeal through which they had passed, and longed to lie down and rest. but they did not dare to relinquish their paddling for any length of time. toward evening they espied an island ahead, larger than any they had yet seen. the same thought occupied both their minds. in fact they had been thinking about it for some time. occasionally they glanced toward the body of the chief lying near at their side. "suppose we land on yon island, lad," dan suggested. "guess we've got some work ahead of us. we can't carry this poor chap much farther." "i've been thinking of the same thing," natsatt replied. "we couldn't leave him in a better place." running the canoe ashore on the upper point of the island, they landed, and stretched their cramped legs. it was certainly a beautiful spot. birds twittered among the trees, and there was an abundance of wild grass and northern flowers. it was a fitting place to leave the chief, who had such a passionate love for his country, and who gave up his life that it might be freed. bearing the body of the indian in their arms they brought him ashore, and laid him upon the ground at the foot of a large tree. searching around they found a few branches, and others they cut with their axes. these they laid tenderly over the body until it was completely covered. not a word was uttered as they performed this task of love for the fallen man. when the last twig had been deposited dan stepped back as if to leave the place. he hesitated, and a mistiness dimmed his eyes. "i can't do it, lad. i can't!" he groaned. "he was klota's husband, and she must have loved him. how can i leave him here! i can't, i can't!" "i feel the same way, too," natsatt replied. "klitonda is owindia's father and what will she say when she learns that he was left here on this lonely island? no, it cannot be. we must take him with us." dan turned to the young man, and their hands clasped. they looked into each other's eyes, and were not ashamed of the mistiness which gleamed there. they were partners in distress. they had been tried in the fire of affliction, and had not been found wanting. not a word did they speak as they bore the chief back to the canoe and laid the body in its former place. ahead of them lay the great unknown. whither would that sinuous river lead them? that was the question each was asking himself. but no answer was vouchsafed to them, and the vast wilderness kept its secret well. they were weary and hungry. how longingly they had watched for some animal to make its appearance near enough that they might obtain food. but so far they had been disappointed. were they to starve there in a land of plenty? moose, bear, and grouse in the forest, and fish in the stream, and must they go without? natsatt suggested that they should tarry there for a time while he went into the woods in an effort to obtain some game. but dan shook his head. "we can't afford the time, lad," he replied. "we must hurry on with the lassie, and see what's ahead of us. to-morrow if nothing comes our way there'll be nothing left but to go after game. so let's get on down stream." embarking, they slipped around the point of the island, and skirted the left hand shore. they had not gone far when natsatt, who was seated somewhat astern, ceased paddling, laid his hand upon dan's shoulder, and pointed ahead to the right. then he lifted his musket and brought it to bear upon a fine moose standing drinking at the edge of the water. the animal had not seen the canoe, and when the report rang out it gave a tremendous leap into the air, staggered for an instant, and bounded off into the forest. "we've lost it!" natsatt groaned. "what's the matter with me, anyway? i was sure of that shot." "don't feel too badly," dan soothed. "you hit it, and it may be lying among the trees. let's go and see." running the canoe ashore where the moose had been seen, the young man sprang out and disappeared into the forest. soon a glad shout reached dan's ears, and following the sound he ere long gained the spot where natsatt was standing gloating over the carcass of a large bull moose. it did not take them long to choose the choicest portion of meat from the animal. then hurrying back they lighted a fire upon the shore, and prepared to cook their supper. how good that meat tasted to those two half-starved men. it was the first fresh meat they had eaten for days. the meal ended, their strength returned, and their courage as well. they could face the unknown now with a better heart. "i feel like a new man!" dan ejaculated, as he stood up and stretched himself. "a man can go without sleep for days, but only a boa-constrictor can go for months without grub, and thank heaven i'm not a serpent. we must take as much of that moose with us as the canoe can carry, for the lord only knows when we'll run across another." this was soon accomplished, and soon they were once more speeding on their way down that great northern waterway. chapter xxvi regions beyond when the dawn of a new day broke, the canoe was still sweeping on its way down the yukon, which was now becoming much wider. during the night natsatt and dan had been able to obtain some sleep. they took turns at steering the craft, and did little paddling, merely allowing it to drift over long stretches of water, and around sharp bends. their progress was accordingly slow. it was necessary for them to advance with care, as they could not tell what dangerous rocks and rapids might be ahead. natsatt's chief thought was of owindia. he had wrapped the blankets closely around her, and had shifted her to as comfortable a position as possible. at times he held her hot limp hand in his, and anxiously watched her face, hoping to see some change upon those loved features. all through the day he had moistened her parched lips with the cool water of the river. she moaned much during the night, and became quite restless. her head tossed on the rough pillow, and she would throw out her arms, thus loosening the blankets from around her body. it meant constant watchfulness on natsatt's part to see that the coverings were replaced, for the night was chilly and a damp mist hung along the river. the short time he was asleep dan looked after the maiden. there was nothing more they could do for her. they were helpless there in the lone wilderness. few words were spoken during the night. but the ranger was doing considerable thinking. the more deeply he was moved the more silent he always became. his mind was much upon klota, and owindia, with the same form and features, brought back old days. his life for long years had been very lonely, and just when he had found some one to live for it seemed as if she might be taken from him. suppose she should recover, and they should get back to civilisation, then he would make up for the past. he had neglected to give klota what was her due, but it would not be so with her only child. as he listened to her moans, and at times rose from his seat to cover her up, a deep love for this poor child came into his heart. then his hands would clench firmly together, while he made a mental vow that she should not die. when morning dawned they would drive the canoe as it had never been driven before. surely they would meet with some human beings, whether whites or indians, who would be able to minister to the maiden. it was early in the morning when they ran ashore, and built a small fire, and cooked their breakfast of moose meat. it was at the mouth of a small river where they had landed. they noticed signs of an indian encampment several rods up this stream, but no living person could they behold. the land was covered with a dense forest on this side of the river, and sloped gently to the water's edge. on the opposite side rose high hills, with heavy mountains in the background. it was a scene of grim, gaunt desolation, and the hearts of the two wayfarers became much depressed as they looked around. for themselves they did not care, but only for owindia. they could go on and on until the mouth of the river was reached. they could die, but it was hard to see her lying there with no one to give a helping hand. little did they know that they were the pioneers of a region which one day would be throbbing with industrial life; that the little stream which flowed at their feet would in less than half a century attract the attention of the whole world, and the word "klondyke" would be a common household expression. they could not see that across this river, on that point of land, low, and covered with thick trees and bushes, almost like a swamp, a city would rise magic-like, teeming with thousands of gold-fevered men. but they could not see, and of what avail would such a vision have been to them in their time of necessity? fifty years would have meant an eternity to them, and they needed help at once. "nothing doing here," dan ejaculated, rising and looking about. "good lord, what a hole we've got into! where are the indians, anyway? i wouldn't care if they were devils incarnate so long as they showed up that we might learn something about what's ahead of us." "there's nothing for us to do but to go on," natsatt replied. "there are indians around somewhere that's certain, and they may be down stream a bit, and perhaps we shall meet them before night." hour after hour they continued on their way, and it was past noon when they came to another river flowing into the yukon on their left. they were about to pass without stopping, when a canoe bearing several indians, darted out from behind a small point, and moved toward them. the current here was swift, and with some difficulty dan and natsatt swung their big canoe around and made for the shore. when the keel had grated upon the beach they rested and waited for the natives to come closer. this, however, the latter were somewhat reluctant to do. they were armed with bows and axes, which they kept in readiness for any emergency. natsatt called out to them to approach, and made signs that they would not be harmed. he stood up in the canoe, showed his own empty hands, and pointed to his companion. little by little the indians drew nearer, and when they found there was no danger they ran close to the white men. these strangers were dressed in the rough animal clothing of the country. they were taller than the indians farther upstream, and appeared to be friendly disposed. their speech was altogether unintelligible to the white men, and only by signs could they make known their wants. they pointed to the dead chief, upon whom the indians looked with much interest, and talked rapidly among themselves. but when they saw the maiden they became silent, and drew back a few paces. natsatt endeavoured to make them understand she needed assistance. they shook their heads, pointed away to the west, looked at the sun, and held up two fingers. by that it was evident that the rest of the band were two days away from the shore, back among the hills. natsatt next pointed down the river, and then to himself and dan. the indians did not at once reply but held an earnest conversation among themselves. then one took a small stick, and upon the sand made a rude sketch of a square, and around it he made a number of upright strokes. "it's a post he means," natsatt exclaimed, now much excited. "seems so," dan replied. "but i wonder how far." then he pointed down the river, and toward the sun. at this the indians shook their heads and held up their fingers, some four, others three, and two one. it was quite evident that they were uncertain as to the distance, and nothing further could be learned from them. after a few more signs had been made dan and natsatt pushed off, and continued on their way downstream. they were feeling more encouraged since they had learned that what seemed to be a post or fort lay ahead. word of the white men no doubt had been brought up the river to these indians. the day passed, and another weary night. the following day found them still drifting down that great stream which seemed to have no end. then another night, and as the blackness stole around them a feeling of deep depression came into their hearts. owindia was weaker, and moaned more than ever. she was failing fast they could plainly tell, and unless help came soon she could not last much longer. dan had prepared for her a nourishing drink from a piece of the moose meat. he had done it the evening after they had left the indians at the mouth of the river. it was the rich juice which he had boiled from the meat, and some of this they had forced owindia to take. but notwithstanding all their efforts the maiden was sinking. as natsatt watched her his heart became very heavy. how he longed for her to open her eyes and fix them upon him. would she ever do it again? he asked himself. during the day he often held her hands as he sat by her side with bent head. dan seeing the young man's silent grief was much moved. "keep up a stout heart, lad," he had said. "while there's life in her body we must not give up. that place can't be far ahead." "i have kept up hope, god knows," natsatt responded. "but what does it all amount to, i'd like to know. owindia is failing, and we'll have two to bury instead of one. and perhaps there'll be three, for what will be the use of my living without her. oh, dan, you don't know how much she means to me. she is the only woman i ever really loved, and with her i know i could do almost anything. why should i find her, only to lose her in such a short time!" so far north had they now gone that the nights were becoming very short. the sun merely dipped below the horizon, and the light from the great orb was enough to illumine the whole land. objects could be seen quite distinctly some distance away. when the sun again rose from its golden bath into which it had plunged, dan, who was steering caught sight of something ahead which caused him to sit bolt upright, and shade his eyes with his hand. then he called to natsatt. "see, lad," he cried, "isn't that a building ahead? your eyes are better than mine. upon yon bank it stands." "it's the post!" natsatt replied, now much excited. "there seem to be several buildings. let's drive the canoe, and get there as soon as possible." hope once again filled their hearts as they bent to their paddles and the canoe fairly leaped through the water. with steady work in about an hour's time they were so close to the building that they could see people moving about, and noticed smoke ascending from the large house which had first attracted their attention. it did not take them long now to reach the place. but before they arrived the bank was lined with natives watching with curiosity the coming of the strange craft. never did faces appear so good to the two voyagers as did those dusky features appear on that summer morning. they were friendly, and as soon as the canoe touched the shore eager hands grasped the bow and drew it well up on the beach. while the indians were crowding around talking in a most excited manner, a tall man pushed his way through their midst, and coming forward, held out his hand to dan and natsatt. he was evidently the trader in charge of the post. "good lord!" he exclaimed, as he looked upon the dead chief, and owindia, "where have you dropped from? i didn't know there was a white man anywhere south of us within two thousand miles, that is on this side of the mountains." "we'll tell you all," dan replied, "as soon as something is done for that poor lassie. she's badly stricken with a fever of some kind. it's the outcome of a fearful experience, and i'm afraid she's far gone. is there any woman here who can take care of her?" "to be sure," was the reply. "bring her up to the house, and i'll round up an old squaw who is skilful at such work, to look after her. we must tend to that chap there in the bow, too. it's a wonder to me you didn't leave him behind." without replying natsatt lifted owindia tenderly in his arms and bore her up the bank toward the large house. the door was open, and several white men were standing near. they exhibited much kindness, and showed natsatt where to place the maiden in a small room. upon a cot he laid her, and breathed a prayer of thankfulness that at last she should have care and attention which neither he nor dan could give. soon several squaws entered, and he left them alone with his loved one. chapter xxvii fort yukon it did not take dan and natsatt long to realise that this place they had reached in their dire necessity was a post of the famous hudson's bay company. there was the flag, known all over western canada, with the three letters h. b. c. imprinted upon it. they were much surprised, for they had no idea that the company had penetrated into this far-off region. they knew that they had gone far north in their search after the furry prize, but they had not heard that they had crossed the mountains. they looked with wonder upon the well-built houses, clean and orderly. "so you are surprised, too," laughed the factor, as he sat watching his visitors enjoying the first good meal they had eaten in days. "i was much astonished to see you come down the river, and you were amazed to find us here. there are no limits to the great company's operations these days. we have been here a little over a year, and it seems as if we are likely to stay for some time. but come, tell me where you have come from, and who is the sick squaw. we don't often see such indian women in this country. she is certainly a prize. i am anxious to know, too, about that big indian you brought with you." and there in that frontier post the story was told, of the entrance into the wilderness, the building of the post at the mouth of the segas river, the attack of the chilcats, the desertion by the white men, the death of the chief of the ranges, his daughter's bravery and sickness, and the terrible voyage down the river. to all this the factor listened without a word of comment. at times he allowed the pipe he was smoking to go out, and seemed to be lost in thought. so these men were rival traders he mentally commented, who will no doubt be a menace to the work of the h. b. company. why should he give such men shelter? how would his action appear when word reached headquarters? his silence, and the expression upon his face did not escape the keen eyes of dan and natsatt. they well knew how the great company would tolerate no interference, and how all independent traders were disliked. "and so you began trading with the indians on your own account, did you?" the factor at length remarked. "it doesn't work. you need some power behind you." "don't misunderstand me," dan replied. "it was not for the trade that i came into this country, but to find my only child, my long lost klota. the trade was only a pawn in the game." "and did you find her?" the factor asked, now much interested. "no. but i found her child, that poor lassie who is now lying here sick unto death. you may be offended with me, and consider me a rival trader, but for god's sake do everything you can for her. she is innocent." in reply the factor reached out his hand and caught the ranger's. "there is my pledge of good faith," he said. "we don't war against women. i honour you for what you have done, and i know my company will say i am right in looking after you. stay with us until we see what happens to the girl. you must rest now while i make arrangements for the burial of the chief." two days passed during which time natsatt and dan recovered much of their former strength. it was a time of suspense, for owindia's life still hung in the balance. the indian women were good nurses and did all in their power for the sick girl. they understood the nature of her trouble, and administered medicine made from the roots and bark of trees. these simple remedies had been used among this people from time immemorial with satisfactory results. natsatt kept almost constant watch by owindia's side. he could not bear to be absent from her for any length of time. dan, too, would often sit near, and study the drawn face lying upon the pillow. the day of their arrival at the fort was the first time he had noticed the slender chain around the maiden's neck. "where did she get that?" he asked natsatt, who was sitting near. "it was her mother's," was the reply. "klitonda gave it to owindia the night klota was killed, and she has worn it ever since. there is a locket attached to it. she believed it was a charm, and had power to keep away evil. she showed it to me once." "what's in the locket?" dan queried. "her mother's picture." "let me see it, quick," and dan rose to his feet as he spoke. "yes, it's my darling child," he murmured as he opened the locket which the young man had handed to him. "i gave it to her, and well do i remember the day. how happy she was, and she gave me such a loving kiss. little did i think then when i should see it again, for it was just before i lost her." the second night natsatt was sitting alone by owindia's side. dan was to relieve him later on. it was near the hour of midnight, and a deep silence reigned within and without the building. the one small window in the room was open, and the fresh air was drifting in from forest and river. to natsatt there seemed to be no change in owindia's condition. for days he had been waiting for her to open her eyes and look upon him. to-night he felt more depressed than ever. he had waited so long, and his hope of her recovery was growing less each day. as he sat there he thought of the happy days they had been together, and of their first meeting in the lodge in the wilderness. he recalled how sweet was her voice as he listened to her as he lay by the fire the morning after that great storm. was that voice to be silenced for ever? he asked himself. would he never hear it again? he remembered how delighted she had been as he played upon the mouth-organ. the thought brought to his mind the little instrument which he had not touched for days. thrusting his hand within his jacket where he kept it safely concealed, he brought it forth, and fondled it for a few minutes. then the old longing came upon him, and placing it to his lips he began to play a soft, low tune. it was like magic to his drooping spirits, and affected him as it had always done in days gone by. tune after tune he played, unheeding how the time was passing. in the midst of a sweet air he happened to glance toward the bed, and immediately the music ceased, and the instrument dropped from his mouth. there by his side was owindia, with eyes wide open looking straight into his face. a great joy leaped into his heart, as he leaned over and took her wasted hand in his. "are you better, darling?" he asked. a faint smile appeared upon her face, and her eyes roved about the room with a puzzled expression. "the chilcats!" she whispered. "where are they?" "hush, darling," natsatt replied. "do not talk now. you are safe. the chilcats cannot harm you any more, so go to sleep." with a deep sigh of relief owindia closed her eyes, and was soon off into a calm refreshing slumber. natsatt watched her for a few minutes with a great joy and thankfulness in his heart. he wished to tell some one of the good news. he must speak and let others share his happiness. he rose to his feet to leave the room to arouse dan. but as he turned there stood the ranger at the door. the sound of the music had awakened him, and he had come to see what was the matter. he had just reached the door when owindia opened her eyes. he had said nothing, but had remained a silent witness of it all. there was no sleep for these two delighted men that night. they now knew that the crisis was passed, and with care owindia would recover. they sat and talked in subdued tones about their plans for the future. hitherto they had been silent concerning this subject. now, however, it was different. as the days passed owindia made steady progress. ere long she was able to leave her cot, and take short walks out in the fresh open air. natsatt was always with her, and supported her feeble steps. she was much interested in everything she saw. the post was a wonder in her eyes, and she asked natsatt if the houses beyond the mountains of the rising sun were anything like it. the indians, too, were different from any she had ever seen. they were kind to the sick girl, and were always pleased when she came to visit them in their lodges. they had heard the story of her terrible experience among the chilcats, and had discussed it among themselves. the white men of the fort were pleased to have the sweet-faced, gentle maiden among them, and treated her with the greatest courtesy. natsatt mentally noted how different was their treatment of owindia from the men who had deserted the post up river. the factor became fond of the maiden, and when he found that natsatt was her lover he heartily congratulated the young man. thus their stay at the fort was most pleasant, a blessed relief after the terrible experiences through which they had passed. but notwithstanding her happiness with natsatt there was a cloud upon owindia's mind. she longed to know about her father. it had been thought best not to tell her about his death until she was stronger in health. several times her question had been evaded. she had learned something about the defeat of the ayana, and the attack upon the post. a fear pressed upon her heart, that something had happened to her father. she brooded over it by day, and would lie awake at night for hours wondering what had become of him. one day as she and natsatt were walking along the bank of the river, talking and gathering wild flowers, they sat down in a quiet little spot under the shelter of a large fir tree. the water of the yukon flowed swiftly past, and fascinated owindia. she could not keep her eyes away from that stream, and became unusually silent. "what is it, little one?" natsatt asked, noting her pre-occupied manner. "are you not feeling well to-day? i hope nothing is the matter, for we are planning to leave this place next week. boats of the company are to start up the porcupine river with their loads of furs, and they have kindly offered to take us with them. you will then be able to see what the world is like beyond the great mountains. i hope you will be able to go." "i am feeling stronger every day," owindia replied. "i have heard that we are to go, and i suppose i shall never see this river again. but when i look upon it i feel sad. it was by its side so far away where i played as a little child, and my mother used to sit near and watch me. her grave is far up there," and she threw out her left arm in an eloquent gesture. "it was there that the chilcats tried to steal me away, and my father saved me. how he loved me, and would do anything for me. tell me, oh, tell me, natsatt, what has happened to him." for a while natsatt was silent, and sat gazing steadily before him out upon the river. how could he tell her? he had been dreading that question for days, and now it had come and had to be answered. owindia noticed his silence, and with the quick intuition of her race divined the meaning. "you do not answer," she breathed, while a deep sigh escaped her lips. "you do not wish to tell me what you know. but i know now, as if you spoke the words." "i did not wish to see you grieve," natsatt returned. "you were so weak that if i told you it might do you harm. the truth was kept from you because i love you so. don't you believe me, darling?" "oh, yes, i know you love me. but i am stronger now, and want to hear everything. if my father is dead i know he died like a true warrior." "indeed he did," natsatt replied. "he fought bravely to the last. you should have seen the bodies of the dead and wounded chilcats lying on the ground. the coast dogs would have been defeated if the ayana had been armed with muskets, but they could do very little against the guns." "and did you leave my father where he fell?" owindia asked. "are you sure he was dead? perhaps he was only wounded, and the chilcats have taken him away to torture him. the thought is terrible." "no, we did not. we brought him with us, and he died in the canoe on our way down the river. his last word was about you." "my poor father," and owindia sighed as she spoke. "how hard he struggled to free his land, and now it is all over. the chilcats will be more cruel to the ayana than ever. perhaps it is just as well that my father is gone. his heart was always heavy, but i am sure it would break if he were alive to see how his people will be treated. they will never have courage to rise again to free their land." her head drooped, her bosom heaved with the intensity of her emotion, and the tears began to steal slowly down her cheeks. natsatt placed his arm around her in an effort to soothe her. her form shook, and her sobbing increased. her lover let her weep, well knowing that the tears would relieve her surcharged feelings, and that she would feel better after the storm of grief was over. "would you like to see your father's grave?" natsatt at length asked. "what! did you bring his body all the way to this place?" and owindia lifted her tear-stained eyes to his face. "yes. we could not leave him behind. we knew how badly you would feel." without another word the maiden placed her hand in his, and rising, he led her to the indian burying ground on a hill back of the post. there were many graves here, and over each one had been erected quaint shelters. some were covered with little cotton tents, while others had houses made of logs and brush. in the midst of these was one covered with new earth. it was surrounded by neat palings, made from small fir saplings, stripped of their bark. at the head of the grave a rude cross had been erected, on which several words had been carved, telling of the chief who was lying beneath. "who did it?" owindia whispered, after she had stood for a while looking down upon the mound. "we thought you would like it," natsatt replied. "it was dan who made the cross, and cut your father's name upon it. people beyond the mountains put crosses over the graves of their loved ones. dan said that though your father wasn't really a christian he was a far better man than many christians he knew. some day you will learn what that cross means, and why it is placed over graves." for some time they stood by the side of the mound, and then owindia moved away and gathered some wild flowers she saw growing near. they were the pretty wild rose, lupin, blue-bell, and berry blossoms. these she and natsatt gathered, and laid them tenderly upon the grave. this deed of love accomplished, and with a long, lingering glance upon the spot she would soon never see again, owindia placed her hand in natsatt's and he led her slowly back to the fort. in a few days the company's boats were all ready for their long voyage upstream. dan, natsatt, and owindia went with them. they thus turned their backs for ever upon the country which had been the scene of so much sorrow mingled with joy. and they left behind, too, klitonda, the chief of the ranges, who had fought a brave, stubborn fight, and like many reformers, had given up his life ere he saw the cause for which he died triumphant in the end. chapter xxviii at last it was a summer afternoon late in june when a lithe canoe containing two men, cut through the water of a large lake in the great canadian northwest. everything spoke hurry. it was shown in the long sweep of the paddles, and the anxious glances which the men now and then cast upon a dim headland miles beyond. the canoe seemed to enter into the spirit of the excitement, and throbbed with life as it cleaved the rippling surface. it was a bright day, and the sun poured its hot beams upon the heads of the voyagers. the whole region surrounding the lake was covered with a thick forest sloping to the water's edge. not a sign of human life was anywhere to be seen. birds alone made their appearance, as they darted here and there as if rejoicing over the presence of the canoe in their midst. "do you think we can get there in time?" natsatt asked, as he rested for a few seconds on his paddle and looked keenly forward. "sure," dan replied. "but there's not a minute to lose. if it hadn't been for that delay in the rapids we'd have been there before now." "we must make it," and the young man again drove his paddle with great determination into the water as he spoke. "haven't i been counting the days for months, and lying awake at night thinking of this trip, and now that we may be late is too much to stand. what will she think if we're not there?" "don't worry, lad," the ranger soothed. "we haven't lost yet, and i'm good for five hours of the hardest paddling of my life. how do you feel?" "feel? why, fresh as when i left home. i could paddle at top-notch speed all night long for what's ahead of us. but we must be there by eight o'clock, or much of the fun will be lost. do you think she'll be watching for us?" "sure. weren't her letters full of it, and what she would say and do when she saw us?" "yes, i know that, dan. but suppose she has changed? she has been there three years now, and has learned many things she did not know before, and might not want to go back with us. three years make a big difference sometimes, you know. if she has changed much from what she was when we came out from the yukon i shall be greatly disappointed. i can never forget that journey, for it was the happiest period of my life. we were a long time on the way according to the calendar, but very short to me. how bright and happy she was, and everything she saw was so full of interest to her. my, it was hard to leave her, and not see her again for three years. i don't know how i had the courage to do it." "it was for the best, lad," dan quietly remarked. "she, i trust, has gained much, and so have you. you've obtained a good foothold now in the country, of which any man might be proud. you've got much to live for." "but i could not have done it without your help, dan," natsatt replied. "it's been a hard struggle i know, but what could i have done without you, and the thought of owindia to urge me on. sometimes when i was about discouraged the thought of her would come to my mind, and i said to myself, 'if i fail what will she think?' and that idea always filled me with new determination." "she has meant much to both of us, lad. i was an old man when i crossed the mountains, and believed that my time was almost up. but when she came into my life it made all the difference in the world, and now i feel almost as young as ever." "and you don't think she'll be much changed?" natsatt queried. "you think she'll be glad to see us, and not be ashamed of our rough ways? if i thought she would i'd not go near where she is." "don't be a fool, lad. you're only talking nonsense. what kind of a woman do you think she is? do you imagine she'd be untrue to her best friends? not a bit of it. she's not like those skunks who deserted us in our time of need at the post on the far-off yukon river. they got their desert, though, when they went down in the liard river. it served them right. no men could do what they did and get off scot free. but owindia's not like them. oh, no, don't you have the least fear about her." thus through the long afternoon dan and natsatt conversed upon the one subject which was so near their hearts. they had changed somewhat in the three years since they had left fort yukon on their journey eastward with the boats of the hudson's bay company. the ranger looked older, and his hair was whiter than ever. but in his eyes dwelt an expression of peace and contentment, which formerly had not been seen there. he no longer cared for roving, but desired rest and quietness. he had owindia upon whom he could centre his thoughts. he had her to care for, and he had tried to make up to her what he had neglected to do for klota. natsatt, too, had changed. he was free and buoyant in spirit as ever, but his nature had become much developed by his contact with the old ranger. he had settled down to steady business, and his face expressed the resolve of a man who had something to live for, and who meant to succeed in life. twilight was stealing over the land when at length they ran out of the lake and entered upon a narrow river. they had not gone far when before them a village appeared to view. "we're in time!" natsatt cried, now flushed with excitement. "just in time," dan replied; "with not a minute to spare." running their canoe ashore, and making it fast, they walked slowly from the water toward a large building standing somewhat by itself. they saw a number of people entering the door, and others on their way. "the place will be crowded," natsatt whispered. "shouldn't wonder," was the reply. "we'll slip in and sit well back by the door. our clothes are too rough to go up in front." it might seem somewhat strange that these two men who had faced death so often during the past years, and had endured all kinds of hardships should tremble with apprehension as they stood upon the threshold of that building. but they were not accustomed to the ways of civilisation, and felt out of place. they observed the well-dressed people who passed them, and then glanced down at their own rough garments. the big room they entered was almost filled with men and women. there was a feeling of expectancy in the air. there was much laughing and talking going on, and all seemed in the highest spirits. the place was brightly lighted, and the walls were decorated with pictures and mottoes, while numerous flags were gracefully arranged back of the stage which ran across the upper end of the room. "isn't it great!" natsatt whispered, as his eyes drank in everything he saw. "and to think that she has been here for three years. it seems like holy ground to me." "hush," dan replied. "look!" natsatt glanced quickly up, and there standing on the platform was a tall woman, evidently the principal in charge of the school. she waited until the room became quiet, and then in a few words expressed her pleasure at seeing so many present. she next gave a sketch of the work which had been accomplished during the past year, and closed by saying that there would be a short entertainment of dialogues, recitations, and songs. in a few minutes the programme began. girls came forth, performed their parts and retired to a room at the back of the stage. dan's and natsatt's eyes studied every face, and much were they disappointed not to find the one whom they were longing to see. the performance was almost over, when from the side of the platform a maiden appeared, and as she stepped forward natsatt rose partly from his seat to obtain a better view. dan gave a half-suppressed exclamation of surprise which caused several people to turn and look in his direction. but he did not know that he had made a sound, for his eyes were upon owindia. natsatt quivered with excitement. he had always known that she was beautiful but never did she seem half so lovely as when she appeared before him this night. no longer was she dressed in the quaint native costume, but in a neat white muslin dress, such as all the girls in the school wore on this festive occasion. it fitted her lithe form to perfection. it would have been difficult for the most critical eye to detect any sign of indian blood in her veins except for a slight dusky shade upon her face, and her raven black hair, combed neatly back. it was her first appearance in public and a certain degree of nervousness was noticeable in her manner. her eyes searched the faces before her, and at length they lighted up with a pleased expression as she noted two forms sitting back close to the door. then her embarrassment departed. she straightened herself up to her full height, and the proud spirit of klitonda, chief of the ranges, came upon her. her heart was beating rapidly. it would not do for her to fail. what would dan and natsatt think of her? these thoughts flashed through her mind in the twinkling of an eye. then she opened her lips and began to sing. as her clear sweet voice rang through that building all whispering ceased, and every ear was strained to catch the rich sounds. and when she ceased, for an instant there was a dead silence like the stillness before a storm. then from the assembled people came a great applause, which would not cease until owindia re-appeared before them. this time it was a simple song she sang which her mother had taught her years before, and made a greater impression than the first. a hubbub arose when she finished and retired. people asked one another who she was, and why had they not heard of her before. they had not known there was such a voice in the school. dan and natsatt sat very still, and listened to what was being said. their hearts were swelling with pride, and thankfulness. natsatt was almost beside himself. he found it hard to keep still. he longed to rush forward and seize her in his arms. three years since he had seen her, and now he was so near and yet so far off. at last the programme ended with the singing of the national anthem, and the people began to leave the building. dan and natsatt remained where they were, feeling very much out of place. they longed to go forward, and find the one they had come so far to see. but the aisle was filled with people and they must wait. as they sat there keeping their eyes lowered, for they knew that many curious eyes were cast upon them, a familiar voice spoke to them. looking up owindia was standing by their side. her face was flushed with excitement, and as her eyes met natsatt's a love that years, nay death could not vanquish shone strongly there. forgotten were her surroundings. she thought only of him. he seized her hands stretched out to him, grasped them, and caught her in his arms. gone were his old doubts and fears. she was the same owindia he had left three years before. he held her close to his breast and tried to speak, but words would not come. happiness such as he had never known had chained him and silenced his tongue. neither could owindia speak. she laid her head upon his shoulder, and tears of joy streamed down her cheeks. the excitement of the evening, and the meeting of her lover had greatly affected her. natsatt understood, and so did the old ranger who stood silently by watching the two lovers. his heart was overflowing with thankfulness. he did not think of himself, but only of them. at length owindia disengaged herself, turned to the old man, slipped her hand in his, and looked up into his eyes. "kiss me," she said, "and forgive me for not speaking to you before." then the ranger stooped and touched his lips to those rosy ones of the maiden, the first time he had done such a thing since he lost klota. "there, that's better," owindia cried. "now you must come with me to see the principal. i have often told her about you both, and she knows everything." what followed seemed to those two rough frontiersmen like a dream. they were ushered into a fairy-world filled with maidens all dressed in white. never before did they feel so awkward, and they imagined how ashamed owindia must be of them. but she was so full of happiness that she never thought about how they were dressed. and the principal was so kind, and made them feel so much at home that their tongues became loosened and they chatted away as if they had known her for years. they were two delighted men who left the school that night and made their way to a hotel in the town. natsatt could hardly wait for morning to dawn, and he lay awake for hours thinking about owindia. the next day preparations were made for their departure. there were many things to buy at the store, and owindia went with them. dan was delighted as he watched her animated face as she chose this and that piece of goods, and showed what he considered good taste in her choice. at last all was ready. the canoe was loaded with the purchases they had made, the good-byes had been said, and soon they were speeding on their way northward over the great lake. it took them several days to make this journey, and then one evening as the sun was sinking to rest above the tree tops a trading post in the wilderness came in sight. several houses were situated near, and as the canoe reached the landing place all the inhabitants, men, women, and children, came to the shore to give them a hearty welcome. a number of white women were present, who took charge of owindia, and conducted her to one of the houses near by. then all the people thronged into the little church until there was hardly standing room. ere long owindia entered, with ranger dan by her side. natsatt was already in his place. before them stood the missionary, and in solemn and impressive words made them man and wife. following the wedding came the bountiful supper which had been prepared, for so nicely had the home-coming been planned that all knew within a few hours when they would arrive. owindia was almost dazed by the kindness which was bestowed upon her. it seemed as if she must be dreaming, and would awake to find herself either at the school or away in the wilderness among the chilcats. but natsatt sitting on her right, and dan on her left assured her that it was a sweet reality. supper ended, natsatt twined his arm in hers and led her into the store. she stood looking with wonder upon everything she beheld. "is this yours?" she asked. "it is ours, darling," he replied. "yours and mine. it is the largest trading post in the north, and i have done it all for you." "it is wonderful!" she murmured. "oh, i am so happy." next he led her to a neat log house a few rods away, opened the door and entered. if owindia gazed with wonder upon the store and cried out with surprise, she was now too much amazed to say a word or utter a sound. "this is ours, too," natsatt remarked, watching with delight the expression upon her face. "it was built for you. the furniture was all brought over the lake, and the women have fixed everything up while i was away. why, they have even built a fire in the large open fireplace to make it more homelike. this is to be our cosy sitting-room. that chair is for you," and he led her into the room. owindia did not sit down. she gave one brief glance about her at the many things she saw, and then throwing her arms around natsatt's neck, she buried her happy face upon his shoulder. and there a little later dan found them sitting before the cheerful fire, which felt good even in the summer, for the air was cool and a heavy mist was hanging over the land. and thus, ensconced in comfortable chairs, and dan with his pipe in his mouth, they talked of the past. the men told of the building of the store in the wilderness, and the struggles which had been overcome. their trials were now ended, and the future looked bright and golden. "oh, if my poor father could only be here," owindia remarked, as she looked around her. "to think that i have such a lovely home with every one so kind to me, and he does not know it. how often i think of him, and see his grave far away in that lonely land, which i shall never look upon again." and so the three sat and talked. they could not look into the future. there was no seer to draw back the veil and give them one brief glimpse of the changes the years would bring about. they did not know that the day would come when the chilcats would lose their control over the great yukon region, and that the gleaming gold would lure thousands of white people into the country. neither could they see that the little settlement where the new trading post which dan and natsatt had established would be the centre of a bustling, thriving city; that natsatt would be one of the most prosperous business men of the place, and that among all the women none would be fairer or more beloved than owindia, daughter of the brave klitonda, chief of the ranges. the end. the frontiersman _a tale of the yukon_ by h. a. cody toronto: william briggs _copyright, 1910,_ by george h. doran company contents chapter i night in the wilderness ii abandoned iii the grave in the snow iv "where is my flock?" v "for my mother's sake" vi a trick of cowards vii god's gentlemen viii a surprise ix the night watch x constance makes a discovery xi the shot in the night xii the uplift xiii pritchen gets busy xiv the unexpected happens xv the summons xvi the miners' meeting xvii the search xviii yukon jennie xix caribou sol xx the old chief's messenger xxi constance's venture xxii old pete xxiii the rumbling of the storm xxiv the council xxv the light of the cross xxvi guarded xxvii guided xxviii the shadowed glen xxix the shining trail xxx the consecration the frontiersman chapter i night in the wilderness creek, swish! creek, swish! hour after hour sounded forth the yielding snowshoes as keith steadman, hardy northman and trailsman, strode rapidly forward. for days he had listened to their monotonous music, as he wound his devious way over valleys, plains, and mountain passes, down toward the mighty yukon river, pulsing on to the sea through the great white silence. there was snow everywhere. snow on the river, sparkling like a million diamonds; snow on the lakes, lying smooth and white. snow on the trees, hanging in beautiful, fairy-like clusters; snow on the sun-kissed mountains, fleecy, golden, drifting. snow, frosty, hard, surrounding the traveller, pouring into his lungs at every breath, clinging to his eyebrows, whitening his unkempt beard, and decorating the furry fringes of his loose parka. "cold night," he muttered to himself, as he paused to readjust the rope of the small sled he was drawing, to the right shoulder. then he glanced back over the trail, and a dark object arrested his attention, drawing nearer and nearer. "a wolf! and on my track, too! i expected as much in this desolate spot," and the traveller unslung the small rifle from his back and stood ready for action. for some time the animal did not look up, but kept its nose close to the ground, and trotted steadily on. then it lifted its head, slowed down to a walk, and at length stopped. "i don't like that brute on my track at this time of the day," thought keith. "perhaps a leaden message may give it a hint to travel elsewhere." he raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim. then he lowered it, moved by some sudden impulse. "why, i believe it's a dog, not a wolf at all," and he gave a sharp whistle to the watching animal. the dog, for so it was, pricked up its ears, moved forward, and stopped; but no coaxing on the traveller's part could induce it to advance any further. after trying in vain for some time to make friends with the cur, keith resumed his weary walk. the short winter day was drawing to a close, and the sun had dipped behind a tall, hoary peak. the shadows stealing over the land warned him that night was shutting down, and camping time was near. ahead lay a clump of thick fir trees, which promised shelter and an abundance of wood. toward this he moved, the dog following some distance behind. reaching the place, it did not take him long to clear away the snow from a suitable spot, using one of his narrow snow-shoes as a shovel. this done, he built a fire from the dead trees standing close by, and prepared a generous supply of fuel to last during the cold night. with much skill, acquired through long practice, he soon fashioned a cosy little nest on one side of the fire, from the richly-scented fir boughs. to make the shelter more complete, he erected in the background a brush barricade in the form of a semi-circle, a few feet high. in front of this he spread a wolf-skin robe. "a palace fit for a king," he remarked, half aloud, as he glanced around upon his handiwork. "now for supper." a little bacon, a few beans, a taste of sourdough bread, with some black tea for a relish, formed the humble repast. in the meantime the dog had crept close, attracted by the warm, bright fire, and stood looking wistfully upon the bacon lying before him. "hungry, old boy, eh?" asked keith. "you look as if you had eaten nothing for a month. well, then, here's a piece of bacon and bread. to-morrow i'll try to snip a rabbit for you." the ravenous beast seized eagerly the precious morsels, devoured them with a gulp or two, and looked longingly for more. "can't do it, doggie," said keith, noticing the animal's beseeching eyes, "i've only a little left, and a hard trail lies ahead." then something around the dog's neck arrested his attention. it was a small object fastened to a rude collar. what could it be? "come here, laddie," he called, "and let me see what you've got there." the cur, however, kept at a safe distance, but showed a degree of friendliness by short jerks of his tail. "perhaps a piece of bacon will bring him," and keith held a portion temptingly before his view. the dog pricked up his ears, advanced, drew back, and looked around. then, squatting down upon his haunches, he lifted his nose into the air and gave vent to a most doleful howl. "come on, old boy," encouraged keith, still holding the bacon between his fingers. little by little the dog approached, and with much coaxing was induced to draw near, and after a time nestled by the man's side, where he quickly devoured the coveted morsel of food. "now, let's see what you've got here," and keith examined the object attached to the collar. it was a piece of brown paper, old and soiled, and evidently it had seen hard usage. it was carefully folded, and tied with twine made up of several short pieces. with the point of his hunting knife, keith cut the string, and when he had opened the paper he beheld a number of words, scrawled with some red material, which looked much like blood. by the flickering camp fire he managed with difficulty to decipher the following startling message: "for god's sake, help. i'm dying." that was all, and for some time keith held the paper in his hand and gazed steadily into the fire. "strange," he mused. "where could the animal have come from? i did not know there was a white man near. but it must be some poor wretch who has been stranded in this desolate region. let me see. that dog could not have travelled far in his present miserable condition. i believe i could track him, and perhaps find his master either dead or alive. but then that would mean great delay, and i hoped with hard travelling to reach klassan by to-morrow night. besides, there is not much food left, only a little bacon, bread, and a few beans. oh, well, i'll sleep on it, and in the morning perhaps i may see more clearly." the fire roared cheerfully, seizing with avidity upon the dry fir sticks. the sparks shot up into the darkness, whirling, twisting, and dancing, like so many happy fairies. the tall trees stood out in bold relief, sombre and silent. "yes," he mused, "i believe it's a warning, and i must no longer hesitate. that poor fellow needs help, and no doubt this dog was guided by some good angel. i must go as soon as the day breaks, and leave the matter of food to the father's care." with the fire well replenished, and the loaded rifle close at hand, keith rolled himself up in his wolf-skin robe and was soon fast asleep. it seemed that he had lain but a short time, when he was aroused by a weight pressing against his body, accompanied by a startling noise. half dazed, he lifted himself to a sitting posture and looked around. the fire was almost out and the charred sticks were emitting but a feeble glow. the weight against his body was caused by the dog, huddling near as possible and growling in the most ferocious manner. it did not take long to understand the creature's terror, for a sound fell upon his ears which caused his heart to beat fast and a cold chill to pass through his body. out of the darkness came the long-drawn howls, which he easily recognized. they were wolves, drawing nearer and nearer, how many he could not tell. quickly throwing a few fresh sticks on the smouldering embers, he seized his rifle, examined it carefully, and looked to the keen knife in his belt. "never mind," he remarked to the crouching form at his feet. "we'll give them a warm reception, at any rate." "o-o-o-ow. o-o-o-ow," came those awful sounds, at any time terrible to hear, but at night in the lonely wild, how appalling! keith strained his eyes through the darkness in an effort to catch a glimpse of the enemy. that they were bearing down upon him there was no doubt. but look as he might nothing was to be observed except the trees standing silently around. presently the howlings ceased, and all was still. what did this signify? that the wolves had gone on some other scent? ah, no. keith was too well accustomed to the ways of these creatures to believe such a thing. he knew that the stillness was but a prelude to the storm; that the animals were stalking their prey; that gleaming eyes were watching his slightest movement, and that keen white fangs were bared, ready to tear him to pieces. not for an instant did he abate his watchfulness, and ere long he beheld savage eyes, glowing like fiery balls, peering out of the night. nearer and nearer they drew, until the forms of the animals could be dimly discerned. then he brought the rifle to his shoulder, took careful aim, and fired. instantly a sharp yell split the darkness, followed by fierce, snarling sounds, which plainly told that the fallen brute was being devoured by its ravenous companions. so quickly had all this taken place that before keith had time for a second shot, or even to throw out the empty shell and drive a loaded one home, a huge beast sprang full upon him from the left. instinctively he leaped aside, and the wolf, missing his prey, landed upon the fire only a short distance away. a cry of mingled pain and rage ensued as the creature's feet touched the hot coals. then followed a scattering of sticks as the animal shot out of the fire and bounded off into the depths of the forest. so sudden was the attack, and unexpected the deliverance, that keith stared in amazement. then a smile passed over his face at the thought of the wolf's surprise, and the spectacle of his hurried retreat. his merriment, however, was of short duration. there was stern work still ahead. so intent was he on peering into the darkness after the fleeing form that he did not notice another large brute slinking stealthily up on his right. with a snarl it sprang straight at him, and before keith could lift a hand in self-defence he staggered back, tripped over a twig, and fell heavily to the ground. with one hand he seized the wolf by the throat with a vise-like grip, while with the other he endeavored in vain to draw forth his hunting knife. at this critical moment the dog, which up to this time had presented the appearance of abject terror, aroused suddenly to action. it rushed upon the wolf like the incarnation of fury, and sinking its teeth into the monster's side began to tear the quivering flesh. assailed from this new quarter, the wolf tried to turn back upon the dog. this effort partly relieved the weight from keith's body and enabled him to grip the handle of his trusty knife. it took but an instant to rip it from its sheath and plunge the keen, glittering point into his antagonist's side. with a yell of pain the wolf attempted to escape. it was too late; the blow had been sure, and ere long he was quivering in death upon the ground, with the dog worrying him to the last. keith at once sprang for his rifle, thrust in a loaded shell, and stood awaiting the next move of his savage enemy. chapter ii abandoned all through the dark hours of the night keith kept watch, with the anxious dog growling intermittently at his feet. he knew there were wolves still in the vicinity, for at times he could hear their ugly snarls near the spot where their companion had fallen. slowly the hours wore away, and at length the dawn began to steal over the land. it needed but a little light to show the dim forms of three wolves squatting on the snow some distance off. bringing his rifle to his shoulder, keith sent a ball straight through the heart of the largest, which bounded into the air, and then rolled over on the snow dead. the other two started up in surprise, but a second shot brought one of them to the ground, while his companion, bold brute though he was, turned and fled. thus the weary watch and the fight were over, and keith breathed a prayer of thankfulness at his escape from the blood-thirsty foe. long before the sun had made its appearance, man and dog were retracing their steps over the trail they had traversed the previous evening. it meant much to turn back and thread their way across that desolate waste of snow, through dreary forests, level plains, and sweeping lakes. hour after hour they moved, keith all the time keeping a sharp look-out for signs to show where the dog had taken his trail. tracks of various kinds were plentiful, crossing and re-crossing one another in the most confusing manner. it was certainly a puzzling task to choose the ones which would lead him to his destination. slowly he proceeded, peering here and there for some solution of the mystery. in this manner he had advanced a considerable distance, when the whining of the dog caused him to glance back. the animal had stopped, and seemed to be in trouble, looking first at the man, and then away to the left. wondering what was the matter, keith returned to the spot. "well, doggie," he exclaimed, "what's wrong?" but the cur continued to whine, looking alternately to the left and up into the man's face. suddenly a thought flashed into keith's mind. perhaps the brute was calling his attention to the right trail. it was worth investigating at any rate. the dog seemed to read his thoughts, and, weak though he was, gave a joyful bark, and bounded off in the direction toward which he had been looking. "there's something in this after all," mused keith, as he followed hard after. away in the distance a range of mountains stood out bold and austere against the sky. at a certain place a break appeared, one of nature's vast passes, and toward this the dog made his way. ahead lay a large, open plain, devoid of trees. across this they travelled to a forest beyond, which clothed the base of the mountains. the trees were large and resembled a vast, silent army wedged into the valley, as if forbidding any progress that way. but the dog was not thinking of the trees, nor how grand they looked in their soft, snowy mantle. he had something else on his mind, and with firm assurance he nosed his way into their sombre depths. for two hours they threaded the forest, up the long, winding valley, when at length a log cabin burst suddenly into view. it was small, low, and evidently had been built for some time. a stream of smoke, curling into the frosty air, betokened life within. around the building many tracks of animals were visible, while here and there human footprints could be discerned. there was no window to the shack, and the door was small and low. at this he knocked, while the dog scratched in his eagerness to gain admittance. no sound coming from within, keith cautiously opened the rough barrier and entered, the cur leaping in ahead. the room was quite light from a fire burning in a rude stone fire-place, before which crouched a weird form, with knees drawn up to the chin in indian fashion. hair, long and unkempt, fell down over his neck, and a beard, months old, was rough and straggling. the cheeks were hollow, and the weary, sunken eyes, turned toward the door, were filled with alarm. it was only the dog he saw, which had rushed forward, and was leaping around him in the wildest excitement, licking his hands and face with intense fondness. the man, however, did not recognize the animal, but drawing his blanket more closely around his body, huddled down in a terrified manner. "back, back!" he moaned. "don't come near! for god's sake, spare me! don't touch me! help! father! connie!" the tears streamed down the poor creature's cheeks, as he crouched there on the floor, pleading with an imaginary foe. the scene was pitiable to behold, and keith hastened to his side. "what's wrong?" he asked. "the dog won't hurt you." the man started and looked up in a dazed manner. then he reached forward with his long, bony fingers. "save me!" he moaned. "drive them away! they will kill me!" "why, there's nothing to harm you," keith replied. "it's your own dog come back to you, and he's licking your hands and face in his delight." a gleam of intelligence stole into the man's eyes, as he looked slowly around, somewhat relieved. "my dog?" he continued. "brisko? not wolves?" "no, not a wolf near. you are safe." the man trembled. he caught keith by the hand. he looked up into his face, and then, throwing his arms around the dog's neck, wept like a child. "safe, safe," he murmured. "thank god! oh, how they howled!" and a shudder shook his frame. "they tore at the roof; they scratched at the door. my god, it was awful! and to think that he left me to those devils!" then he leaned eagerly forward. "did you see him? did you meet him on the trail?" "meet whom?" demanded keith, thinking the man was wandering in his mind. "bill; bill, my partner." "no, i have not met any one for days." "are you sure?" and the man crept near, and looked into the traveller's face in a beseeching manner. "think hard. a man with a long beard, and the devil's face." "no, i tell you i have met no one. why do you ask?" "oh, god, help me! you didn't see him, and he's got my gold! yes, _my_ gold," he cried, grinding his teeth in his rage. "look, you. listen. we were partners, bill and i. we struck gold. to find it we struggled hard. we tore the flesh from our hands on the rocks. our feet bled. we suffered hunger and cold; but we found it. it was awful, but we found it. the trail was long, but we didn't mind; we had the gold. the wind howled down the mountain passes. we slept in the snow. for days we had little to eat, but we laughed, and hugged our pokes of gold, and kissed them as a mother kisses her babes. the dogs died one by one, except the leader there, and we ate them raw, like the wolves, which followed us and howled at night. but we laughed like ghosts, always laughed, for the gold was safe. we reached this cabin. here we stayed, for we could go no further. we watched the gold, counting it over and over. then one day he left me,--left me to die--and took my gold." the man's rage was terrible. his sunken eyes shot fire. his emaciated frame quivered with the intensity of his emotion. he staggered to his feet. "i will find him!" he cried. "let me go to him!" he tried to walk to the door, but in vain. with a cry he fell upon the hard floor, groped for an instant like a blind man, and then lay perfectly still. the days that followed the man's collapse were fearful ones. keith would not leave him in such a condition, and he fought a hard battle to save his life. with the aid of rabbits, a few ptarmigan, grouse, and the little food he had brought with him, he managed to exist. twice he left the cabin and scoured the forest for moose or deer, but the animals had deserted the locality. the wolves surrounded the shack at night, uttering their dreary cries, but kept warily out of gun-shot. at times the sick man moaned and raved pitifully. as keith sat hour after hour by his side he tried to piece together something of his past life from the broken words which fell from his lips. often it was of the trail, the gold, and bill. but again he wandered to other scenes in which "connie," "the violin," and various pieces of music played important parts. "connie. connie," he would say, over and over again. "where is my violin? bring it to me." at such moments his poor, gaunt fingers would search eagerly over the blanket to reach the imaginary instrument. so often did he mention "connie," that keith felt quite sure she must be his sister, and in his mind he pictured a sweet-faced maiden, far away in some comfortable home, wondering, perhaps, when her brother would return. one night, as he sat wearily at his post, something attracted his attention. it was a string fastened around the man's neck. hoping to obtain some clue to his identity, he examined it closely, and found it held a small locket, hidden beneath the rough shirt. opening the trinket, the beautiful face of a young woman was exposed to view. long and earnestly he studied it, and, notwithstanding the wasted condition of the man lying before him, he could easily trace a marked resemblance between the two faces. two letters, "k. r.," were neatly engraven upon the gold cover, but nothing else could he find which would reveal the man's name. carefully, almost reverently, he closed the locket, and restored it to its former position. but the sweet eyes which had looked forth at him still remained in his mind. the face burned itself into his soul, and twice during the night he again opened the locket, and studied the features most earnestly. for ten long years he had not looked upon such a face, and to see this one before him brought back scenes of by-gone days. he remembered one, how pretty she looked on his graduation day, and what a thrill of pleasure he had experienced as she placed her delicate hand into his, and uttered words of congratulation. the future looked very bright then, and in all his visions that little woman stood out sweet and clear. but that was years ago, and now--she had been married long since to a portly, wealthy merchant, while he, no doubt, was forgotten. at length, wearied out with watching, he threw several sticks upon the fire and lay down in front of it for a short nap. he awoke with a start, to find the fire low, and the form wrapped in the wolf-skin robe very still. a sense of dread crept over him, and, going to his side, he peered into that haggard face. yes, it was still. the expression was one of peace, the awful peace of death. his right hand, firmly clutching the string of the little locket, was lying upon his breast. for him, at least, the long trail was ended. chapter iii the grave in the snow the sun of the short winter day was touching the mountain peaks, and slowly stealing down their rugged sides, as keith emerged from the cabin bearing the cold body of the unknown man. he had a sacred task to perform, and he would not leave the place till all was completed. he had no winding sheet, no coffin in which to lay that silent form. a deep hole dug in the snow with the point of a snow-shoe, was grave and coffin combined, while the same soft, yielding snow spread tenderly over the body was the only winding sheet. "i am the resurrection and the life, saith the lord." how weird and strangely hollow sounded his voice in that lonely place, as he repeated from memory some of the beautiful sentences of the burial service of the church of england. there were none to respond, none to weep, and none to lay fresh flowers upon that snowy mound. there was one mourner, however; the lean dog, silent and wistful, crouching near. at times he glanced up into the speaker's face, as if trying to comprehend the meaning of the words. "poor dumb brute," said keith, when the prayers were over, "you are faithful to the last. while this man was deserted, left here to die, you did what you could to save him. for this, brisko, old boy, you shall have a home with me, or, i should say, an abiding place, for i hardly know the meaning of the word home." before leaving the cabin, keith had searched long and carefully for some clue as to the dead man's identity. there was only the little locket, which he felt might some day help to explain the matter. reluctantly he had unclosed the cold, stiff fingers from the slender string, and fastened the trinket around his own neck as the best place where it could be safely guarded. when the body was well covered he sought for some way to mark the spot. a stick would stand but a short time; something else must serve. presently an idea occurred to him. near the grave a huge rock lifted itself several feet into the air, with a side so smooth and perpendicular that no snow could rest upon its surface. going at once to the cabin, he brought forth the dead man's camping axe, and with the dull blade began to cut into the solid rock. "yes," he muttered to himself, "you shall have as solid and grand a monument as the world can afford. the grave is not pretty, i admit, and no hand will lay flowers over you. but this stone will not tumble down till the finger of god touches it, and, i think," he added after a pause, "with this mark upon it he'll let it stand till the judgment day." the mark was a large cross, not artistically done, but cut deep into the hard surface to withstand the wear of years. beneath this he simply placed the two letters "k. r." "not too bad," he remarked, as he stepped back to view his handiwork. "it's the best i can do with such a rough tool, and i think _she_ would be pleased to know that something marks the spot where he is lying." then, a strong dual feeling came over him. he longed to track the dead man's rascally partner, find him, and have the just punishment meted out upon his head. next, to meet the original of the picture, restore the locket, and to tell the story of the death in the wilderness. "what an appearance i would make," he mused, glancing at his rough buck-skin clothes, coarse leggings, and moccasined feet, while his right hand swept across his unkempt beard and long hair. "if she could see me now she would think i had murdered her brother instead of fighting hard to save his life." leaving the grave he returned to the cabin. here he strapped his slender outfit on the small sled, and with snow-shoes on his feet left the place. he had advanced some distance when suddenly he remembered the dog. he stopped and gave a sharp whistle. then he called, but the animal did not appear. "strange!" he thought. "what has happened to the brute? i must not leave him here." retracing his steps, he searched the cabin. not finding him, he went to the grave, and there, lying on the snowy mound, he found the poor brute. his grief was plainly evident, and, as he lifted his head in response to keith's call, sorrow, almost human, was depicted on his face. only after much coaxing was he induced to leave the spot, abandon his old master, and cast in his lot with the new. together, at length, they set out upon the long trail; the man drawing the sled, the dog walking dejectedly behind. it was a dreary march over that desolate waste, as on and on they moved, two creeping specks. nowhere, except it be upon the heaving ocean, does one feel more deeply his own insignificance than when alone in the great white north in midwinter. no human voice to break the awful silence; no song of bird or buzz of insect to fall upon the ear; thousands of miles from home, in a roadless wilderness. as the second day was drawing to a close, keith's weary steps quickened. he leaned eagerly forward, his strong, gaunt face filled with expectancy. creak! creak! how loudly the snow-shoes sounded at each swinging stride. the noise disturbed him. he stopped and listened intently. then a look of disappointment passed over his countenance. his gaze swept the sky. the northern lights were streaming across the heavens like huge pennons flung out into a strong breeze. the unseen spirits of the north seemed to be marching and countermarching in vast battalions through the arctic night. their banners rose, faded, vanished; to reappear, writhing, twisting, curling, flashing forth in matchless beauty all the colours of the rainbow. yellow and green, green and yellow, ruby-red and greenish-white, chasing one another, vieing with one another as the great, silent army incessantly retreated and advanced. such scenes seldom failed to arouse in keith the feeling of wonder and awe, but on this night he hardly noticed the grand display. he was watching the friendly stars as they tumbled out one by one. for long years they had been his steady companions on many a toilsome journey, and he read them like an open book. he saw the belted orion swinging in its accustomed place, and the great bear dipping close to the horizon. it was seven o'clock, he felt sure of that, and yet that sound did not come. he advanced for some distance, halted, and again listened. it was a cold night, and his breath pouring forth in clouds smote with a hissing sound upon the frosty air. he heeded it not. his parka hood was backward thrown to enable him to hear the better. presently dark forms loomed up out of the night, straight before him. "i was afraid of it," he muttered. "the rumor i heard was only too true, and they are here! may god help us!" the objects which he beheld were log cabins, which he soon reached. no lights shone from the buildings, and the place seemed deserted. passing among the houses he crossed an open space of ground, climbed a hill, and approached a long, low structure. he opened the door and entered. the place was in darkness, but quite warm. soon he emerged, and looked around much puzzled. the indian camps lay stretched out before him along the brink of the hill. these he visited one by one, but no sound greeted him except the occasional snarl or bark of a dog. what did it all mean? he placed his hand to his forehead, and tried to think. where were the miners? what had happened to the indians? why was the place deserted? as he stood before one of the lodges, uncertain what to do, a cry fell upon his ear. again it came, this time much lower. keith peered through the darkness. he hurried down the hill. he saw a faint glimmer of light, and found it came from a log building directly before him. the clamour of voices, cries of rage and confusion, could be distinctly heard, as with fast beating heart he bounded forward. he guessed the truth, and knew there was no time to lose. he reached the door, and, scarcely waiting to lift the latch, he drove it open with one push of his powerful shoulder, and gazed upon the scene within. chapter iv "where is my flock?" for long years the indian village of klassan had lain snugly ensconsed between the sheltering arms of two towering mountains. once, beyond the memory of the oldest native, the lodges had stood close to the small river kaslo, which poured its icy waters into the mighty yukon. but one mild spring night an ice jam in a deep, narrow gorge, pressed by the tremendous weight of water, gave way, and, rushing down, carried destruction to the little indian town, and to a number of the inhabitants. since then the village stood further back at a higher elevation, secure from the devastating floods which occurred at frequent intervals. here the indians were living their wild life, sunk in degradation and superstition, when found by keith steadman, medical missionary from eastern canada. at the command of his veteran bishop of the mackenzie river, he had forced his way over the rocky mountains, sought out these wandering sheep of the wilderness, and for ten long years lived in their midst. it was uphill work to root out old ideas, to plant new seeds, and to overcome the jealousy of the medicine men. often his life was in great danger, but in the end he conquered and won the confidence of the natives. with his own hands he assisted in erecting a log church and school room, decorating the interior of the former with beautiful designs and mottoes, much to the indians' delight. in addition, there was the little bell, which arrived some years later, and swung in the small belfry, constructed of four long poles, by the side of the church. since then its sweet tones had called the natives together at the appointed hour of seven. no matter how busily engaged they might be, all work was suspended, and they hastened to the sanctuary to offer up their devotions to the great father on high. at times keith, returning from visits to outlying bands of indians, hearing the sound of the bell some distance off, would know that all was well at the village. during the summer of his tenth year at klassan, he was summoned to the mackenzie river, to attend a conference of missionaries which was to be held there. it was a long journey, and he dreaded to leave his post for such a length of time. before departing, however, he called the band together, committed them to care of the trusty native catechist, amos, and received their promises of true allegiance. keith had been absent but a few weeks, when a crowd of miners struck klassan. prospectors had been roaming the land for years, and at length made several good discoveries along the kaslo. the white men came, fifty strong, from the lower yukon, built their cabins at klassan close to the river, and began operations. the work of mining progressed rapidly, and much gold was secured. during the long winter evenings little could be done, so the men gathered at jim perdue's place, which was store and saloon combined, to gamble and to drink bad whiskey. the latter was a strange concoction, manufactured on the spot, to take the place of the limited supply of whiskey which had been brought in from the outside. it was known generally as "hootch," though some called it "forty-rod whiskey," from its supposed power of killing at that distance. it was formed of a large quantity of sugar of molasses, with a small percentage of dried fruit for flavouring, while ordinary sourdough was used for fermentation. when ready for use it was poured into an empty kerosene tin, and served hot or cold according to the taste of the customer. this nearness of the miners was a severe test of the indians' loyalty. at first they kept much aloof from the newcomers, and remained firm to their absent teacher and pastor. but at length several weakened and were enticed into the saloon, where ere-long they were imitating the pernicious ways of the white men. most of them, however, held their ground, especially the older ones, who stood faithfully by amos in the time of trial. the catechist was much grieved to see the young men drifting into such evil habits. he pleaded earnestly with them and induced a number to leave for their winter hunting grounds. but with others he had no influence; he had lost his control entirely. every night, however, at the appointed hour the mission bell rang out its full, clear summons, and the faithful few never failed to meet together in the little church. then amos would read the prayers in the rhythmical indian dialect, and give a brief address of exhortation. one night, before closing his remarks, he said to them, "to-morrow, i go to visit my traps, and to track a moose which i know is near. i may be a little late in getting back, so i ask paul nitsi to build the fire, ring the bell, and have everything ready when i come." this was received with nods of approval, and after a few more words they separated. that same night a very different scene was being enacted in perdue's store. cards and drinks formed the order of the evening. "ding, dong. ding, dong. ding, dong," sounded out the little bell. "d--n that bell!" cried bill pritchen, a stranger, bringing his fist down upon the table with a bang. "i wonder you men stand it." "how can we stop it?" asked tim murphy, cutting a wad from a plug of tobacco. "stop it? why, i'd stop it d--n soon," returned pritchen. "anyway, what good would it do?" continued tim, who was fond of an argument. "the indians are quiet and honest, mind their own affairs, and enjoy their little service." "you'll see how honest they are, tim murphy. i never saw an honest injun yet. only dead injuns are honest. then look at their d--n superstition. such psalm singing would be stopped in some camps as quick as h--l." to this conversation jim perdue, the saloon-keeper, was the most interested listener. he hated amos and the loyal members of the band, who kept aloof from his store and filthy poison. he determined, therefore, to use pritchen as an instrument to further his evil designs upon the natives. "so you think you can stop that bell from ringing, do you?" he asked. "well, then, i'll bet a drink all around that you can't do it." "i'll do it for one night," answered pritchen guardedly. "oh, ye might fix the bell so it wouldn't ring fer one night, that'd be no trouble. but ye can't make them leave their service, and come here fer a drink. if ye kin i'll supply the stuff free." "free poison," laughed one of the men. "say, jim, ye'd better go easy. the ground's too mighty tough, and we don't want to spend a month digging graves." "never ye fear, dick," replied perdue good naturedly. "you've stood the stuff all right, so i guess the injuns are safe." during this conversation pritchen was thinking hard. when the laugh which followed the saloon-keeper's retort had subsided, he turned to him and said: "jim, i'll take your bet." "what, to stop the bell, and to bring the injuns here fer a drink?" "yes, but only for to-morrow night, remember." "oh, that'll do," replied perdue. "i'll do the rest." the next day pritchen was unusually busy. having obtained the aid of a native interpreter, he visited the indians and set before them the plan he had carefully concocted during the night. the great white chief at ottawa, so he told them, had heard of the takudhs, and how they attended the services of his church. so pleased was he with their faithfulness that he had sent him, pritchen, all the way to klassan to carry his message of good will, and to give a present to each one. he had only lately arrived, and would like as soon as possible to carry out the great white chief's command. if the indians would come over to the store in the evening he would be pleased to distribute the presents. this harangue was received with evident approval by most of the natives, and bright visions danced before their eyes. there were others who were not so easily persuaded, of whom was the aged, wrinkled, and gray-haired chief of the band. he wished to know more, and asked for some token to show that the white man was telling the truth. pritchen was prepared for this, and at once brought forth a fair-sized poke of gold and held it up in his hand. "look," he said. "much gold; the white chief's gold. with this i will buy the presents in yonder store." the various "ah, ah's" which passed from one to another revealed the effect his words produced. but still the old man was not convinced. any miner might have that much gold, he told him. what else could he show? pritchen did not expect this, and felt somewhat confused. he fumbled in his pockets for some trinket to appease the suspicious chief. he was about to abandon the search when his hand struck a note book, in a pocket he had overlooked, on the inside of his rough jacket. he quickly drew it forth, and from its pages produced a small photograph. that it was the face of a young man, handsome and fair, did not signify. it would serve his purpose, pritchen felt sure of that. "see," he said, holding it in his hand. "the white chief sends his picture to the chief of the takudhs." this was enough. all doubt was at once removed, and as the old man stretched out a scrawny hand for the treasure, a smile of triumph passed over pritchen's hard face. "i caught the rascal at last," he said to himself as he left the lodge. "it was mighty lucky for me that i had that photo. i had forgotten all about it. but i must get it back some way or else there may be trouble." at the appointed hour of six the simple-minded indians emerged from their various lodges and filed silently toward perdue's store. here they squatted on the floor, with their backs to the wall, awaiting proceedings. a number of miners entered and stood or sat chatting with one another, apparently unconscious of the dusky figures in their midst. at length pritchen arrived, and after conversing for a while in a low tone with perdue he turned to the indians. he told them again, through the same interpreter, of the great chief's love for them, and his interest in their welfare. he lengthened his speech as much as possible before distributing the presents. these were cheap articles he had purchased from the store during the day; bright pieces of cloth for the women, pipes, tobacco, and knives for the men, while sugar was doled out to the children. this performance took some time, and a triumphant light gleamed in pritchen's eye as he glanced at the small clock in the room. "now for the stuff," he cried. at once, cups brimming with vile hootch were placed upon the rough bar. seizing one in his hand pritchen held it before the old chief's eyes. "drink," he said. "good." as the indian looked in silence at the mixture, without offering to touch it, a stern voice rang out near the door. some one was speaking in sharp, quick words in the indian tongue, which produced an immediate effect. in an instant every eye was turned toward the speaker, when they beheld standing there the sturdy form of amos, the catechist. he had returned from his hunting trip, and, finding the church and the lodges deserted, suspected trouble. he made his way to the saloon, feeling quite certain that there he would find an explanation of it all. neither was he mistaken. when he beheld the presents, and the cup of whiskey held so temptingly before the face of his revered chief, his wrath flared forth in righteous indignation. he lashed the indians with a few stinging words of rebuke, and, springing forward, with blazing eyes confronted pritchen. the latter, seeing the catechist's anger, realized the purport of his words. he saw that his scheme was likely to be frustrated simply through this one man. "you dog of an injun," he cried. "you vile psalm singer, get out of this and go to h--l," at the same time giving him a sharp slap in the face. stung to the quick by the double insult of word and blow, in the presence of his own people, and upon his ancestral domain, with a yell amos leaped for his insulter. pritchen was prepared for this, and with a well-directed blow sent the indian reeling backwards. recovering himself, however, with great agility, the catechist again rushed forward, dodged a second blow, and grappled with his opponent. but pritchen was too much for him, and with a powerful effort partly disengaged himself from the native's grasp, and seized him by the throat with a death-like grip. amos endeavored to free himself, but the more he writhed and struggled, the tighter pressed those terrible fingers. so quickly had all this taken place, that for a while the squatting indians stared in amazement. then they realized the whole situation. their leader, their chosen guide, was in danger, and had been grossly insulted by the white man. they leaped to their feet, bore down upon the struggling pair, and tore away the fingers from the catechist's throat. pritchen had over-stepped the mark, and had brought the storm upon his own head. he fought hard to free himself from the violent hands which were laid upon him. the women tore his face and hair, the men dealt him savage blows, and he staggered to and fro in an effort to keep his feet and to escape from the human wildcats. during this performance the miners had remained stolidly silent, and when they beheld the tables turned upon pritchen smiles of satisfaction flitted across their faces. they had little use for the big, blustering bully. he was not one of them, anyway, only an intruder, and whence he came or what his business no one seemed to know. but when they saw him in real danger they bestirred themselves, went to his assistance, and everything pointed to a free and general fight. at that instant the saloon door was flung open, and a tall, stalwart figure sprang into the room. a subtle influence spread over the contestants, and, pausing in their struggle, turned to look upon the new arrival. "lord! who is it?" gasped tim murphy, shrinking back a step or two. the stranger's eyes swept the room with one swift glance. in an instant he comprehended much. "comrades!" he cried in a voice of terrible intensity, "what does this mean?" receiving no answer to his passionate appeal, he turned to perdue, who was watching the proceedings with the keenest interest. "what is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "what are you doing with my indians? where is my flock which i left in peace and quietness?" "who in h--l are you, and what business is it of yours what we do with the injuns?" replied perdue in a surly manner, at the same time shrinking back from those searching blue eyes, which seemed to pierce his very soul. "man," came the response, as a yearning arm reached out toward the natives, "they are mine. through long years of travail i have borne with them, and i love them. i am keith steadman, the missionary." at these words pritchen started. a look of fear came into his eyes, and he glanced round as if seeking some avenue of escape. then his appearance changed. his face darkened like a stormy sky. he reached forward, seized a cup of whiskey from the bar, and strode up to amos, who was quiet in the presence of his master. "d--n the missionaries, and their flocks!" he cried. "as i offer this to your chosen cur, before long we will give it to every one of your bible suckers, and they will drink." keith turned quickly at these insulting words, saw the outstretched hand, and with one blow of his clenched fist he struck the cup, and dashed its contents into pritchen's leering face. with an oath of rage the latter sprang for the missionary. but he was not dealing with amos now, nor any common man. it was one hundred and seventy pounds of trained flesh, iron nerve, and sinewy muscle that he encountered. the missionary sprang to meet his adversary like a charger rushing to battle. for an instant only they grappled, when keith, seizing pritchen by the throat, hurled him back over the bar with a sickening thud. the boaster was pinned as in a vise. he struggled in vain to free himself from that terrible grip. in his frantic clutches to release the hand from his throat he ripped away the coarse shirt from his neck and bosom, while his face became livid. keith's hand was lifted; he was about to strike. suddenly he paused, his fingers relaxed, and with the words, "the lord judge thee, thou wretched man," he flung pritchen from him as if he were a viper, then turned and left the building. chapter v "for my mother's sake" among the indians in perdue's store none watched the proceedings more intently than yukon jennie, the orphan, whose home was in every camp, but with no certain abiding place. wrapped in her old shawl, she crouched on the floor, taking no part in the rough-and-tumble fight. her eyes were constantly fixed upon pritchen with a strange fascination, which seemed never to waver. once, when he sprang at amos, she half started from her place, moved by some sudden impulse. but it was only for an instant, and then she shrank back to her former position. when, however, the wild scene had ended, and the missionary had left the building, her whole being roused to activity. with the agility and stealthiness of a young tigress she glided from the room into the darkness without, and made straight for the indian village. reaching this, she wound her way among the various lodges till, stopping before one larger than the rest, she drew back the skin from the door and entered. with no light to guide her she went at once to a corner of the room, and drew from a bundle of rags a small parcel. unwrapping this, she brought forth a formidable looking knife, and with intense eagerness ran her small finger over the keen edge and sharp point. so satisfied was she at the result of this performance that a low chuckle of pleasure escaped her lips. then, hastily concealing the weapon within the folds of her shawl, she left the lodge and started for the store. "ding, dong. ding, dong. ding, dong." the sharp sound spit the frosty air and stayed the feet of the little hurrying maid. she had never refused to obey its summons, which spoke to her like a living voice. to her childlike mind that dark thing hanging high aloft had a great meaning. it was the centre of an unseen world, and many were the strange and beautiful pictures she wove in her busy brain whenever the bell sounded out its message. but this night it was speaking directly to her in a warning sense. it seemed to understand her secret. "tell him. tell him. tell him," it was saying, over and over again. she tried to go forward. she clutched the knife more firmly, and moved a few steps. she paused again, as a sudden thought came into her mind. yes, she would listen to it. she would tell him first; after that there would be time. turning to the left, she started toward the church. the bell had ceased before she reached the building, and all was still. pushing open the door, she entered and slipped quietly into her accustomed place in a back seat. the rows of bowed heads in front of her were unseen; the altar, with its little wooden cross, flanked by the ten commandments in the indian tongue, did not interest her as on other occasions, neither did the small mission harmonium, the delight of the natives, which had cost such an effort to bring to klassan. she saw none of these. her attention was fixed upon the kneeling form of the missionary, repeating several of the prayers of the church. he was dressed just as he had come from the trail. presently he arose and began to speak. he was calm, to all outward appearance, terribly calm, with not a hint of the seething furnace within. "i am glad to be with you again," he told the indians. "my heart has been yearning for you all, and i have many messages from the gikhyi-choh (the bishop) of the mackenzie river. his hair is white now, and his steps feeble, so he cannot make long journeys as of old, or else he would come to see you himself. next year, before the ground is white with snow, and the wild geese have gone south, he hopes that another gikhyi-choh will come and live among us on this side of the mountains. when he comes he will cheer us, so we must be strong till then. then the white men have arrived; some, but not all, are wolves, and we must beware of their fangs. they would like to tear us to pieces, to break up our mission, and to ruin our young men and women. but we must stand together, and the great father in heaven will send his holy spirit to guide us. i have many things to say, but i cannot speak of them now. we will meet again and have a long talk." the indians understood their leader. they needed no other word, and, after the benediction had been pronounced, they filed silently out of the building. jennie alone remained, almost hidden from view in the dimly candle-lighted church. she watched the missionary with her small bright eyes, saw him place his hand wearily to his forehead, and then turn to the little harmonium. at first his playing dragged; it lacked the true fire of life. he was like one creeping foot-sore and lone over a long and darksome trail, far down in the valley. but as he played gradually he ascended from the mists below up the mountain side. the air became clearer and filled him with a new vigor. as he reached the top, and the sun shone out, his spirit leaped within him and thrilled his whole being. the heart nerved the hand and the weak, dilatory playing ceased. hopefulness and courage burst forth in every note. his face cleared. he looked up, and his countenance became transfigured with a glorious light. for a time jennie retained her position in the back of the church. she loved music dearly, and could not resist the temptation to remain very still and listen. but at length she left her place, glided up the aisle, and stood quite near the missionary. he did not notice her, so lost in thought was he. when, however, she reached out a thin, dusky hand and touched his arm, he gave a sudden start, and, turning quickly, looked upon the girl. "jennie!" he exclaimed. "you here! why, i thought every one had gone!" "all but me," she replied. "i waited to speak to you. it told me to come." "it? and who is it?" asked keith in a puzzled manner. "the bell; it spoke to me, as i was going to the store, and said to tell you." "what were you going to the store for, jennie, and what were you to tell me?" the girl looked earnestly into his face. "i saw him!" she gasped. "he was there! he has been here for some time! see--" and she drew the keen knife from the folds of her shawl. "it is sharp, my mother's knife. what she tried to do i will finish. she only scarred his breast, and died for it; i will go deeper and reach his heart." a cold chill passed through keith's frame as he listened to these terrible words, and observed the passion which possessed her soul. he could hardly believe it possible that this was the same gentle jennie, the apt scholar, of whom he had hoped so much. his mind went back to one fearful night, seven years before, when he first met her, and saved her. he saw again her dead mother, with her lifeless babe in her bosom, the result of the renegade squaw-man, the vile serpent in human guise, who now menaced his flock. jennie was a child of eight, alone with the dead in that desolate place. he had brought her to klassan, where she had lived ever since, cared for by the indians. they loved the maiden, but could not always understand her, with that dreamy, far-away look in her eyes. little did they realize the deep longing in her heart, or the fire which was smouldering there, only awaiting an opportunity to burst forth. at last the time had arrived, and she stood ready with flashing eyes to carry out her design. "jennie," said keith, calming his voice as much as possible, "how long have you been thinking of this?" "ever since that night," she replied, "when i saw my poor mother and sister lying cold and dead. i said in my heart that some day i would meet him and kill him." "and you told no one of what was in your heart, jennie?" "no. the indians would only have laughed at me for thinking such a thing." "but why did you come to me?" "the bell told me to come, and i felt you would understand. he hates you and would like to kill you. i thought you would be glad if i killed him." keith placed his hand to his forehead, while a strange helplessness took possession of him. was this, then, the result of years of prayerful instruction of the truths he had tried to instil into her childish mind? turning to her he said: "jennie, jennie. do you know what you are saying? do you know it is wrong to kill? it is murder. do you know the sixth commandment?" he continued, pointing to the right of the altar. "tinjih zhigotyin rsho," repeated the girl in a mechanical manner. "who said that, jennie?" "god." "and do you think god will like it if you do not obey him?" "god will understand; he killed his own enemies." "jennie--!" "anyway, he doesn't mean me," hurried on the girl, when she saw the sorrow in her clergyman's face. "whom does he mean, then?" "men, only. he says so." well did keith know that "tinjih zhigtoyin rsho," to the indian, was "man, do not kill," but how often he had explained that tinjih, man, meant everybody, men, women, and children. but here was a child--a child in years, though a woman in thought--who through long brooding had absorbed only that which appealed to her own case. what was he to do? "christ said," he replied, after a pause, "that we are to forgive people who wrong us. he said '_your_ enemies,' and that includes the man who killed your mother." "but no one ever killed christ's mother," answered the girl. "no, not his mother, jennie. but cruel men killed him, drove nails through his hands and feet, and hung him on the cross. but he forgave them, and asked his father to do the same." to these words she listened intently, and a gentler look came into her face. "i like him," she said. "he was good to little children, and loved the birds and flowers." a ray of hope shot into keith's heart. was he to win after all? "give me the knife, jennie," and he stretched out his hand for the weapon. but the girl drew back. "no, no!" she cried. "you will keep it. i want it." "what, to-night?" "yes, to-night. i must kill him." keith arose. his face was stern. he had tried kindness in vain. the girl must be stopped by force from her mad design. jennie read his thoughts only too truly. she clutched the knife more firmly and, before a restraining hand could be laid upon her, she fled down the aisle and out into the cold, silent night. chapter vi a trick of cowards as keith stood gazing in surprise upon the retreating figure, there suddenly came to him the realization of the mischief this one child might do. he felt there was a strained feeling between the indians and some of the miners; how deep he could not tell. should jennie commit this crime pritchen's followers would be only too glad to wreak their revenge upon the few natives who were at klassan. they would make the most of the deed, and no doubt draw with them the rest of the white men. then when the absent indians returned from their hunting grounds, and found what had been done, their rage would be fearful, and he shuddered to think of the dire consequences. though this portion of the north was british territory, yet there was no one to enforce law and order. every man was a law unto himself, and if it came to a contest of brute strength, it would be the survival of the fittest. he believed the religious truths he had instilled into the indians' hearts and minds would have some influence, but when their savage nature was once fully aroused they might forget it all. he determined it should not reach such a crisis; the girl must be stopped at all cost. seizing his cap, he started down the aisle, and had almost reached the door, when it swung open and amos, the catechist, entered. most gladly did keith welcome the native's arrival. here was help in time of need. quickly and briefly he told his story. "amos," he said in conclusion, "we must go at once, and do what we can to stop the girl." "gikhyi" (teacher), came the reply, "you are hungry and tired. your cabin is warm, and some good moose-steak is ready. do not worry any more to-night about jennie. leave the matter to me." keith's heart was touched by this simple expression of thoughtfulness. "god bless you," he said, grasping the native's hand. "i am tired, very tired. but do you think you can manage it alone?" "i am never alone, gikhyi," was all the answer he received, and as he looked into that honest face, and read the man's meaning, he felt rebuked for his own lack of faith. "very well, amos; i leave it to you, but you will come to me in the morning, will you not?" "amos will come," was the brief answer, and at this they left the building. tired though he was, it was late ere keith sought any rest. his mind was much troubled, and after his frugal repast he sat for a long time by the cheerful fire. pritchen was the disturbing element, and he shivered as he thought of the man. he had not expected to find him here, working havoc among his flock. his wicked, leering face stood out clearly before him. how he had changed. what a monster he had become. if nellie knew all. if she could see him now, what would she think? his mind reverted to a sweet, pure face, and eyes filled with tears. he heard again her parting words: "find him, keith; he is somewhere in the north. bring him back to me, and to the little ones." and he had found him,--a degraded squaw-man--with the blood of an indian woman, and a child, upon his hands. he had seen him then, only for an instant, but long enough to receive his fearful curses ere he fled from his sight to be swallowed up by the great, silent north. he had never told nellie, for how could he; it would break her heart. now the villain had returned, from whence he knew not, but with intent most sinister, he had no doubt. what was he to do? "o god," he prayed, "help me; guide me in this time of trial." when he awoke dim daylight was struggling in through the one frost and dust-covered window which the cabin afforded. it showed him amos sitting quietly by the sheet-iron heater in the adjoining room, which was used as study, kitchen, dining and sitting room combined. the catechist was very still, with a far-away look upon his placid face. "good morning, amos," said keith, springing from his cot. "you are early; i didn't hear you come in." "you slept well, gikhyi," replied the native. "it is good." "amos," continued the missionary eagerly, as the scenes of the previous evening rushed through his mind, "what of last night? did you find the girl?" "all's well, gikhyi." "thank god! thank god! but tell me, amos, what have you been doing?" "i went to the store when i left you, but it was in darkness. there were voices within, which sounded like perdue's and pritchen's. jennie i did not see; she was not there. i had been waiting only a short time when a man arrived with a dog team. i think he came from siwash creek. there's a small camp of white men there, and they come in at times for supplies. this man went into the store, and that was the last i saw of him." "and you didn't see jennie at all?" asked keith in surprise. "no, not there. when i had waited quite a while near the store, and nothing happened, i went to the indian camps, and visited them in turn. at last i found jennie, sitting in one of the lodges, while the rest were asleep. upon her face was a strange look. she neither spoke to me, nor i to her. i cannot understand the girl." "but you will watch her, amos," said keith. "she may do the deed when we are off our guard." "yes, i will go at once, gikhyi. but i will come back soon, for i have much to tell you about what happened last night." the catechist had been gone but a short time when a knock sounded upon the door. "come in," called out keith, thinking it was an indian who had come to see him. to his surprise, however, a white man entered, who seemed to be in a great hurry. "are you mr. steadman?" he at once began. "yes," replied keith. "what can i do for you?" "you're a doctor, i understand." "yes." "well, then, you're wanted bad at siwash creek. jim blasco's knocked out. gun bust, and tore away his arm. jim's a devil, if ever there was one, but he's hard pinched now and squaking like a baby. his cabin's the first you'll come to, in a bunch of timber. will you go?" "certainly," replied keith. "but, say, when did this happen?" "night before last." "and who brought word?" "dave perkins, and he travelled like he--, oh, i beg your pardon, like the wind." "and got in at midnight. why didn't he come to me at once? i might have been on the way by this time." the man gave a slight start, and looked up quickly into the missionary's face, but seeing no shadow of suspicion there, replied: "we didn't know about it till this morning. you see, dave was so tuckered out from cold and want of sleep that he had to warm up with a drink or two, and so forgot his business. he only woke a short time ago, and swore like a--a--trooper at perdue and his whiskey. i guess he's swearing yet, for as soon as he'd coughed up his story i left to find you." "i'll be off as soon as possible," said keith, throwing a stick of wood into the stove, and reaching for the frying pan. "now, yukon, old boy," he continued, when the man had gone, "there's stiff work ahead. but you've been there before, and know the way, so i want you to strike such a gait that it will make don and hector think there's a fox ahead for sure. brisko we'll leave with amos to get some flesh on his staring ribs." the dog pricked up his ears, wagged his tail, and gave a joyful bark. "very well, master," he seemed to say, "you can depend upon me. i've never failed you yet." in less than an hour keith stood girt for his long run. his face glowed with enthusiasm; his mission was one of mercy, and it thrilled his whole being. the dogs stood before the cabin shaking their bells, impatient to be away. a parting word to amos, a crack of the whip in the frosty air, and the three noble brutes bounded forward out upon the trail, which wound through the village, past perdue's store, and into the great lone beyond. pritchen was leaning over the bar when keith sped by. "bells!" he cried, rushing to the small window. "there he goes, boys; see him!" instantly a scramble ensued for a glance at the rapidly disappearing team, and then shouts of laughter shook the building. "a drink to the fool's success!" shouted pritchen in high glee. "say, sam, you're a corker. you've missed your calling. you should be on the stage." "did he bite quick?" chimed in perdue. "ha, ha, he bit like a d-sucker. but there's one thing i can't savvy." "what's that?" "he knew when perkins arrived, and asked me why he didn't go to him at once." "the devil!" ejaculated pritchen, setting down his half-drained cup. "how in h-did he know that?" "who shaid perkins?" broke in a watery-eyed individual, staggering up to the group. "here he-hic-ish. watcher want, eh?" "it's all right, dave," laughed pritchen. "come and have a drink. you held the trump card this time without any doubt." "don't care'f i do," assented the man. "i-hic-alish holds trumps." while the men laughed, drank, and swore in the saloon, keith was speeding far out upon the long trail. the dogs were in excellent form, and enjoyed the exhilarating exercise with their beloved master. the moon was full, and only a short pause was made at night for rest and refreshment. on the second day from klassan the weather changed. the air became milder, and a dull grey sky lowered overhead. in the afternoon the wind began to blow, and ere long man and dogs were flecked with particles of driving snow. the mountain tops were hidden from view, and the storm rolled along their sides like the smoke of a thousand cannon. it burst from the funnel-like pass to their left, swept across the valley, and struck the travellers full abeam. hector, the wheel dog, howled and nipped don's heels, whose teeth gleamed white at the insult. but yukon uttered never a sound. he gave one lightning glance at his master, straightened himself out in the harness, and nosed his way through the storm. for an hour they thus proceeded, the trail becoming more difficult all the time. at length it was entirely obliterated, and nothing remained to guide them in their onward march. the wind raved and tore round them; the snow curled and encircled their bodies like a huge winding sheet, half blinding them as they staggered on. no friendly forest was near to give them shelter. the region through which they were passing was a vast, desolate tract of burnt land. the dead trees, stripped of every vestige of foliage, stood out gaunt and weird. the wind rushed howling through their naked branches, and the driving snow seemed like the packed lances of a million unseen horsemen in a mad charge. at length the dogs stopped and, squatting in the snow, looked beseechingly into their master's face. the small sled dragged heavily, even with its light load of blankets and provisions. "come, yukon, old boy, cheer up," encouraged keith, going to the leader's side, and patting him affectionately on the head. "i'll give you a hand. we must get out of this." again they pushed forward, the man assisting the dogs by means of a small rope attached to the sled. but night--an awful night--now closed down, adding its horror to the situation. a sense of helplessness shot into keith's heart, and stayed his steps. he dropped the rope, tore away the harness from the crouching brutes, and turned them loose. seizing the sled, he stood it on end in the snow, and taking with him only his small medicine case, began once more his hard fight. but he found it much harder now. his feet left the trail, and he sank deep into the snow. back he scrambled, and groped onward like a blind man, searching with his feet for the hard bottom. again and again he missed the track until at last he stopped in despair. what was he to do? was he to perish miserably there in that blinding storm? the wind was piercing, chilling him to the bone, and he shivered. presently yukon, who had been following close at his master's heels, pricked up his ears, sniffed the air, and, bounding forward, took the lead. this action aroused keith. he believed a human habitation was near, and that the dog had scented the smoke afar off. neither was he mistaken, for soon they reached green timber, which broke somewhat the violence of the storm. pushing their way through the trees for several hundred yards, a faint glimmer of light pierced the darkness straight ahead. "thank god!" murmured keith, as he waded wearily up to the small log building, and rapped on the rude door. "this must be the place; the first on the trail, so i was told." a noise of some one moving within fell upon his ear, followed by a fumbling sound as of a bar being removed. then the door was cautiously opened, and a big grizzly head was thrust out. keith started back at the wild appearance, and the terrible look in the man's eyes. he had seen such eyes before in mad-houses. "does jim blasco live here?" he stammered. "does he? does he?" came the deep, jerky reply. "and what if he does?" "h-h-ow is he?" keith could not help it. an indescribable chill was creeping over him, and his teeth chattered. "doesn't he look well?" roared the giant, as he flung the door wide open. "watch'er want of 'im?" "they told me you were hurt; the gun burst, and tore away your arm." "who told you that?" "the men at klassan." "and who are you, anyway?" "a medical man, and a missionary." the man started, and his eyes, terrible before, now fairly blazed in their sockets. torrents of oaths poured from his lips, and he sprang back into the cabin towards a rifle which was standing in a corner. no longer did keith hesitate. he realized his danger, and turning fled from the building out again into the night, whither he knew not, any place was better than near that raving demon with those terrible eyes. breathless and exhausted, he at length paused and listened, but nothing could he hear except the wind howling in the tree-tops overhead. the truth now flashed upon him. he had been deceived, tricked, the object of a huge joke. it hardly seemed possible that men with any spark of feeling would do such a thing. for an instant a fierce rage took possession of his soul. he clenched his mittened hands, his teeth ground together, and the blood surged tumultuously through his body. "o god!" he cried, "punish them. strike them down, or give me strength to do it!" he paused. his lifted hand dropped to his side, and a change passed over his face. what was that he saw standing there in the storm? a form, thorn-crowned, with bleeding hands, and pierced side. the lips moved. "father, forgive them," he heard him say, "they know not what they do." the scene was so vivid, and the words so clear, that keith fell upon his knees in the snow, unheeding the curious dogs squatting near. "father, forgive _me_!" he cried, lifting his hands to heaven. "forgive me, thy ambassador, for my wicked words. i was----" what was that? music, the strains of a violin. he listened intently. he recognized the refrain. "hark! the herald angels sing glory to the new-born king, peace on earth, and mercy mild, god and sinners reconciled." keith staggered to his feet, and peered through the darkness, but could see nothing. he followed the sound, and ere long a square building loomed up in the distance. toward this he feebly made his way, tottering like a drunken man, and at times beating the air with his hands for support. chapter vii god's gentlemen the storm which twisted the forest into wild contortions, and swept the snow around the plodding outcast, beat itself in vain against peter martin's snug log cabin. it did its best, however, to find an entrance, but the timbers were well clinked with moss, while the door and small window were so securely fastened that not a particle of snow could gain admittance. it was christmas eve, and for that reason six men were gathered together at "old pete's," as he was commonly called. they had travelled far for that occasion, and were thoroughly enjoying it in their own quiet way. they were prospectors, the pathfinders of the country, the advance guard of civilization. calm, temperate, sons of anak in size and strength, they were noble friends but stern enemies. for long years they had followed the gleaming gold through regions never before trodden by the foot of white man. across rugged mountains, through vast forests, and over sweeping plains, they were ever wandering, their only roads the mighty inland streams, placid lakes, or crooked indian trails; and their dwelling places, the log hut, the rude brush house, the banked-up snow, or the open vault of heaven. once in the year these six men drifted together, at the christmas season, when old friendships were renewed and experiences related. but on this occasion there was a thorn in the flesh. the miners had arrived, and with them the demoralizing whiskey. they resented this intrusion into what they considered their rightful domain. though most of the newcomers had gathered at klassan, some had drifted to siwash creek, where they had built themselves cabins and settled down to pass the long winter. at these men pete and his companions looked somewhat askance, for they felt they were not of their class. there was one, however, old "colonel" radhurst, with the white hair and sad face; he was different from the rest, so they thought. pete martin's only game was chess, and he loved it dearly. the pieces he had made with much skill from the hard tusk of a huge mastodon skeleton, which he had unearthed in a deep creek. it had taken him many long nights to complete the task, and each piece was the child of his own fond fancy. alec mcpherson, a sturdy son of the heather, was his keen opponent, and, while the others wrestled at cards or checkers, these two hardy friends faced each other over the rough table. "check!" said pete, after the game had continued for over an hour. alec ran his fingers through his long hair, and shuffled uneasily on his stool before making his move. "check!" again calmly remarked pete, and a triumphant light gleamed in his eye. "you've the cinch on me this time for sure, mon," exclaimed alec, as he struggled to free himself from the clever trap. "mate!" once more ejaculated pete, swinging up his queen, and completely surrounding his opponent's king. "noo for anither," said alec. "i'm no willin' to stop yet." but pete pushed back the chess board, and began to place the men into the box. one by one he lifted them tenderly from the table, and when the last had been safely deposited, he rose to his feet, and standing with his back to the fire, faced his companions. this was his favorite attitude when he wished to express himself most freely. he glanced around the room with a feeling of pride, as a commanding officer might look upon a little squad he was about to lead into action. "b'ys," he began, cutting a chew from a plug of tobacco, "d'yez know what night this is?" the men looked up, but said nothing. there was no need for any reply. they knew him well. it was only pete's manner of beginning something he wished to say. on this occasion, however, they detected a new note in his voice, and a yearning, far-away expression in his eyes, as he stood before them. "it's christmas eve," he continued, rolling the wad of tobacco in his cheek, "an' this is the seventh we've met together. somehow i feel it'll be the last, fer mighty changes are about to take place. there'll be so many of them green-eyed gold grabbers in here that our job'll be gone. they'll snook into every corner, an' what'll be left fer us? i ain't as young as i uster be, and mebbe--oh, well, it's no use lookin' too fer ahead, but any way i'd like this christmas eve to be sorter special, jist to remind me of old times. "sixty an' five years, remember, have rolled over this gray head of mine, an' the older i git, the stronger some things come back. when i think of the time when my father an' mother, god bless 'em, uster take me with'm to the leetle parish church way back in new brunswick, a lump comes inter my throat, an' a feelin' creeps over me that i can't jist describe. i'd give all i possess to be thar agin, lads, dressed in my leetle white frock, an' to hear the bees hummin', an' the birds singin' in the flowers an' trees outside, jinin' in, so i uster think, with the choir. but it was christmas day i liked best of all, fer then the church looked so purty with the fresh evergreens; the singin' was so hearty, an' everybody was so happy. then, some special friends allus come home to dinner with us, an' after that we had games an' singin'. ah, no, i can't fergit sich days, an'----" suddenly pete paused, and his bronzed face flushed. "fergive me, lads," he cried; "fergive me! i didn't mean t'bother yeze with all this nonsense, i wanted t' tell somethin' else, but my old tongue got away with me." there was no need of an apology in that room. the fire in the old sheet-iron stove was the only sound heard in reply, as the flames roared up the six joints of pipe, peppered with countless numbers of holes. pete's companions, too, were drifting, and for a time nothing was said, as they pulled steadily at their pipes. they were reticent men, these hardy wanderers, and living so much alone, their words were few. but pete's little speech expressed their own feelings, and visions of the mistletoe, holly, and evergreens, of the big, open, fireplace, with its great log, surrounded by happy, familiar faces, floated before their minds. to one, at least, arose the picture of a little home as he had planned it, with a fair companion to share his joys and sorrows. forty years had passed since he first rejoiced in that dream--forty years, and now she was a grandmother. but to pete she had always remained young, the same fair face, lithesome figure, and charm of youth. presently he aroused from his reverie, and, going to the corner of the cabin, brought forth a quaint bundle, and laid it upon the table. "hello! what's that?" questioned andy dickson, between the deliberate puffs of his pipe. but pete did not reply, until he had carefully unwrapped an old blanket, and held up before the astonished men a handsome violin. "look at that, lads. ain't she a beauty?" and pete ran his fingers over the smooth surface. "where in the deuce did you strike that?" was the wondering comment of the others. "oh, she's a history, which mebbe ye'd like to hear." "sure, let's have it," and the men moved a little nearer, lighted their pipes afresh, crossed their legs, and settled down in anticipation of a good yarn. "waal, it's this way," pete began. "last fall, i was wanderin' away to the east, through that god-forsaken region known as 'dead man's land.' travellin' along an injun trail, i hit upon two men, with four dogs packin' their loads. one was quite young, an' as fine a chap as i've seen in many a day, while the other was of middle age, an' a most wretched brute. how they got together, heaven only knows, but thar they was, hitched up in that desolate hole. they was on a kinder wild-goose chase, so i l'arned. some fool had been thar before, found gold, made a map of the place, and then kicked the bucket. "i saw at once thar was bad blood atween the two, an' i hated to leave the lad alone with his beast of a pardner, fer i'd taken a fancy to the kid. the mornin' i come away he accompanied me fer some distance. when we was outer sight of the camp, he placed inter my hands this very fiddle, wrapped in that old blanket. thar was tears in his eyes when he gave it to me. "'take it,' says he, 'i can't keep it. bill kicks up sich a fuss, an' claims that he packs all the stuff, while i tote the fiddle. ye'll be good to it, i'm sure, so good-bye.' "with that, he was off, an' i never sot eyes on 'im agin. but thar i was with that thing on me hands. what did i want with a fiddle? my fingers are too stiff an' clumsy ever to l'arn, though i've not a bad ear fer music, when it comes to that. then, i had a long mush to make, an' the fiddle would add much to me pack. at first i thought i'd throw the thing away, but the sight of that poor lad with the tears in his eyes, puttin' it so confidently like in me hands, was too much fer me. so i brung her along, an' thar she is. ain't she a beauty? it'll be somethin' like old times if one of yez'll strike up, an' give us a few tunes." silence reigned for a space after pete had finished his story. the violin was passed from hand to hand, though no one ventured to tune up and strike bow to the strings. "what! kin no one play?" exclaimed pete in surprise, when the instrument had gone the round. "why, i have looked forward to this occasion fer some time." "i guess we're like yersel', pete," replied alec mcpherson, "men of action. our fingers like your own are stiff and clumsy, better playing wid the axe, pick, or trigger, than wid sich delicate pieces o' cat-gut." "right yer are, man," assented pete. "but i'm mighty disappinted, nevertheless, fer i did want ter hear an old tune or two." at this, tim craven, a full six-footer in his stockings, stretched out a huge, hairy hand. "give her to me, pete," he said. "once i could play a little, and maybe a few of the old tunes'll float back again. i use to manage a few jigs," he continued, as he tightened up the strings, "such as 'the fisher's hornpipe,' and 'auld lang syne,' but i'm afraid i'm all out of practice." then began such a sawing and scraping as the little cabin had never before heard. had the violin been animate it would have shivered itself to pieces in a short time. a choir master, or an orchestra leader would have been driven almost insane at such an exhibition. but tim's companions never winced. on the contrary, they seemed to enjoy it thoroughly, and tapped the floor with their great rough boots as the various jigs were reeled off. at length the musician stopped; his supply was exhausted, and he laid the violin upon the table. "it's all i know," he remarked, reaching for his pipe. "give them to us again," said alec. "you've done fine." "don't ye know a leetle christmas song, tim?" asked pete, with a disappointed look in his face. "i'm afraid not. they're all i know." "what! not one? not one leetle song, jist fer old times' sake?" tim ran his fingers through his hair in an abstracted manner. "there is one," he said, "i used to know, but it's so long since i've heard it, that i've clean forgotten the tune. it's something about 'angels singing,' and 'new-born king,' but i guess----" "i know it! i know it!" broke in pete eagerly. "i'll whistle the air, fer i've sung it out on the hills, to cheer me up a bit. it goes this way, see?" tim listened, began to hum the tune softly to himself, and then reached for the violin. "no, ye ain't got it yit, tim; try agin," and pete whistled it over once more. after several efforts tim finally rasped out the air of "hark, the angels sing." "that's her," exclaimed pete with delight. "now ye've got her, go ahead." once more tim steered his way through the piece, and was about to begin the third time, when a peculiar noise sounded outside. "hark! what's that?" cried one of the men. "wind," replied another. "it's a bad night." "that's no wund, i tell ye that," said alec, and, suiting the action to the word, he arose, crossed the room, and threw open the door. a whirling gust immediately swept into the building, and threatened to extinguish the three candles which were performing noble duty. "hello! what----" alec's exclamation of wonder was interrupted by a snow-covered figure staggering full against him, and then falling heavily upon the floor. instantly every man sprang to his feet. it was enough to know that a stranger was in their midst, and needed assistance. scarf and cap were removed, the parka torn off, and hands, arms and legs freely rubbed. presently pete caught a full view of the prostrate man's face. pie leaned down close for a better view. "b'ys!" he shouted, straightening himself up; "it's 'im! it's 'im. my god, it's 'im!" "and whose him?" replied alec, thinking pete had taken leave of his senses. "why, the parson at klassan; the man i've told yez so much about; the chap that saved my life in hell's canyon five years ago. quick, let's lift 'im to yon bunk!" chapter viii a surprise when keith opened his eyes, it was to see old pete, with an anxious expression upon his face, sitting by his side. he looked at him somewhat puzzled, but soon the recollection of his terrible experience came to his mind. "why, pete," he exclaimed, "i didn't know you were here." "ye didn't, laddie?" replied the prospector, delighted to see his patient recover so quickly, "an' whar did ye think i'd be?" "out on the trail, of course, where you generally are." "ha, ha! ye thought that, did ye, an' yer a parson! waal, waal, i didn't think it." "didn't think what? i don't understand you." "ye don't?" and pete stroked his long, white beard meditatively. "but, laddie, what would i be out on the trail fer, when the good lord wanted me here to help a friend in need? tell me that. didn't he send you, laddie, to save me from hell's canyon five years ago? ye talk about them angels in the good book a-comin' down to arth, but i guess the lord uses us sometimes." "you've been my good angel to-night, anyway," replied keith feebly. "a queer angel, laddie," and pete glanced at his coarse clothes, "though, i guess, he doesn't mind how a feller looks on the outside, so long's his heart's right. but, thar, i've talked too much already, an' fergot my dooty." crossing the room, pete soon produced a small can, which had been heating for some time upon the rickety stove. "here, drink this; it'll narve ye up a bit. it won't hurt ye, fer it's only some moose-meat soup." "thar now, ye'll feel better," he remarked, when keith had finished the savory broth. "when ye've had a good sleep ye'll be all right. the rest of the b'ys have gone, so the cabin'll be quiet." "thank you," replied keith; "you're kind. i _do_ feel sleepy, but there is just one thing i want to ask you about now." "fire away, then." "who is that man living down the trail?" "what, jim blasco?" and pete's face suddenly clouded. "yes." "oh, he's bughouse." "what, crazy?" "yes, an' worse than crazy; he's devilish." "he's terrible!" and keith shivered. "did ye run agin 'im, laddie?" "yes." "i thought mebbe ye had, an' he's death on parsons, too." "why, what does he have against us?" "laddie," and pete laid his hand upon keith's arm, "his heart's bad, an' he hates what's good. ye see sich fellers everywhar. they talk mighty big about social rights, the welfare of the country, an' the improvement of mankind in gineral. but i take notice that sich chaps, as a rule, put stumblin' blocks in the way of progress. they shun a church as if it was a pest house, an' pass on to the saloon, or places worse'n that. they see a parson comin' down the street, an' they cross to t'other side, as if he had smallpox. oh, i've seen 'em, i've lived among 'em, an' know their actions. didn't i see several sich curs strike a fine mission settlement a few years ago? it was as quiet an' decent a place as ye'd wish to see, but afore them wolves left, it was hell, yes, laddie, it was hell. an' ye should have heard the stories they told about the missionary; they were awful. they broke his heart, that's what they did. "now, jim blasco's one of them curs. i knowed 'im years ago, when he was fust married. he had as sweet a lassie fer wife as ever breathed, an' he treated her like a dog, her an' the kids. the parson thar interfered, an' saved her from that devil, so that's why jim hates parsons. when the town got after 'im, he cut an' run. he came north, an' last fall struck this camp, half crazy. he raves an' talks about parsons most of the time. he says that they're a meddlin' lot. he cusses 'em like mad, an' i've seen 'im in sich a rage that i thought he'd have an athletic fit. i guess he'll be taken outside when the river opens, fer he ain't safe, nohow." keith's face flushed with anger as he listened to these words. he thought of the man who had visited him that morning at klassan and told him the base lie. he and the rest knew about blasco, and yet they sent him to his very door over that long trail. he glanced at pete, and noted his strong, noble face. here was a man, he well knew, who would avenge the insult he had received. with his five hardy companions he would march to klassan, face pritchen and his gang, though they were ten to one. he felt how just it would be, and for the welfare of his dusky flock that those scoffing miners should be brought to task. there was a certain degree of pleasure in this idea as he lay on the comfortable cot, and listened to the fire roaring in the room, and the wind howling outside. gradually he slipped away from the little cabin into the airy land of dreams. he was again on the trail, fighting with the furious storm, and calling to the dogs. then a mountain, sheer and steep, lifted itself across his path. he tried to scale it, but his hands slipped, and he fell back, bruised and bleeding. through the storm he heard mocking voices, jeering and laughing at his futile efforts to advance. he saw pritchen in the form of a huge serpent, leering forth at him from the darkness, while perdue, tim murphy, and others he could not distinguish, were grinning in the background. a horrible feeling of helplessness possessed him, and the more he struggled the weaker he became. the darkness deepened, and the mountain was falling upon him. he tried to escape, but could not move. he gave a cry for help, and suddenly a light burst through the gloom. he looked, and behold a woman, beautiful in form and feature, moved swiftly toward him. he recognized the face--the face in the locket, but sweeter than ever. with a smile, she reached out her hand, lifted him out of the terrible pit, and placed him in the broad sunlight. the storm had passed, the mountain was nowhere in sight, and the jeering voices had ceased. all around were green meadows, fragrant flowers and sparkling streams. in the midst of this splendid scene stood the woman, still smiling upon him. in his joy and ecstacy he reached out his hand to touch her, but in an instant she vanished from his sight. he strove to follow, when the sound of voices fell upon his ears, and caused him to awake with a start. he rubbed his eyes, as he looked around the cabin to be sure that he was not dreaming, for there before him, talking with old pete, was the very woman he had seen in his dream, and whose picture was in the locket. she was beautiful, he could see that at once. the hood which covered her head could not hold in thrall the entire wealth of her dark-brown hair. some tresses had escaped, and the wind had tossed them across her cheeks and brow. she was thinly clad for such a night. her dress of dark-blue serge, and a shawl over her shoulders, were little protection in that furious storm, while her hands, he noticed, were bare. all this keith intuitively beheld, for he was endeavoring to grasp the drift of the conversation, in order to solve the problem of her mysterious presence. she was speaking, but he could only catch the word "father" now and then. presently pete jerked his thumb toward the bunk, and in a louder voice, said: "i wish yon lad was awake, fer he's a doctor, an' understands sich things. but he's been knocked out mighty bad in this storm, an' i hate to distarb 'im." at this keith rolled out of the bunk, and stood before the two. "pardon me," he said, "but i have just awakened, and would like to do anything in my power to help you." at the sudden appearance of the tall, unkempt figure, the woman gave a start of surprise. keith, noticing this, felt somewhat abashed, when he realized how he must look. but it was not fear or disgust which caused the woman to start. it was the picturesque figure he presented by the dim candle light. "what a subject for a sketch," she thought. "i wish i had my pencil and paper." "lassie--miss radhurst, i mean," pete began, "this is my old friend, keith steadman, an' he'll fix up yer dad if any man kin." at once the woman held out her hand to the missionary. as he grasped it, he noticed how small it was, and rough, too. it evidently knew hard work. holding it for an instant, and looking into her eyes, he felt like saying: "i know you, miss radhurst. i have known you for days, and your face has been so often in my mind." "oh, mr. steadman," she said, trembling with excitement, "i am so glad you are here. my poor father has been strange all day. to-night he got up, opened the cabin door, and fell down the steps. with great difficulty, i managed to get him back into the room, where he now lies moaning as if in great pain. i fear his arm is broken. will you come over to see him?" "certainly, i shall go at once," and keith started for his cap and medicinal companion. "and, pete, you'll come too?" he continued. "you may be needed." "lead on, pard," returned the old man. "i'll stand by, never ye fear that." to himself, however, he said: "thar's more'n colors here, i kin see that at a glance, an' when two gold veins meet thar's sure to be rich diggin'." chapter ix the night watch as keith bent over the prostrate man, he noticed how delicate were his hands, not cramped and hardened like the ordinary prospector's. he looked upon his face, white and worn, the face of an old man. what could such a person do in the rigorous north, where only the hardiest had any chance of existence? he was not asleep, but lying on the cot, moaning in a pitiful manner. his eyes wandered constantly about the room, but seemed to notice nothing. "miss radhurst," said keith. "i find what you surmised is only too true. your father's arm is broken. it is not a serious fracture, however, only one of the bones, which can be quite easily re-set." when at length the work was completed, keith stepped back and viewed his patient. "there," he said. "i think he will do now. we've done the best we could." "thank you. oh, thank you," replied constance. "you are very good." "that's nothing, miss radhurst. i'm so glad i happened to be here to help your father. now, you and pete had better rest a while, as i wish to remain here for a time." "very well, laddie," returned the prospector. "i'll go home now." then, turning to constance, he continued: "ye kin trust 'im, lassie. he'll bring yer dad through, if any one kin." the old man chuckled as he waded through the snow to his own cabin. "they think i'll rest, do they? waal, they don't know pete martin yit. mebbe they'll see afore mornin', though." "may i watch with you, mr. steadman?" constance asked, when pete had gone. "do you not need rest, miss radhurst? you must be tired after such an anxious day." "no, no. i could not rest with my father moaning in that pitiful manner. he is very dear to me, and i must stay by his side for a while anyway." "connie, connie," came from the sick man. "the paper, the paper; give me the paper! don't let any one have it!" "yes, father dear," said constance, gently stroking his forehead, and thin gray hair. "the paper is safe; no one shall get it, so do not worry." the man, however, did not heed her remarks, but rambled on. "the gold! the gold! i see the gold! look, connie, see how it shines! we'll get it yet." "hush, hush, father dear." constance's eyes were moist as she listened to his wandering words, and watched his wan face. "oh, mr. steadman," she said, "it is so hard to see him this way. he does not know me at all." "gold! the trail! i see the gold! connie, kenneth," moaned the sufferer. "your father seems to have some trouble pressing on his mind," said keith. "he talks so much about the gold, the trail, and yet he does not look like a man who has roughed it in this country." "my father never did any mining," constance responded. "he knows nothing about it. oh, mr. steadman," she continued, after a pause, "i want to speak to some one concerning this very matter. it is almost breaking my heart. you are a clergyman and a doctor, and i know i can trust you. may i speak?" "i assure you, miss radhurst," keith replied, "that i will not only listen to your story, but i shall consider it a great honour, as well, to be thus taken into your confidence." but constance did not begin at once. for a time she was silent, lost in thought. she made a fair picture, sitting on the rude bench, with her right arm resting upon the table, supporting her head. the room was bare, painfully bare, destitute of the little comforts so precious to a woman's heart. the walls of rough-hewn logs were unrelieved by picture or knick-knack. the uneven floor was as scrupulously clean as a pair of small hands could make it. this was kitchen, sitting, dining, and mr. radhurst's sleeping room combined. a portion of the building was hidden by several dark blankets, and served as constance's own private apartment. "what a life for such a woman!" thought keith, sitting on the opposite side of the table, watching the flickering light of the one small candle playing upon constance's face and hair. he admired this woman, who was living so bravely amid such dreary surroundings. yes, he more than admired, for a sense of pity stole into his heart at the thought of her position, alone with her helpless father. "you asked about my father," constance at length began, fixing her eyes upon the missionary. "no, he was never a miner. several years ago he was a prosperous business man in vancouver. our home was a happy one, where i tried to fill the place of my dear mother, who had died several years before. but i wished to be a nurse, and so attended the public hospital in that city. "at the end of my second year, i was placed in charge of a man who had been terribly exposed on the trail. we did what we could to save his life, but in vain. when he learned that he could not recover, he one day confided to me a strange secret. "he was a prospector, and had spent several years in the north along the yukon valley. one day he and a partner discovered a valuable ledge of gold far back from the river in an easterly direction. they filled their pockets with nuggets, and, as winter was fast approaching, and they had little food, they started for the coast. they had proceeded only a short distance when they were set upon by several indians, who resented the intrusion of the white men into what they considered their rightful domain. one man was instantly killed, while the other escaped. after a terrible struggle he reached the coast, where a passing steamer took him on board, and landed him in vancouver. here he was at once taken to the hospital, and placed in my care. "when the man had finished his story, he gave me a piece of paper, on which was sketched a rude map of the yukon region, describing the exact spot where the gold was to be found. i will show you this paper; it is the one of which my father speaks. "the next day the prospector died, and i laid the map away, and thought little of it at the time, being very busy with my work. when next i saw my father, i told him the whole story, and though he seemed interested, i little thought what an impression it would make upon his mind. "a year later my father, suffered severe losses in his business, which caused him great worry. then i found what an effect the prospector's story had made upon him. he had been thinking of it continually, and talked much with kenneth, my only brother, about the matter. both believed that the story was real, and that the gold was there, only waiting some one bold enough to go for it. "when the financial trouble swept down upon us, my brother determined to start upon the quest, notwithstanding our entreaties to the contrary. he boarded a coast steamer for the north, and that was the last we heard of him. "oh, mr. steadman," and tears stood in her eyes, "you little know what he was to me. we were so much together, and after our mother's death i took charge of him almost entirely. he had a sweet disposition, and a lovable nature. music was his passion, and often during the winter evenings, when we were all home, he would play by the hour upon the violin, his favorite instrument, which he carried away with him. oh, if i can only find him! i am afraid something has happened to him in this wild country, for he was not used to roughing it. suppose the poor boy should now be lying in some lonely cabin, sick and calling for me, or--i shudder to think of it--cold and still, with the snow his only covering." during this recital a vivid scene passed before keith's mind. he saw again the dreary ibex cabin, the man huddled on the floor, and the grave in the snow. that he was kenneth radhurst, this woman's only brother, there could be no doubt. how could he tell her what he knew? would it be right to add this intense sorrow to her present trouble? what should he do? he arose suddenly, went to mr. radhurst's side, and watched him for a short time. "pardon me, miss radhurst," he said, turning toward her. "your father is resting more comfortably. please go on." "after we had waited for some time," continued constance, "and no word came from kenneth, my father became very impatient. he wished to leave for the yukon, not only to find my brother, but the gold mine as well. "the lure of gold filled his mind, making him a changed man. formerly he took an interest in many things, such as religion, politics, social matters, and was a great reader. all these he gradually relinquished, and he talked of nothing but gold, and how he would obtain it. at length he determined to follow up the quest himself. we did what we could to turn him from the idea, but the more his trusty friends reasoned, the more obdurate he became. finding that nothing would change his mind, i decided to cast in my lot with his, go with him and take care of him as well as i could. "we travelled by the way of st. michael, and came to klassan last fall in a fur-trading steamer. there we built a little cabin, in which we intended to spend the winter. but the gold fever had still a terrible grip over my poor father. just when we were quite comfortably settled, he had a dream, in which he saw men carrying away the gold he hoped to obtain. i really believe his mind was somewhat unbalanced, for nothing would do but that we must set out at once. we came this far, when, finding it impossible to proceed farther, we took refuge in this abandoned cabin. here we have remained ever since, and but for the kindness of old pete, and several of his companions, i verily believe we should have frozen or starved. "and you should have seen the considerate manner in which the kindness was always bestowed. sometimes they would have too much moose-meat, fish, or grouse on hand, 'and would we take just a little to keep it from spoiling.' my father knows very little about hunting, but one day pete took him into the woods after a moose. the animal was killed, and pete would insist that my father had shot it, and, of course, he came in for a liberal portion of the game. i wish you knew what that man has done for us. he has----" constance was interrupted by a knock upon the door, and when it was opened they beheld the object of their conversation standing before them. he was carrying something in his hand, covered with a cloth, old and worn, but perfectly clean. "thar," he remarked, placing his load upon the table. "i knowed ye'd be hungry, laddie, after yer long mush, an' mebbe, lassie, ye'll have a snack, too." constance glanced at keith, as much as to say, "didn't i tell you so? it's old pete's way." when the cloth had been withdrawn a most appetizing repast was exposed to view. a prospector's gold-pan served as a tray, which contained a piece of tender moose-meat, nicely browned, some beans, a loaf of sourdough bread, and a pot of steaming tea. pete did not tell that he had gone without bread and tea for weeks that he might have a little for the "colonel" and constance, whom he had intended to invite to his cabin for christmas dinner. the bread he had made the day before, with a deep joy in his honest heart at the pleasure he imagined it would give the lonely ones. "now, lassie," he commanded, "bring on yer chiny, an' we'll have our christmas dinner right now. it's early, i admit, but it can't be helped." constance gave a little laugh, but her eyes were filled with tears. "my china," she replied, "will make but a poor showing beside your bountiful repast. however, we shall have the best the cabin affords, even if they are only iron plates and cups." keith was hungry, very hungry, and he did ample justice to the food. he let constance and pete do most of the talking, for he was busy with the various thoughts which surged through his mind. how different the outcome of it all from what he had expected. he chided himself over and over again for his lack of faith in the master's leadings. in every step he could see the direct evidence of his over-ruling power. and, to crown it all, there was before him this sweet, patient woman, adorning the humble cabin with a true and gentle grace. chapter x constance makes a discovery old pete and keith walked back to the former's cabin together, and left constance for a time alone with her father. "one of the b'ys'll come," said pete, "an' sit with yer dad, so ye kin git some sleep, fer ye need it mighty bad." it was early dawn as the two plodded their way through the deep snow. the furious storm of the night had ceased, and a hush reigned over the land, as if in honour of the birth of the great prince of peace. all around lay the virgin snow, unsullied as yet by its contact with earth, and untrodden save by the two night watchers. "how like my life," thought keith. "last night, the storm howling and raging; this morning the stillness of god. ah, i see it clearly," he unconsciously uttered aloud, following hard in pete's footsteps. "hey? what d'ye see?" asked the prospector, suddenly stopping and looking at his companion. keith laughed. "nothing outwardly," he replied. "i must have been dreaming and forgot myself." "umph!" returned the other, and continued on his way. "an' what did ye see out yon, laddie?" queried pete, when they at length reached the cabin. keith looked keenly at the old man, but only an expression of calmness, tinged with sadness, was depicted upon his rugged countenance. "i saw much, pete, very much." "so did i, laddie. i saw it, too." "and what did _you_ see, pete?" the prospector looked intently into the young man's face before replying. "i saw," he said slowly, "a new trail bein' blazed out fer ye by the hand of the almighty. somethin' tells me, i dunno what it is, unless it was yer knocked out condition last night, an' yer rough appearance, that ye've been on a hard trail of late." "i have, pete, i have," assented keith, resisting with difficulty the temptation to tell his companion all about his troubles. "i knowed it, laddie. an' now ye've almost fergot the old trail with all its snags, because a new one lies afore ye. ye'll find snags thar, too, remember, but it'll make all the difference in the warld when the shinin' light of a true woman lightens yer path." "pete!" exclaimed keith. "i----" "it reminds me of this cabin," continued the prospector, unheeding the interruption. "i come back to it, sometimes, tired an' discouraged. the place is cold and dismal, an' i feel that life isn't worth livin'. but when yon stove gits to wark, blazin' away like mad, purty soon things change, an' a new feelin' creeps over me. it's jist because somethin' warm an' cheerful has knocked out an' taken the place of t'other. "now, that's jist what that lassie over yon has done fer me. i've had a mighty bad season, an' felt like seven divils when i come back. even the old stove couldn't cheer me up completely, an' things looked purty blue. jist then that lassie an' her dad drifted inter this camp. we call 'im 'colonel,' because of his white hair, long beard, an' noble bearin'. they was down to hard pan, if any one ever was, an' says i to meself, says i, 'pete, ye've got to do somethin'!' so in the doin' that somethin', an' seein' the lassie's bright face an' sunny ways in the midst of her hardships, knocked my own trouble clean outer my head. she's a woman, through and through, if ever thar was one." "she is," ejaculated keith, looking meditatively at the stove. "but come, laddie," said pete, suddenly rising to his feet, "it's time ye was in bed. ye'll need a good rest afore the b'ys come to church." "what! a service?" asked keith eagerly. "will the men come? and do you think they will care for it?" "it's not what they care fer, laddie; but, what's yer dooty? it's christmas day, an' it'll remind us of old times. some'll like it, an' some won't. but yer orders, as fer as i kin understand, is 'to preach the gospel,' an' here's an opportunity. they'll come, never ye fear that." "i'll have to hold the service just as i am," said keith apologetically. "i haven't my robes with me, and not even a decent suit of clothes." "don't ye worry about yer robes an' clothes. the uniform's all right on parade, an' starched collars, an' sich like, but the b'ys'll take it better if they see ye in yer rough togs. they'll feel yer one of themselves. i'll trim yer hair an' whiskers a bit, so ye won't look too savage, an' frighten 'em away." keith gave a little laugh. "what you say is quite true," he replied, "but it's been so long since i preached to white people that i'm afraid i'll make a mess of it. my addresses to the indians have always been in their own language, and very simple." "that's all right, laddie. give us some of the old prayers from the prayer book, sich as 'lighten our darkness,' ye can't beat them. then about yer preachin': give it to us red hot from the heart; that's what we want here. trimmin's, an' fixin's, an' flowers, an' poetry, are all right, i suppose, fer some places, whar they live on sich things. but we want straight shot that'll reach the heart, and help us up the shinin' way. an' ye kin do it, lad; the stuff's thar, so let's have it. i'll round up the b'ys, an' they'll come." and so it was settled that the service should be held. keith then threw himself upon the rude bunk, and, wearied out, was soon fast asleep. late in the day he awoke and made preparations for the evening. he visited his patient, and found him progressing as well as possible, though still possessing the vacant look in his face. constance he did not see, as she was taking a much-needed rest, while one of the prospectors was watching by her father's side. early in the evening the men of siwash creek began to arrive at pete's cabin. they drifted in, one by one, and sat around smoking and chatting. some did not even remove their hats, and maintained an air of indifference and lofty superiority. they had not much use for such things, so they told themselves, but, as no other diversion offered, they might as well take in what was going on. when keith at length stood up to begin the service, about fifteen men were gathered round him. before he could say a word, however, pete came close to his side. "whar's the lassie?" he whispered. "she should be here." keith had noticed her absence, and wondered, for she had promised to be present. "perhaps she is watching her father," he replied. "that must be the reason why she is not here." pete at once crossed to where alec mcpherson was sitting. a short whispered conversation ensued, after which both men started for the door. "don't begin till i come back," said pete, as he left the building. constance was sitting quietly near her father when the two prospectors arrived. she was thinking hard, and the small handkerchief which lay in her lap was moist with tears. it had been a strange, lonely christmas day for her. she remembered the old times when they were all together in their snug little home in vancouver. what a contrast to her present dreary surroundings! then, her father was so happy, and kenneth, the life of the house, was at his best. how her father had changed in such a short time, and the poor boy, she wondered where and how he was spending his christmas. she was feeling weary, too, as she sat there, for the excitement of the past night was telling upon her. the flush had left her cheeks, leaving her pale and wan. she felt somewhat troubled about having confided her story to an almost entire stranger. would her father have approved of such a thing? but then it had lifted a load from her mind; she had shared her burden with another, and it was not so hard to bear. besides, she was sure she could trust that big, rough man, who looked at her with such sympathetic eyes. "ye'll come to sarvice, lassie, won't ye?" pete asked, when constance had opened the door. "y-yes," she answered half doubtfully, looking at her father. "i'd like to go, but i can't leave him here alone." "i'll see to yer father, miss," replied alec, "sae ye gang along." "oh, thank you, mr. mcpherson, but i'm half afraid to go, as i will be the only woman there." "the greater reason fer ye to come, lassie," broke in pete. "it isn't every day the b'ys have a woman among them, an' i think yer presence'll soften 'em up a bit, an' make'm think of their mothers, sisters, an' sweethearts. an' then, ye'll sing some, won't ye?" he continued in a pleading manner. "why, how do you know i _can_ sing?" asked constance, while some of the old colour rushed back to her cheeks. "know? how could i help a-knowin'? haven't i stood at my own cabin door, night after night, an' sometimes in the marnin', too, a-listenin' to yer singin', remindin' me of a sweet canary bird penned up in a gloomy cage. an' didn't one of the young fellers up yon freeze his toes one night sittin' on the stump of a tree when ye was warblin' 'annie laurie'? i ain't got much use fer them newcomers, but to-day bein' christmas, i feel kinder warm towards'm, an' would like fer'm ter hear ye sing a bit. it 'ud do'm a mighty lot of good." constance laughed. she was feeling better already. "well, i'll go then," she assented, "if you will promise to look after me." "i'll see to that," responded pete, delighted with his success. "i'll stand off any one, even the angel gabriel himself, except one thing." "and what's that?" "it's love," solemnly answered the old man. "it's the cutest, wiriest thing a man kin run aginst. it's so mighty powerful that it'll make the strongest an' biggest chap as weak as a baby, an' the smallest woman as strong as a giant. i can't savvy it, nohow." "i guess you will have no trouble about such an opponent to-night," laughed constance, as she drew on her mittens. "mebbe not, lassie; but we'll see." the service was short and the strangest that constance had ever witnessed. accustomed, as she was, to the familiar and dignified form of the church of england, this appeared harsh, and at times almost ludicrous. keith led off with the opening hymn of "nearer, my god, to thee," in a clear, strong, tenor voice, trusting to his memory for the words. he was followed by the others, those who knew the hymn giving him much assistance. there were a few, however, who persisted in swinging off on tunes of their own composition. "stop yer yelpin'," said a miner to one of these vagrant singers. "yer spilin' the show." but the other heeded not, and with head thrown back against the wall, and brawny chest expanded, almost drowned the rest of the voices by his marvellous roars. "my, that's fine!" he ejaculated, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. "i ain't heard such singing since i left the caribou country." "and no one else," contemptuously remarked his companion. "but say, duck yer head, the parson's prayin'." interested though constance was in watching the miners, her attention was centred chiefly on the missionary. she hardly knew him at first, so much had he been transformed by old pete's scissors and razor. the long hair had been neatly trimmed, and the unkempt beard removed, exposing a face, almost youthful in appearance, but full of determination and strength of character. it was when the prayers had been said, the second hymn sung, and he had begun his address, that her interest became thoroughly aroused. his subject was peace, and, after referring to the great prince of peace, whose birth they were commemorating, he passed on to speak about the peace of life. as he described a vessel beating her way through a furious storm, while the cruel waves dealt her mighty sledge-hammer blows, she noticed how stern became his face, while a bright light gleamed in his eye. but as he spoke about the peace of the harbour, with the storm shut out, and the light of home shining clearly ahead, his features softened. "he's livin' it fer sure," remarked bill towser, to a miner at his side, when keith had finished. "y' bet," came the response. "an' did ye notice the power on him when he told about that ship?" "yep." "well, i tell ye it moved me mighty. i allus said thar's more inside a man than lights an' liver, an' now i know it fer sure. hello! what in blazes is this?" he continued, looking suddenly up. "a fiddle! well, i'll be blowed! an' the parson's tunin' up!" "ye'll sing it, lassie, won't ye?" whispered pete to constance, when keith had played over the air of "hark, the herald angels sing." "i'll help," she replied in an abstracted manner. from the moment when pete had brought forth the violin and handed it to keith for the last hymn, she had not taken her eyes off of the instrument. it fascinated her, and brought back a flood of memory. she sang almost mechanically the first verse, and had begun the second. "mild he lays his glory by, born that man no more may die, born----" snap! went one of the strings, and the singing suddenly stopped. keith moved close to the table and endeavored to repair the damage. as he did so the light fell upon a bright piece of metal. constance saw it, and, with a cry, she rushed forward, and, stooping down, gazed earnestly at the small, letters engraved thereon. then she looked around the room, as if seeking for some special person. in her eyes was an expression which the men never forgot, and which formed the topic of conversation for nights afterward. "when she looked at me with those beseeching eyes of hers," said one husky fellow, "i felt that i had done something wrong, and i wanted to drop right through the floor, that's what i did." "well, i tell you i didn't," replied the young chap whose feet had been frozen, "i just longed to be her brother, that was the way i felt." "wanted to be her brother!" ejaculated the other. "and what for? ye didn't think those pretty arms would encircle yer scrawny neck, did ye, or her sweet lips touch yer rough face?" "i only f-felt sorry for her, and wanted to comfort her," stammered the youth, blushing to the roots of his hair, at which a hearty laugh ensued at his expense. but constance had no thought of the pretty picture she made. it was only of kenneth she was thinking. "oh, pete!" she cried, "tell me what it all means!" "what's wrong, lassie?" he replied, somewhat embarassed by her searching look. "the violin! it's my brother's! i gave it to him for a christmas present two years ago. see, here are his initials upon this small silver plate," and she held the violin up close to his eyes. "waal, waal, so it is as ye say. who'd a thought it?" "but where is he? do you know? oh, please tell me!" "i don't know much meself," and pete scratched his head. "i met the chap who owned that fiddle last fall, on the trail way yon east. he give it to me 'cause 'twas too heavy fer 'im to carry, so i 'jist brought her along, an' thar she be. ye may keep her, lassie, if ye like." constance made no reply to these words, but grasped the violin firmly in her hands, while a look of hope shone in her eyes, then she realized her position, and what a strange scene she was making before these men. the blood rushed to her face. "please take me home," she said to pete, "i wish to be alone." during this brief scene keith was undergoing an agony of soul. how he longed to rush forward, clasp those little hands in his own, and speak words of comfort. but he had no comfort to give, he could only bring deep sorrow if he told what he knew. should he speak? would it be right? whenever the question arose, he crushed it back. no, not now; some other time. and so he watched her leave the building without one word of farewell, and as the door closed behind her a sense of loneliness swept over him, which even the presence of the miners could not dispel. "pete," he asked that night, as the two sat alone in the cabin, "did miss radhurst question you much about her brother?" "question me? question me?" replied the prospector. "she drained me like a force pump." "and did you tell her all?" "no, why do ye ask, laddie?" and pete looked at him in surprise. "did you tell her about her brother's cruel partner?" this time pete was more than surprised. he stared at his companion in amazement. "what d'ye mean?" he demanded. "what d'ye know about the matter?" "keep cool, pete. i know more than you think. listen, and i will tell you something." "my god!" burst from the old man's lips, when keith had told him the story of the death in the ibex cabin, and had shown him the little locket. "it will kill her!" "now, that's the point, pete. is it right for us to tell her? she has enough trouble at the present time with her father, and this new sorrow will, i am afraid, break her down completely. "right, laddie, right ye are," groaned pete. "but what are we to do?" "i've been thinking of that," went on keith. "mr. radhurst's condition is very serious, and he must have special and regular treatment. i can't stay here, as there is trouble at klassan, so i must leave to-morrow." "what; so soon?" exclaimed pete. "yes, it is necessary." "but what about the 'colonel'?" "he must go to klassan. will you take him? he has a good cabin there, i understand, and a fair supply of provisions, so he and his daughter will be quite comfortable." pete ran his fingers through his hair in an abstracted manner. "i'd take'm, laddie, an' be glad of the job, but i ain't got no team. an' besides, is the "colonel" able to stand the jant?" "in two weeks i think it might be tried. you see, miss radhurst is a trained nurse, and she can look after his arm very well. as for a team, you need not worry about that, for i'll send an indian back with my own dogs. i know it will mean a risk to move the patient so far, but if he stays here i am afraid he will die." pete stretched out his rough hand toward the missionary. "put it thar, laddie," he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "ye're all gold." thus in the silence of the little cabin these two hardy frontiersmen clasped hands. outside, the world lay cold and dismal, but in their honest hearts reigned a great peace--"the peace of god which passeth understanding." chapter xi the shot in the night pleasant though it was at siwash creek, keith was anxious to return to klassan as soon as possible. he was uneasy about the state of his dusky flock, and especially yukon jennie. amos he knew could be trusted to do all in his power to keep the girl from her terrible design. but she was shrewd and hard to manage, so it was uncertain to tell what she would do. the desire to return, however, was tinged with apprehension. he knew that pritchen and perdue, with their followers, would use every effort in their power to hound him out of klassan. there were others, he felt sure, who were more honourable. if the confidence of these could be won, he might be able to overcome the opposition. before starting, keith visited his patient. he found the arm doing as well as could be expected, but the racking cough still continued the same. "miss radhurst," he said, as he bent over her father. "i leave for klassan this morning." constance looked up in surprise. "what! going away so soon?" she queried. "yes, duty calls me back to my flock. they are in danger from the miners down there, and i have been absent too long already." "we shall miss you very much, mr. steadman. you have been the means of brightening us up, and helping my poor father. life to me here is almost unbearable, and i wonder how you can stay in the north year after year. how lonely you must find it." keith turned and looked into her eyes. "miss radhurst," he replied, "they have been the happiest years of my life. until the miners arrived at klassan my work was one of continual joy and peace, even when i was struggling with the medicine men at the beginning of my ministry there." "but i cannot understand," constance rejoined, "how an educated man can be satisfied to remain in such a wilderness, away from all congenial surroundings. does not the mind become----" "stagnant?" assisted keith, noticing her hesitate over the word, and a flush cross her face. "yes, that is what i mean, though it may seem rather a harsh judgment." "some think so, but that is where they are mistaken. it is here we have room and time to think, and let our minds expand. it was my good bishop of the mackenzie river who once said that he was willing to devote a whole lifetime in the wilderness among the indians, and also to the study of the bible in the original language, which the bustle of life in london sadly interrupted. now, during the last ten years i have studied the indian dialect of this country, prepared a grammar, a lexicon, and have translated portions of the scriptures, and also the entire prayer book, besides a number of hymns. these have been printed, and the natives carry them to their hunting grounds, and read them carefully." "this is all new to me," said constance. "i never thought of it in that way. but does not the bleakness of the land wear upon you, making you long for the sweet meadows and the fragrant flowers?" "you must remember, miss radhurst, that it is not all winter here. we have beautiful summers, when the song birds return, and the flowers bloom on every hand. then it is good to live in such a place, and, though i do miss the sweet meadows, yet there is much to compensate me for their loss. the forests are filled with a joyous life, where every creature, small and great, rejoices in being alive. often those ancient words come to my mind, as i wander through the woods, watch the rushing streams, or gaze upon the lofty mountains, 'all ye works of the lord, bless ye the lord, praise him, and magnify him forever.' but," he continued, after a pause, "there is another field in which i have worked, and because i have done so i believe i shall be able to help your father." "and what is that?" asked constance eagerly. "as a medical man, i have studied most carefully the simple remedies used by the indians in their treatment of diseases. though at first i found them mingled with superstition, and gross rites, yet i have discovered the beneficial properties contained in the common roots and herbs which surround us. it was nathaniel hawthorne, you remember, who said about old roger chillingworth that, "'in his indian captivity, he had gained much knowledge of the property of native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal from his patients that these simple medicines, nature's boon to the untutored savage, had quite as large a share of his own confidence as the european pharmacopoeia, which so many learned doctors had spent centuries in elaborating.'" "i don't remember the words," constance responded, "but i have read about that terrible man, roger chillingworth. it's in 'the scarlet letter,' is it not?" "yes, and the words appealed to me so strongly that years ago, when a student at college, i learned them by heart. "well, as i was saying, i have made several important additions to my stock of knowledge while among the indians. but there is one medicine which is a great secret, into which i have never been admitted. its preparation is known only to a few. there are certain traditions connected with it why the knowledge must not be divulged. it is formed of roots and herbs of some kind, and is used only on the rarest occasions. twice i have seen the medicine administered, and each time with marvellous results. now, your father needs some special treatment, for his symptoms are very similar to the man i saw cured. i think i have influence enough to obtain the remedy for him. will you trust me?" constance gave a start, and a look of fear came into her face. "do you think my father is as bad as that?" she asked. "yes, i am afraid so, and it is important that you should leave this place, and go back to your comfortable cabin at klassan. pete will take you, and in two weeks' time i think your father will be able to stand the journey, if great care is used. will you consent to this?" for a while constance did not answer, and keith knew she was weighing everything most carefully, and struggling for self-control. "mr. steadman," she calmly replied, holding out her hand, "i feel i can trust you, so please do whatever you think is best." keith took her hand in his own strong one, and held it for an instant, as he looked into her brave face. neither spoke for a time, but into each heart crept a joy, like a pure, fresh, dew-touched flower, tucked away in some hidden dell, with only the eye of god resting upon it. an hour later keith drew away from siwash creek for his long run to klassan. the dogs bounded merrily over the snow, shaking their little bells, glad of the race in the keen, frosty air. keith could hardly believe it possible that such a short time before he had plodded over that same trail, weary and sick at heart. a new life now possessed him, and he sang snatches of old songs and hymns, cheered the dogs, and at times laughed aloud at the mere joy of living. but the travelling was hard, and the second day had closed before the lights of klassan gleamed in the distance. the dogs were tired as they drew near the village, with their master trudging wearily behind, urging them on with words of encouragement. the trail ran close by perdue's store, and the animals, hearing voices within, paused before the door, while the leader cast a backward glance at the missionary. the only answer he received to his appealing look was the command to "mush on," for keith had no intention of halting there. he had advanced but a few yards, however, when the report of a revolver fell upon his ears, then a cry of pain, and a confused noise within the building. suddenly the door was flung open, and a number of men rushed out, and stood huddled together in a little group, talking in the most excited manner. feeling sure that something was wrong, keith left his dogs and retraced his steps to where the men were gathered. "it's hard luck for the kid," he heard one say. "he was a sharp 'un, and we'll miss him." "my god! it's a bad rap, that," replied another. "but he pulled his gun first, when he thought bill was cheating, though he was too late, and there he lies." "d'ye think it'll fix 'im?" asked another. "fix him, man! did ye see the hole bored into him, and the blood spoutin' out? wouldn't that fix any one?" keith waited to hear no more, but quickly turned and entered the building. a pathetic sight met his view. lying on the floor was a young man surrounded by several miners, who were vainly trying to staunch a stream of blood which was oozing from the fallen man's neck. keith grasped the situation in an instant. he saw that something more had to be done, and that at once. "boys," he said, moving near, "that man will soon bleed to death if you don't do more than that." "what in h-do you know about it?" came a surly response, and, glancing quickly around, keith looked into the scowling face of pritchen, with his revolver still in his hand. he was standing in a defiant attitude, with his back to the wall, as if expecting an attack for the deed he had committed. but there was nothing for him to fear, as the youth, joe simkins, one of his own gang, had pulled his gun first. it was only an act of self-defence, and this the miners well knew. it was a certain relief to keith to see pritchen standing there, and to know that jennie had not carried out her design. but he had little time to think about it now. stern work was on hand, and must be attended to without delay. "i know this much," keith replied, looking pritchen straight in the eyes, "that if something isn't done for this man, and done at once, you will have another life to answer for at the judgment day, and it is not a poor, helpless indian woman this time, either." stung to the quick by these words, spoken so deliberately by the man he bitterly hated, with an oath, pritchen grasped his revolver more firmly than ever. his face was livid with rage, and his teeth ground together. just when the miners expected to see another dead or wounded man in their midst, the weapon was suddenly dropped into its case, and, without a word, pritchen left the building. silence reigned for a short time in the room, and the men looked at one another, and then at keith. twice now had they seen him and pritchen meet, and each time there had been a scene, and blood narrowly averted. what power the missionary had over the boasting bully, they could not understand, and sought for an explanation of the mystery through many a long evening's conversation in the seclusion of their own cabins. "boys," said keith, breaking the brief silence, "i am a medical man, as well as a missionary, so if you will lift this poor fellow on to the table, perhaps i can do something for him." without a word they obeyed, and stood quietly by as he examined the wound, and did what he could to stop the flow of blood. "close call, that," they heard him say. "concussion. the ball's in here yet; it must come out." presently he turned and looked toward perdue. "haven't you a private corner somewhere for this chap?" he asked. the saloonkeeper's face was surly. "i don't want him here," he replied. "it's not my funeral. why should i be bothered with him?" keith stared at him in amazement. he could hardly believe it possible that any one could be so hardened to human suffering. before he could speak, an old man, with white hair and shaggy beard, stepped up to perdue. "you brute!" he roared. "you desarve to be strung up to the nearest tree. ye're jist like most of yer set; ye strip us of our chink, and manhood, and when we've nothin' left ye fire us out. i've a son somewhar, god bless'm, and fer his sake this poor chap'll come to my cabin. b'ys, if y'll bear him tenderly, i'll lead the way. will that do, sir?" he concluded, turning to the missionary. "just the thing," replied keith, "and while you carry him, i'll slip over to my cabin for my instruments and bandages." chapter xii the uplift "mother!" what more common and beautiful word than this, a mere symbol, the outward expression of the child heart within each of us. at any time it is full of deep meaning, but how greatly intensified when repeated by some suffering one in the dim morning hours, when "the casement slowly grows a glimmering square." "mother!" keith bent over the quiet form on the rude bunk. for hours he had anxiously awaited some sign of consciousness, and while the old man with the white hair slept on the floor, rolled up in his one blanket, he had kept watch. "mother, are you there?" and joe's hand reached out into the air. "hush," soothed keith. "you are safe, so go to sleep." joe opened his eyes and fixed them upon the missionary in a dreamy sort of a way, then closed them again, and soon passed off into a peaceful slumber. steadily the wounded man recovered under the careful treatment he received. the blankness, caused by the concussion, which at the first enwrapped his mind, rolled away as a dark cloud vanishes from the mountain's brow. keith was much with him during the first few days. he knew the importance of keeping his mind filled with fresh, bright thoughts, and not allowing him to brood upon pritchen and the terrible scene at the saloon. he told him stories of his experience among the indians, and many of their quaint ways. at times joe would laugh heartily at some amusing incident, and eagerly ask for more. often keith read to him a story from a book or an old magazine, and when it was finished they would discuss it together. on such occasions, sol burke, the old man who owned the cabin, was always an earnest listener. he seldom spoke, but would lean forward, as if drinking in every word, and puff away steadily at his strong black pipe. "caribou" sol, the name by which he was generally known, was not the only one interested in these tales. others drifted into the shack, and listened too, strapping fellows, some of them, who would remain very still while the story continued. it was in their own cabins where they gave vent to their feelings. "by gar," said one brawny chap, "that was a crack-a-jack yarn the parson read to-day. it tickled me, it did, about that trotty, and his daughter. wasn't she a brick?" "and did ye see sol when he read about the chap wid the kid in his arms?" asked another. "no, what about him?" "why, he leaned right over, and even forgot his pipe. i never saw such a wistful look in any man's face." "that's nothing. i guess we all looked pretty much that way." one night when joe was almost recovered, keith walked back to his lonely cabin lost in thought. he had been reading, as usual, and the small shack had been crowded to its utmost capacity. for several days, as he watched the men, he had been wondering what he could do to make their lives a little brighter. he knew very well how cheerless were their cabins. four square walls of rough-hewn logs, unrelieved by ornament or picture; a bunk, a sheet-iron camping stove, one or two three-legged stools, and a small table filled the room, dimly lighted by one feeble candle. in addition to such dreary abodes were the long nights, the cheerless silence, with no one to care whether a man lived or died; no news from the great outside world, and one day dragging wearily to a close, only to be succeeded by another, and then another, through long dreary months. sometimes the men would meet together, but the cabins were all much alike. perdue's store was the only bright spot, and there the men wandered. keith thought of all this. what could he do? what right had he to be a missionary, a saviour of souls, if he had no line to let out, or boat to launch in the hour of need? reaching his cabin, he sat for some time at the small table where he carried on his writing and translational work. his few choice books looked down upon him from their rude shelves. "ah, old friends," he said, looking up at them, "if you could only comfort those men, as you have comforted me, what a help you would be now." then it was that the books spoke to him. they suggested an idea, which, flashing along the brain, flushed the thinker's cheek. the dogs squatting around wondered what had come over their master. yukon poked his nose into the listless hand, while brisko, with pricked-up ears, awaited some word of greeting. keith heeded them not, but sat long and quietly at the table working out his new plan. "it will do!" he exclaimed at length. "hey, yukon, old boy! we'll beat perdue and his bad whiskey yet, won't we? now, let's off to bed." next morning bright and early the missionary made his way to a long low log building, standing by the side of the church, and not far from his own cabin. in this was a large stove, which was soon sending out its genial heat, and giving an air of comfort to the place. keith looked round with much satisfaction. "just what we want," he said to himself. "the indians will not need it until spring, and why should it remain here unused? a few more tables from that whip-sawn lumber, the benches repaired, and things will be quite presentable." then he set to work, and the manner in which he handled hammer, axe and saw proved him well skilled in such matters. he had been working for some time when the door opened, and joe simkins entered. simply greeting the missionary with "hello!" he perched himself upon a small table and gazed around the room. "good morning," replied keith, pausing in the act of nailing a leg to a rickety bench. "how's the neck?" "first class; all healed up. my! it feels good in here, for it's mighty cold outside." "better than perdue's store?" "perdue's store be blowed! no more of that for me." "so you don't intend to go there again?" "not much." "but where will you spend your evenings?" "don't know; haven't many more to spend." keith looked up quickly. joe had buried his face in his hands, and was huddled on the edge of the table. going to his side, he placed his hand on the young man's shoulder. "joe!" no answer. "joe, you don't mean it, surely! what's the matter?" "but what's the use of living, and dragging out a dog's existence in that wretched shack of mine, when in a second i can be free from all the trouble." "yes, joe, you may free yourself from the trouble in this life, but is it manly to bring sorrow to others, and bow the heads of your dear ones?" joe looked up. "no one cares for me," he said, half-defiantly. "no one? think again. didn't you tell me that your father and mother were living alone on a little farm back in ontario, and that you, their youngest child, were the last to leave the old home?" "yes." "joe," keith spoke quietly, but with intense earnestness, "they are poor and lonely. day by day they toil long and hard. what comforts have they in life? they sit alone, side by side, during the winter evenings. they talk of you, think of you, pray for you, and wait some word from you. you, the youngest, the last upon which they bestowed their affection, are much in their thoughts. isn't that a true picture?" "my god, it's too true!" broke from the young man's lips. "well, then, which will you do, add more trouble to their lives, bow down their poor backs more than ever, and cause them to sit so still through the long evenings, and just wait from day to day for the master to call; or will you win out here, bear the battle's brunt of gloom and despair, then in the spring make a strike, to go back home rich, to bring joy and comfort to your parents' declining years?" for a time joe did not speak. he was struggling hard, for the words were telling upon him. "i never thought of it in that way," he said, at length. "but you have cheered me up a bit, and if i can only stand this winter i think i can win out. it is very lonely in this camp, and a fellow gets so discouraged." "how would this place do?" asked keith. "how would you like to spend your evenings here?" joe's eyes opened in surprise. "come here! for what?" "to read, play games, sing, chat, smoke, and perhaps debate subjects with the rest of the men." "to read! read what?" and joe looked around in a puzzled manner. "books, magazines and papers, of course; what else would people read?" "say, parson, you're only joking, aren't you? books, magazines, here in this desolate hole! over a thousand miles from anywhere! why we've not had a letter or one word from the outside since last summer, and now you talk about books, magazines and papers!" "well, suppose such a thing did happen," laughed keith at joe's incredulity, "do you think the men would like it?" "like it? well, i guess they'd like it. some would, anyway, for they are hungry, starving for reading matter. didn't you see the way they crowded into the cabin while you read to me? you should see the only book we have in camp. it's a cheap copy of 'david copperfield,' which one of the boys got from a mission station over on the mackenzie river side, when he came in by way of the peel. you'd hardly know it was a book at all, with the covers off and the leaves all loose. i've read it through three times this winter already, and some of the boys have read it more than that." a lump came into keith's throat as he listened to this simple story, and laying down his hammer he seized his cap and mittens. "come, joe," he said, "i want to show you something." together they made their way to the store room, behind the mission house, which, when they had entered, keith silently pointed to several piles of magazines and papers stacked in one corner. joe's eyes bulged with amazement. he rubbed them, to make sure he was not dreaming. "gee-whiz!" he exclaimed. "who'd have thought it!" then he began to examine the treasure. "'illustrated london news!' well i'll be jiggered! 'corn hill,' 'the century,' 'leisure hour,' 'the canadian magazine,' and lots more, whole stacks of them; my, what a treat! say, parson, where did you get them?" "they came with the mission supplies," was the response. "for years they have been gathering there, and not long ago i was tempted to have a big bonfire, and burn the oldest ones, as they were taking up so much room. but now i'm glad i didn't." "so am i," assented joe. "but say," he continued, looking round the room, "what's all that stuff for?" "oh, they're mission supplies for the indians." "and you sell the stuff?" "yes." "oh, then, that's what pritchen and perdue meant. i didn't understand them at the time." "why, what did they say?" asked keith. "they said a lot; told what a grafter you are, that you supply the indians with all sorts of things, take their furs in return, and are making a fortune out of them, all under the cloak of religion." "and did they say that?" the missionary's tone was one of astonishment, and an expression of pain crossed his face. "yes, but that's only a part of the stories. they're stirring up the boys against you with all kinds of yarns." "and what else did they say? tell me, joe." the latter looked cautiously around, and in a low tone whispered something into keith's ear, which caused him to start back as if from a blow. "god help me!" he cried, placing his hands to his forehead. "is it possible! is it possible!" "yes, pritchen told it over and over again, so i heard last night. then he said that you killed the woman in a lonely place." "killed her! that i killed her?" "yes, and when he happened along and interfered, you struck at him with a knife, and made the terrible scar on his breast which he showed the boys." "the brute! the brute!" "you remember the night you pinned him over the bar, and were just going to smash his face when you saw the scar which startled you so much?" "yes, i remember it only too well." "well, he's making a mighty lot out of that, and the hard part is so many of the boys believe him." "joe," said keith, "it's cold here," and he shivered. "let us take some of these magazines in our arms and go back to the indian school room. it's warm there, and i want to tell you something." "now, sit down," he said, when they had reached the place, "and listen to what i have to say, that you may know the truth. "when i came here ten years ago the indians were in a wretched condition of semi-starvation. they sold their skins to a fur-trading company, which sent a boat up stream for the very purpose. for valuable furs they received cheap, gaudy dress material, useless toys, and many other things they didn't need. they were being robbed right along. after a while i induced them to give up this ruinous barter, and deal with a more honest company, which agreed to send up a small steamer twice a year, in the spring and fall. now the indians have their own store, and keep those goods you saw on hand. i have never made a cent out of the business, for the natives get everything. once a year they appoint one of their number to keep the store, and the lot has fallen time and again to amos, who is paid by the indians for his work. "when a native brings in, say, a fox skin, he receives its value according to the previous year's rate. if he needs tea and sugar he is charged the same amount as was paid to the company---not a cent more. when that fox skin is sold, if it brings more the indian is credited with the amount, but, if less, it is deducted. we have a simple yet splendid system of accounts, which has taken years to perfect. at the end of the year every indian is given a statement of how he stands, and so far there has been very little complaining. "when an indian does not wish to take up the full value of his furs in goods at one time, he is given a number of large beads, their standard of wealth, which he keeps on a stout string. some of the natives have saved up quite an amount in this way, and in times of sickness, or during a bad hunting season, are not dependent on others. "then each indian gives a portion of what he earns for the relief of the needy, sick, and the aged, besides contributing something every year to our missionary society. they are delighted with the whole plan, and, while i oversee the business, i get nothing. any one who cares to do so may examine our system, and learn how straight it is. i know very well that perdue longs to get control of this trade, and in fact did induce a number to buy from him. but that has been all stopped since my return, and so he is very spiteful. you may tell any one you like the whole truth, and how the indians have been helped by the system." "i shall," replied joe, and the look upon his face revealed his sincerity. "as to the next," continued keith, "i shall be brief. no greater lie has ever been fabricated against a human being than that. pritchen himself is the guilty one, and tries to shuffle the blame on me. years ago he was a squaw-man, among a tribe away to the north of us. i visited that band, and one day on a lonely trail found that brute who had fatally injured his indian wife, and her babe at the breast. before she died, however, she left that scar upon him with the point of a keen knife. the woman told me all just before her death, and gave in my charge her only living child, a bright-eyed girl, who is now at klassan, and remembers it all." "what! the girl here?" asked joe in surprise. "yes, and it is all that we can do to prevent her from avenging her mother's death." "does pritchen know she's here?" "no, i think not. but the girl has been following him like a shadow, and watching his every movement, without as yet doing anything more. she is rather strange of late, and we cannot understand her moods." "but why does pritchen fear you?" "he knows me of old, and hates me for a number of reasons. but it's not me he fears, but the indians. he's a bully and a coward, and has a great fear of death, with good reason, too. he is very shrewd, and knows if he lays hands on me the indians will tear him to pieces." "do the indians know about him, and the deed he committed?" asked joe. "only the girl and amos, the catechist. the former for some cause has never spoken to the rest, and i told the latter, but he is silent for the same reason that i am." "what's that?" "the indians are very impulsive, and if they knew that this man had committed such a deed upon a helpless woman, and one of their own race, too, i might not be able to restrain them. they are also feeling sore over the contemptible trick pritchen imposed upon them the day i returned, and it would take very little to cause a complete outburst. they never forget an injury or a kindness. as it is, they will spend so much time out in the hills talking about that trick that i'm afraid their hunting will suffer." "but what are you going to do?" inquired joe. "try to do my duty, and hold out till spring. then if he becomes too offensive, and i see our mission will suffer, i shall hold a council of the leading indians about the matter." joe leaned eagerly forward with an anxious look upon his face. "say, parson, i wouldn't wait till spring if i were in your shoes. you'll need their help before that." "how do you know?" "pritchen will work through the miners. he'll not touch you himself, that is quite evident, but he'll cut at you in some other way. i've heard him talk; and you have no idea how he's poisoning the men's minds." "never fear," returned keith. "we're in the great master's keeping, and he will look after us. but come, let us get something to eat. we have talked too long already, though it has been a comfort to unburden my mind. after our bite we must get this room ready for the men to-night." "and i'll round up as many as i can," replied joe, as they set out for the mission house. chapter xiii pritchen gets busy several days after the conversation in the school room, pritchen was striding along the trail, which wound through the indian village. under his right arm he carried his long, narrow snow-shoes, while over his left shoulder was a small rifle, pendant from which were a few plump white ptarmigan. the trail ran close to the mission house, and, drawing near, the hunter observed the missionary by the door splitting fire wood. for days pritchen had steered clear of his hated opponent, and had not met him face to face since the shooting affray in the saloon. his anger, which burned like a fire in his heart, had become much intensified since then by the change affairs had taken. the reading room had proved a success, notwithstanding his jibes and sneers, and a goodly number of men were spending their evenings there who formerly haunted perdue's place. "d-him!" muttered pritchen half aloud. "i don't want to have any words with the cur. i wish i had taken some other route." even then he was tempted to put on his snowshoes and cut off from the trail. on second thought, however, this was abandoned, as his purpose would be easily interpreted as the act of a coward. with eyes straight forward he essayed to pass the house without noticing the missionary, when a deep growl close by arrested his attention, and caused him to glance quickly up. he stopped short and over his face spread a look of surprise and then fear. the cause of this change of attitude was the half-wolf dog brisko, who with his back to the door was growling in the most ferocious manner. his teeth gleamed white, his eyes glowed, and the hair on his back stood straight on end. not since the terrible night of the fight with the wolves had keith seen the brute so much aroused. "what's the matter with the cur?" growled pritchen, trying to conceal the apprehension he felt. "i don't know," replied the missionary. "i never saw him greet any one in that way before. he seems to be much exercised now anyway." suddenly a thought flashed into his mind. he loved dogs dearly, studied them most carefully, and had read much about their ways. was there not some good reason for brisko's aversion to this man? had he seen him before? if so, where? why that look of surprise and fear upon pritchen's face? could it be possible that this was the very one, the "bill," whom that dying man in the ibex cabin mentioned? lost in thought, he did not realize that he was staring hard at pritchen, as if he could read his very soul. the latter noticed the look, surmised its meaning, and an ugly scowl passed over his face. "what are you gazing at so mighty hard?" he blurted out. "you," keith calmly replied. "well, what do you see about me that's so interesting? i ain't much to look at." "you were a minute ago when you first saw that dog. why were you so surprised and startled?" "wouldn't anyone be startled to have a brute growl at him in that way?" "and why did he growl? he never did so to anyone else since i've had him." "how in h--do you suppose i know? am i responsible for the moods of a d-mission house cur?" "perhaps he knows you, though, as well as i do." "what do you mean?" "perhaps he has reason to growl. look," and keith pointed to an ugly scar on the dog's side, over which the hair had not grown. pritchen did not reply, but stepped forward to obtain a better view, at which brisko retreated, still showing his teeth. "i'd growl too," went on keith, "if i were a dog, and met the man who treated me that way, and left my master to die in the wilderness, though god knows, bill, that i have more cause than brisko to show my teeth when i think of what you have done to nellie and the little ones." at these words pritchen threw off all semblance of pretension. a terrible oath leaped from his lips, and his face became livid with rage. "you insinuating dog," he cried. "speak out. what in h-do you mean?" "you know very well what i mean about her, that sweet-faced little woman, but you think i don't know about the other," and keith looked him full in the eyes. "i tell you i do, and that you, bill pritchen, robbed young kenneth radhurst, your partner, and left him to die in the lonely ibex cabin. deny it if you can." "i do deny it, and i ask you to prove it. you can't do it, and what's more, i'll make you eat your words, and a bitter dose they'll be, too." pritchen was making a bluff. his speech was fierce, but his courage was failing. a fear of this strong, calm man was creeping over him. how much did he know? what had he found out? "bill," said keith quietly, "just a word more. for nellie's sake i have borne with you for some time. you imposed a mean trick upon me, of which i have said nothing. you have tried to break up my mission work, and i have let you alone. now i know that you are capable of the lowest degree of baseness, so i advise you to do one of two things while there is time." "and what in h-is that?" came the surly response. "leave my indians alone, or go away from this camp, and do not cross my path again." "and what if i don't take your d-advice?" "the answer is there," and the missionary waved his hand towards the indian houses. "i hold the natives in leash. at a word from me they will pour in from the mountains, those cabins will swarm with life, and--oh, well, you know the rest. in the meantime touch me, and you will answer to them. as for that dastardly deed to a young partner, if the miners knew--and they will know if you don't do as i advise." pritchen waited to hear no more. with an oath upon his lips he sprang for the trail, leaving the missionary gazing after him with a troubled mind. keith had thrust deep into the villain's heart. he had wounded him sore, but he felt no sense of elation, for he knew he was contending with a vile serpent in human guise. pritchen proceeded at a rapid pace through the indian village, and down to the miners' cabins. he did not enter perdue's store as was his wont, but made straight for his own log house beyond. a miserable, half-starved cur was lying at the door. giving the animal a brutal kick, which sent it howling away, pritchen entered the building. throwing his snow-shoes into one corner and the rifle with the ptarmigan on a pile of rugs, he sat down upon a small stool. his small, swinish eyes blazed, his brutal features twitched, and his hands clinched together as he brooded over the interview. "he warned me, d-him, he warned me! me--me, bill pritchen, the lawless, who never took such words from any man which i have taken from him! but i'll fix him! i'll bring him down from his high horse. he's got the cinch on me now through those d-injuns, but my time'll come. he told me to leave the camp, ha, ha!" then he paused, and a light broke over his countenance. he sprang to his feet. "i've got it! i've got it!" he exclaimed. "he said he'd expose me; that the men should know. oh, yes, they'll know, ha, ha! but i must see first what's happened to that kid. i'll leave the camp. oh, yes, i'll take your advice, my fine fellow, but i'll come back, yes, i'll come back, and then beware!" early the next morning he left klassan with a small pack on his back, snow-shoes on his feet, and a rifle under his arm. for five days the wilderness swallowed him up, and then he returned. it was night when he came back, with the swinging stride and elastic step of a man who has accomplished his purpose. this time he did not go to his own cabin, but stopped at the store. he was in high fettle when he entered the building. he nodded pleasantly to the few men gathered at the table playing cards, and cracked a joke with perdue as he tossed off a draught of hootch. "give us a snack, jim," he said, setting down the cup. "i'm dead beat, and haven't had a mouthful since morning." "sure," returned the saloonkeeper. "there are some beans in the pan, and i'll make you a cup of tea." "where's your game, bill?" asked one of the men, looking up from his cards. "out on the hill, where they'll stay for all i care." "why, i thought you were out hunting." "so i was." "and found nothing?" "you're mistaken there, pard. i found more than i expected." "what, gold?" asked several in chorus. "been prospectin'?" "no." "a pretty squaw?" "ha, ha. no, not this time; they're too d-scarce." "well, what did you find, man? don't be so mysterious." "i found this," and pritchen drew from beneath his buckskin jacket a small book, which had been kept in place by his leathern belt. "look," he said, holding it up to view, "isn't that a find! 'robert browning's selected poems,' that's what it is." "oh, is that all," replied one in disgust. "deal the cards, tim, and let's have another game." "no, it's not all by a d-sight," and pritchen helped himself to another plateful of beans. "but then if you fellows don't want to hear the rest, it's all right; it'll keep." "come, bill," coaxed perdue, "never mind missouri; all he thinks about is cards. let's have yer yarn." "well, what would you think if you found a book like that miles from nowhere?" replied pritchen, who was most anxious to tell his story. "'tis queer, when ye come to think of it," soliloquized perdue with a characteristic nod of the head. "it's very much out of the ordinary, i should say." "and suppose you were out hunting," went on pritchen, "and, reaching the ibex cabin late at night, found the place looking as if hell had been let loose, and this book lying on the floor, what would you think? you'd wonder a d-lot, wouldn't you?" "sure," assented perdue. "and suppose in the morning, being somewhat suspicious, you nosed around a bit outside, and found a steep rock with two letters and a cross cut upon it, you would wonder some more, wouldn't you?" "y'bet," broke in missouri, who had forgotten his cards in the story. "then when you saw wolf tracks on every hand, the snow all dug up at the foot of the rock, torn pieces of clothes lying around, and other things too terrible to mention, you would feel very sick, wouldn't you?" "my god, yes!" exclaimed the men. "did you find all that, and where?" "and what would you think," continued pritchen, thoroughly enjoying the sensation he was causing, "if the man responsible for it all came to klassan and never said a word about it to any one?" "that it looked mighty suspicious," replied perdue. "but is there any one here who knows about the matter?" "maybe this'll tell the tale," and pritchen opened the book he was holding in his hand. "see, look for yourselves; there's something to think over." "read it, bill; let's have it, quick." holding the volume to the flickering candle light, pritchen read the following, written in a firm hand: "keith steadman, "first prize for proficiency in english literature. "collegiate school, "windsor, n. s. "christmas, 18--." "what, is that the parson?" asked tim. "certainly, who else would it be?" replied perdue. silence followed these words, and the men looked at one another. pritchen, noticing this, was vexed and puzzled. "well, what do you think of it?" he blurted out. "i don't think much about it, if you ask me," responded missouri. "you can't prove that the parson had anything to do with that chap's death." "but the book." "oh, he might have spent a night there, and dropped the book; that's all." "but the letters, and the cross on the rock; what about them?" "any man might have done that. and if the parson did find a sick man in the cabin who died on his hands, he would naturally bury him in the snow, and put up some marks. it's all quite natural." "but why didn't he say something about it when he came to klassan?" "blamed if i know. maybe he had some reason. anyway it doesn't prove anything." "i didn't say it did," snapped pritchen, who was feeling sore at this man's indifference, and considerate way of looking at the matter. his elation had very much cooled in the presence of these men. they were known throughout the camp as miners who were wedded to their cards, and took only a passing interest in the events around them. they were seldom mixed up in any quarrel, and their words were few. he had noticed that only these were in the store with perdue, but had not given it much thought before, so full was he of his story. now he wondered what had become of his own gang. he knew he could make an impression upon them. "where are the rest of the boys?" he asked, turning to perdue. "over at the reading room," replied the latter. "there's a big time on there to-night." "what's up?" and pritchen's face darkened as various thoughts flashed through his mind. "ye needn't worry," perdue hastened to explain. "the boys are all right. they're only after a little fun. ye see, there's a debate on, and that's why they're there." "a debate! on what?" "ye'd never guess, bill. it's a h-of a subject. 'which has caused more misery in the world, war or whiskey?' that's what it is." "ha, ha," laughed pritchen. "they're after you, jim. ain't you going to hold up your end of the game?" "not much. the boys'll do that all right without me." "and they mean business?" "who, the boys?" "yes." "sure, and i'm to give drinks all around when they're through, as my part of the fun. ye'd better go along." "but i'll be too late." "not a bit of it. some of the preliminaries, such as the prayers and hymns, will be over, but you'll be in time fer the fun; they'll be in no hurry." "good. i'll go. take care of my gear, will you, till i come back." with this pritchen left the saloon and made his way over to the indian village. chapter xiv the unexpected happens the debate was well advanced when pritchen entered the building. the rough benches were all filled, so he stood with his back to the door among several who were in a similar situation. the chairman of the meeting, caribou sol, was sitting at the farther end of the room before a small table. at his left sat keith, by the side of the mission harmonium, which had been brought over from the church for this special occasion. a portion of the room behind the chairman was hidden by a bright coloured curtain. this was a source of wonder to the audience, and aroused in their minds various conjectures. "that's where they keep the goat," said one talkative fellow. "don't you see his horns?" "no, but i hear him blat outside," replied another, at which a general laugh ensued. "but really," continued the other, undisturbed by the merriment at his expense, "there _is_ something behind that curtain. joe, the kid, knows all about it, but he's as tight as a clam. he said the parson put it up at the last moment like greased lightning." "maybe he keeps his thunder there," laughed another. "i understand he's dead set against whiskey, and has some hot bolts to hand out to-night. but say, here he comes, looking mighty pleased about something." at first the debate was conducted in a formal and orderly manner. the leaders in carefully prepared speeches opened up the subject, and received hearty applause. gradually the men thawed out, the speaking became general, and in some cases regular harangues ensued, punctured by witty remarks from the listeners. one of these had the floor when pritchen arrived. he had been talking for some time about the evils of whiskey and the misery it caused to so many people. "think of the homes it has ruined," he was saying; "the young lives it has blighted; the prisons it is filling; the----" "what about the snakes, mickie?" came a voice from the audience. "sure, you're right there. i don't intind to leave the snakes out. and say, dave groggan, did yer grandfather ever tell ye where the sarpents wint to whin saint patrick drove thim out of ould ireland?" "into the sea, of course." "ay, ay; into the sea, sure enough, the sea of irish and all ither kinds of whiskey." "did ye ever see them, mickey?" "see thim? haven't i seen thim, and if you drink enough of the stuff ye'll see thim too." the laugh which followed this remark was silenced by the chairman rising to his feet. he rose slowly, and stood for a time with his hands upon the table. he was a man to be noticed in any company, with his tall, gigantic figure, thin gray hair, and long white beard. his faded eyes looked calmly over the heads of the men before him while waiting for the noise to subside. "b'ys," he began, "i ain't used to makin' speeches, but i must say a few words to-night. ye've talked about the miseries of war an' whiskey. ye've brought forth facts an' figures a-plenty, but ye don't seem to be in earnest." "what are ye giving us, sol?" spoke up one. "ye may think what ye like, but if you'd been through the furnace as i have ye'd not make so many jokes about whiskey. ye'd speak from yer hearts, an' then ye'd be in earnest, never fear. look at me, b'ys, the oldest man here, an' when i heered one young chap boast that to drink moderately was no harm, i trembled fer 'im. i thought so too once, an' i said so to annie, my wife, god bless her. i can't make a long speech in eloquent words, but i jist want to show yez a page from an old man's life." "what, a sermon?" asked one of pritchen's gang, who was getting restless and anxious for something exciting to happen. "mebbe a few sarmons wouldn't hurt ye," and sol fixed his eye sternly upon the young man. "as i was a-sayin'," he continued, "i want to tell yez somethin'. when i was fust married me an' annie were as happy as any couple in--oh, well, ye'd better not know whar. we had a fine farm, snug house, and good-sized barns, with kind neighbours a-plenty. by the time our two little uns were born we had laid by a neat sum of money. "'it's fer danny an' chrissie, to eddicate 'em,' says annie. an' oh, b'ys, i remember the last time she laid any away. i had come back from town, whar i had sold my load of produce, an' i handed her what money i had. she looked at it an' then at me kinder scared like. "'sol,' says she, 'is this all? an' what's the matter with ye? ye've been drinkin'!' "'only a few drops with the b'ys, annie,' says i, but i didn't tell her it had been a-goin' on fer some time. "'don't ye do it any more, sol,' says she. 'remember the little uns, an''--then her voice kinder quavered, 'the habit may grow upon ye.' "i laughed at her--yes, i laughed then, but oh, god, b'ys!" and the old man leaned over the table with a look of agony in his face, "i ain't laughed since! would any of yez laugh if ye'd left a wife like annie, an' such sweet wee uns fer the devil whiskey? if it had lost ye yer farm, home, respect of all, and drove ye away a drunken sot? "after a while a bit of my manhood returned. i swore i would make good agin, an' with that resolve i worked in a lumber camp. with feverish energy i swung the axe an' handled the peevie till my name was known fer miles around. my wages i did not spend, as did most of the men, in gamblin' an' drinkin', an' at last i went to town to send the money to my wife. then, may god forgive me, i fell. but what could i do, with rum shops starin' at me from every corner, doggin' my very steps, allus allurin' me, an' the men coaxin' me on all sides?" "i'll take jist one glass," says i, "an' no more. "but that was enough, an' when i sobered up my money was all gone." "and brains too," jeered some one from the back of the room. "ah, yer wrong there," calmly replied sol. "i didn't have any to lose or i wouldn't have acted the way i did. "i fled from the place. i wandered, ever wandered, god knows whar. i struck minin' camps, worked like a slave, an' spent my wages to satisfy the devil within me. but once i let up. a young chap, the parson of big glen, reached out a hand an' gave me a lift. he stuck to me through thick an' thin. he made me feel i was a man, till down i went agin, an' i ain't seen 'im since. "one day, after a drunken spree, an old paper from my own town somehow drifted into my hands. here is a piece of it. look," and sol held up a small note book, with a clipping pasted on the inside. "see the headin': 'died in the poor house!' "it was my annie! the trimmest lass an' best wife a man ever had. an' what did it, b'ys? i ask yez that. what did it? whiskey, that's what did it, an' ye'll joke about it, an' say it doesn't hurt to take a drop now an' then." "he's a weak fool who can't," spoke up pritchen. he was not satisfied at the silence which followed when sol finished, and the impression he had made upon the men. "weak fool! weak fool, did ye say?" returned sol. "but mebbe yer right when i come to think of it. an' i guess thar are many more of us who are weak fools, too, fer what do we do? walk right into a saloon an' see writin' there plainer than on the walls of bill shazzar's palace, which doesn't need a dann'l to tell its meanin', either." "i never saw any writing on saloons," sneered pritchen. "you've had the d. t.'s, old man, that was the trouble with you. what you thought was writing was nothing but snakes." "ye see, b'ys," continued sol, ignoring pritchen's thrust, "the words, 'homes ruined here,' 'disease, insanity, an' murder found here,' 'this way to the poor house an' the grave.' that's what we see, an' yit we walk right in an' buy with them words a-starin' us in the face." "you're a d-fool and a liar," shouted pritchen, at which his men set up a roar, delighted to know that something was about to happen. caribou sol started; the colour fled from his face, and with one bound he leaped forward, scrambled over the seats, and confronted the man who had dared to use such insulting words. "take 'em back!" he cried. "take back them words, or by heavens i'll pin ye to the wall!" pritchen was taken by surprise, it was easy to see that. he had reckoned on a disturbance, but had not expected the sudden action of caribou sol. inwardly he cursed his men for their slowness in stirring up the meeting. he wished to remain in the background in order to further his future designs. but with this towering form confronting him matters assumed a different aspect. he shrunk back from those blazing eyes, but only for an instant. it would not do to show any sign of weakening in the presence of the miners. "to h-with you!" he cried. "do you think i'm a dog? i mean all i give, and i give more than words." quick as lightning his hand slipped to his hip pocket, a revolver flashed for an instant in sight, and then whirled through the room to strike heavily against the opposite wall, while pritchen staggered back, and sank heavily to the floor, felled like an ox by one blow of caribou sol's clenched fist. instantly an uproar arose. pritchen's followers with a cry of rage surged forward and bore down upon the gray-haired giant, while the rest of the men sprang to his assistance. so quickly had everything taken place that keith stood dumbfounded. he had noticed the presence of pritchen and his gang, and felt rather uneasy as to their purpose in attending. but as time passed and nothing happened he hoped that the debate would end quietly. now, instead of peace, a general fight was on. blows were being exchanged, cries and curses were ringing through the room. it must be stopped. he leaped over the benches and besought the assailants to desist, but his voice was drowned in the general clamour. "oh, god," he mentally prayed, "help me, tell me what to do to stop these brutes!" and even then his prayer was answered. the commotion gradually subsided. the men, some with faces scratched and bleeding, were staring in one direction as if they saw a ghost. keith looked, too, and instead of a ghost he beheld the trembling form of constance radhurst. in the moment of excitement he had forgotten her, and when he saw her standing there on the rude platform before the curtain, in the presence of those rough men, he was tempted to rush up and lead her gently away. a groan almost escaped his lips. what a different ending to the debate from the one he had expected. it had been planned that constance should appear, but only as a pleasant surprise, to sing some old songs when the debate was over. he had taken a step or two towards the platform, when in a clear, rich voice constance began to sing: "come, sing once more to-night, my lads, come, sing some old refrain, of love, of home, of childhood days, and live them o'er again. _chorus:_ "we've drifted far away, ye ken, from home and kith and kin, fling open wide your hearts to-night, and let the old times in. "put strife aside, and banish care, and sink them out of sight, oh, comrades of the weary trail, be brothers for to-night! _chorus._ "and then let fall whate'er betide, the trail be steep and long, we'll quicker step and keener fight, cheered by some old, sweet song." _chorus._ it was but a simple song which constance and kenneth had often sung together in the good old happy days. she little realized then to what purpose it would one day be used. but with the men the words affected them not so much as the sight of that sweet face, whiter than it should be, and the trim figure on the platform. into many a mind flashed the memory of other days. for an instant there was silence when constance ended. then, "three cheers for the lady," shouted one strapping fellow. "three cheers," came the response, and how their voices did ring as they roared and stamped their approval. keith in the meantime had taken his place at the harmonium, and when the men's voices had died down he played the air of "annie laurie." with constance leading, and the miners joining in the chorus, it was a time never to be forgotten at klassan. pritchen was a surly witness of this marvellous transformation. regaining his feet, he tried to speak to his men. but they had forgotten him in the new excitement. they were in a rollicking humour, these husky fellows, who but a few minutes before were tearing at one another in the wildest confusion. in his anger pritchen seized one by the shoulder. "d-you!" he shouted. "what's wrong with you all? are you going to let a bit of lace turn your heads?" the only response he received was the man wheeling square around, and bawling full into his face: "and for bonnie annie laurie, i'll lay me doon an' dee." "curse you all!" he cried. "you confounded idiots!" and in a rage he left the building and started for perdue's store. the sound of the last verse followed him into the darkness, and then silence. he stopped and listened. presently there floated through the air the old, familiar tune of "jesus, lover of my soul." all were singing it, he could easily tell that, and his men, too! he turned and shook his fist at the building. "my time will come!" he cried. "you d-missionary! i'll get even with you! you may laugh at me now, but beware!" chapter xv the summons the morning after the debate constance was moving briskly about the little cabin she had assisted in erecting with her own hands. she was relating to her father, who was lying on a cot, the stirring scenes of the previous evening. "oh, it was so funny at first to listen to the strange things some of the men said. they were like a lot of school boys. but there was one old man who spoke so earnestly when he told about his past life that i could not keep back the tears from my eyes." "and you were behind the curtain all the time?" questioned her father. "yes, until the row began. at first i felt like running out of the building by the door which was near, i was so frightened. but when i saw the efforts mr. steadman was making to stop the fight i seemed like a coward for the thought of deserting. for a few minutes i did not know what to do. then i remembered a story i had read long ago, how an angry mob was stilled by a song, and i made up my mind to try it on those men. i could hardly stand at first, my knees were so weak, and i trembled violently. but when i saw the effect the song produced i took courage and had no more trouble." "my dear, brave child," responded mr. radhurst affectionately, "you remind me of your mother; you have her disposition, so brave, and yet so kind and gentle." "not very brave, daddy, but i would do anything for you," and constance gave the old man a loving kiss. "if i am gentle it is you who made me so; you are always so considerate." "but tell me, connie, how it all ended. i am anxious to hear some more." "oh, we sang hymns and songs the rest of the evening, and then those great, rough men came up one by one and shook hands with me. some of them, i really believe, had not shaken hands with a woman for years, as they just wabbled my hand, and then dropped it as if they were frightened. but the old man with the white hair and long beard squeezed my hand till i nearly cried out with pain. the tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked into my eyes and said, 'god bless ye, lady, ye've done us a power of good to-night.'" "mr. steadman must have been pleased, connie, at the happy ending." "happy? i don't believe i ever saw such a look on any man's face before; it fairly shone with delight. he looked at me and tried to express his gratitude in suitable words, but i never heard a man stammer so in my life. he gave up the attempt at last, and simply said, 'thank you!'" "did he say he would come this morning to see me?" "yes, as soon as he could, and i believe that's his step now." "i am afraid i am very late," said keith, when he had entered the building, "but you see i've been delayed." "overslept yourself?" laughed constance. "oh, no. i've been to the drug store." "the drug store!" "yes, and found the druggist asleep. when i awoke him it took me two whole hours to get what i wanted. how is that for business?" "a drug store! and a druggist! i don't understand," and a puzzled expression spread over constance's face. "well, you see, it's this way. i left pete asleep, as he was tired after his long trip, and went to get the roots of which i told you at siwash creek. i found the old chief asleep, and when he was awake and i told him what i wanted it took me one hour to answer all the questions he asked. then he made a long speech about his ancestors, and how the wonderful roots had cured so many of them. by the time he was through another hour had slipped by. but at last i got what i wanted and here it is, so i am going to begin at once upon that racking cough." "mr. steadman," said constance, "will you please tell me where all these things came from which we found in this room?" "what things?" queried keith, as he carefully unwrapped the precious roots from their thin bark covering. "why, this splendid bear-skin rug on the floor; that large wolf skin on my father's cot, and those pictures on the walls; they do not belong to us." "do you mind very much, miss radhurst? if you are offended i'll take them away, for it was i who brought them here." receiving no reply, he continued: "when i came to light the fire, so as to have the building warm for your arrival, i noticed how bare the room looked, and turned over in my mind how to improve its appearance, and so brought these over. that bearskin rug is from one of the finest grizzlies ever seen in the north. i brought him down one morning when he was about to make a breakfast of me." keith did not tell that in killing the animal he had risked his own life to save an indian youth, who was in the creature's grip. the lad was a stranger to him, and when he was released he gave one quick, searching glance of gratitude at the missionary and then sped like a deer up the long, deep ravine. he had never seen the lad since, but his bright face and manly figure were often in his mind. to keith, the days that followed were full of peace and happiness. the reading room was well attended and, more important still, the church was filled every sunday with an orderly number of men. it now appeared that the turn of affairs on the night of the debate had discouraged pritchen entirely from his opposition. keith became a regular visitor at the radhurst cabin, and constance always awaited his coming with pleasure. they read aloud from some favourite author, during the long evenings, when mr. radhurst was an eager listener until he fell asleep. "i wish i had my copy of browning," said keith one night, "but i have lost it somewhere. i had it on the trail, and well remember the last time i read from it. it was in an open camp, where i must have left it." "he seems to be your favourite author," replied constance. "one of my favourites. he deals with the deep, serious things of life, and has such a virile faith." one afternoon, instead of reading, they went out for a short snow-shoe tramp. the day was clear and fine, and the myriads of snowy crystals gemmed the whole landscape with surpassing glory. they climbed the hills, chatting like happy children, while at times their voices rang out in joyous peals of laughter. when they returned to the cabin their faces glowed with the keen exercise, and keith, looking at constance, thought he never beheld a fairer picture of health and beauty. "you will come in to see father," she said, when they had reached the door. "no, not to-day, thank you," keith replied. "i have had so much enjoyment this afternoon, that i feel quite intoxicated. i must get back to my cabin and do some translationary work. spring will soon be here, so i want to get the task finished and off in the first boat." keith had been engaged for some time upon the psalms, and had reached the one hundred and twenty-first. generally it was easy for him to concentrate his mind upon his task, and hours would slip quickly by. but to-day it was different. "i will lift up mine eyes unto the hills," he began, and then tried to write. instead of the indian words slipping from beneath his pen, he found himself sketching a fair face upon the white sheet before him. so absorbed was he at this pleasant occupation that time moved unheeded by. he was at length startled by a loud rap upon the door, and quickly turning the sketch face downwards upon the table called to the visitor to come in. at once a young man entered, and cast a curious glance around the snug room. "mr. steadman," he began, "you're wanted at the store. there's trouble on hand. tim fleeters had a poke of gold stolen from his cabin, and a miners' meeting has been called to see what's to be done." "certainly i will go," replied keith. "will you wait for me?" "no, i must hurry on; i have more calls to make," and with that he was away. before leaving, keith lifted the drawing from the table and placed it in a strong chest in one corner of the room. "there, if anyone should enter during my absence nothing will be left to tell how i have spent the afternoon." as he moved along the path leading to the store, pritchen crept out from behind an adjacent building and watched the missionary until his tall figure was out of sight. then with a low chuckle he moved towards the light shining through the window from the candle which keith in his hurry had forgotten to extinguish. drawing near he peered cautiously into the room, but could observe no one within. to be surer, he knocked, and, receiving no response, opened the door and entered. "ha, ha," he muttered half aloud, as he glanced swiftly around the room. "snug place this. nice books there. but you'll learn something soon, my hearty, not found in those pages. now a place for these." as he spoke he drew from beneath his coat a heavy poke of gold, and also an empty one, on which appeared the two letters, "k. r." presently his eye caught sight of the chest. "that looks good; a most likely place, so in you go." lifting the cover, which was not locked, he beheld the picture lying in full view. "hello! what in h-is this? a picture, and a woman's! it's too dark here to see clearly. i must have more light. ah, now i see," and he held the candle close down to the chest. "well, well, i didn't know it had gone that far, but it only makes bigger game for me. down underneath is the place for these, snug away in that corner, beneath this stuff. there, that's good." no sense of shame or pity struck the villain's heart, as he gave one more swift glance at the sweet face before him ere he slammed down the cover. then locking the chest he was about to put the key into his pocket. "no, that won't do," he thought. "the stove's the best place for you. there, down among the coals and ashes, away out of sight." he then started to leave the building, and had almost reached the door, when his eye fell upon a picture standing upon the rough deal table. he stopped and went back. the photograph was that of a sweet-faced woman and two lovely children, a boy and a girl. pritchen looked at them curiously for an instant. "long time since i've seen you, nellie. i expect you don't look so young and fresh now, and the kids must be well grown up. here's to the d-breed, with all their saintly, pious ways. i'm done with you all--all except one, by god, and he'll soon be finished." seizing the picture in his hand, he tore it to pieces, threw the fragments into the stove, and, turning, left the building. chapter xvi the miners' meeting of all criminals in the unwritten code of mining camps in the early days in the yukon, the sneak-thief was the most despised. a man might live as he pleased, as a squaw-man, or with several paramours; he might shoot a man down in his tracks, if for honour or self-defense. but for a man who robbed sluice boxes or stole from cabins there was no term of condemnation strong enough in the english language. cabins in those days were seldom locked, and a man who secured his door at night, or when he left the place, was viewed with suspicion, and often shunned. anyone might enter another's abode, borrow what he needed, and, if hungry, help himself. it was the law, the unwritten verdict of the place. when keith reached the store he found most of the men congregated there, discussing the whole affair in no light terms. some were sitting on rude benches, others were standing. the room reeked with tobacco and whiskey fumes. as he gazed around and noticed how the scent of blood had aroused their passions, a sigh escaped his lips. a number who at the debate had talked the strongest about temperance, who were so quiet in the reading room, and orderly in church, were among the most vehement talkers, and expressed their views in the strongest manner. they reminded him of a certain sunday school class in his old home town. when separated each was quiet and manly, a typical little saint, who said "yes, sir," and "no, sir," most carefully, and could tell about moses and david with evident pride. but when together, the mob instinct seemed to possess them, and to carry them beyond all bounds of reason in thought, word and deed. as he listened to these miners and heard their rash remarks he shuddered. "god help the poor fellow!" he thought, "whoever he may be, if he once gets into such brutish hands." "yes," he heard tim fleeters saying, "it was only yesterday that i went out to cut fire-wood. the poke of gold was in my chest, at the foot of my bunk. when i returned, and lifted the lid to get some tea which i kept there, the poke was gone--gold and all." "the sneak!" spoke up another, "shooting's too good for him." "hanging would be better," remarked a third. "shooting'd be a cinch." in the meantime the rest of the men had arrived, among whom was pritchen, and joined in the conversation. there were several miners in the room calmer than the rest, of whom caribou sol was one. he had watched the whole proceedings, and listened to the talk as it drifted along. seeing that nothing definite was being done, he at length rose slowly to his feet, and mounted the bench on which he had been sitting. "b'ys," he began, rolling a wad of tobacco in his cheek, "let's git down to bizness. we've met here, as i understand it, to see about that poke of gold, and all the talk seems to be about what to do with the thief. now, who is he, and how are we to find him? i suggest that fust of all we appoint a chairman to this here meetin', an' git down to bed rock." "right ye are, sol," said one, "and i move that you take the chair, or, i should say, bench." "hold right thar, pard," broke in the old man. "i don't want that persition, an' i won't take it. appint some one else." "pritchen, then," called out another. "i move for pritchen." "pritchen, pritchen," came the response. "he'll do. he's the tongue for such things. mount the bench, bill." since the night of the debate pritchen appeared to be a changed man. instead of making a big fuss over the affair he had laughed it off with the men, and even shook hands with caribou sol. "it was only a little racket," so he told them, "and the sooner forgotten the better." he occasionally went to the reading room, and one sunday attended church. the men declared that bill was "the clear stuff," after all, so agreeable did he make himself to every one who came in his way. it was therefore quite natural that he should be chosen chairman on this occasion. a half smile played around his mouth as he complied with the miners' request. he was much pleased with the result so far, and looking from his elevated position, a contemptuous feeling for the men around him came into his heart. "what curs they are," he said to himself, "to be led first one way and then another. but a short time ago they were ready to drive me out of klassan; now they have chosen me chairman. oh, what great things a little oil will do to make human machines run smoothly. i guess i've applied it all right this time. my forbears didn't lick the blarney stone in old ireland for nothing, i see that for sure." "boys," he began very deliberately, "i thank you for this honour. anyone else would make a far better fist at it; though i shall do the best i can. it is in the interest of the community that this serious problem before us should be considered as carefully and promptly as possible. the meeting is now open for discussion as to the best manner of proceeding." "let's turn out and search every cabin," suggested one. "no, that won't do," replied another. "the thief may search his own shack, and laugh up his sleeve at us." "but we could divvy up," insisted the other. "several go in a bunch, and then there'd be no danger." caribou sol listened attentively to the various remarks which were made. seeing that no solution of the difficulty was being reached, but rather a greater complication, he slowly rose and looked around. "b'ys," he commenced, "if yez don't mind listenin' to an old man, one who has been through the mill, and seen sich things afore, i'd like to offer a suggestion." "go ahead, sol," responded several, for they knew the old man only spoke when he had something important to say. "now, i've been in several camps sich as this, where there's no one sich as magistrate or policeman to enforce law an' order. then the miners had to take matters inter their own hands." "how did they do it?" asked one. "ye may be sure they didn't leave it fer every ninny to take up valuable time waggin' his tongue, an' sayin' nothin'. they ginerally got down to bizness as soon as the camp was formed, an' appinted several of the leadin' men to dispense law as they saw fit. sometimes they were called 'the vigilance committee,' an' right good work they did, too. they had their eyes peeled fer bizness, ye bet yer life." "tell us, sol, how they chose them," asked perdue. "sometimes by vote, either by ballot or show of hands." "was it ever left to the chairman to appoint them?" continued perdue. "i should think that's a much easier way, and i suggest that we do the same." "hear, hear!" came the response. "go ahead, bill. name yer men, and let's get this business fixed up." pritchen's eye gleamed with a triumphant light at this turn of affairs. he made a show of refusing such an important task, but the men would not listen. "come, man," said perdue, "stick to yer job. ye kin do it, and all 'ill be satisfied." "well, if you want me to do it," replied pritchen, "you'll have to put up with my choice. i'll do the best i can, and i want no back jaw when it's done." "all right, bill, never fear. go ahead." pritchen looked slowly round the room as if weighing each man carefully in his mind. "mickie o'toole," he said, "will you stand by and help with this job?" "sure," came the reply. "to the very last." "and find the rope too, mickie?" laughed one. "if you're the thafe, begorra, i'll find the rope, tie the knot, and give the first pull." the laugh which followed this repartee showed that the men were in excellent humour, and enjoying the whole proceedings. "tim slater, i spot you," continued pritchen. "is it a go?" "very well, pard, ye may bank on me," came the reply. "jim, how does your pulse beat?" and pritchen threw a wink at perdue. "leave me out, bill. it's hard fer me to git away. choose some one else." "ah, come off, jim," remonstrated mickie. "if i tie the knot you'll need to brace the poor divil up a bit with a dram or two of yer hot stuff." "guess he won't need the rope, then; the stuff'll fix him," came a voice from the back of the room. perdue craned his neck, and stood on tip-toe to see the speaker, while his flushed face told that the thrust had gone home. "never mind him, jim," laughed one of the men. "it's only joe, the kid, having a little fun." "it's d-poor fun, then," surlily replied the saloonkeeper. "yes, bill, i'll jine ye, if my help'll do any good to round up the beast, and mebbe there's more'n one." "you ought to know," again came the voice. perdue was furious. he was about to give vent to his feelings in no uncertain language, when pritchen laid his hand upon his shoulder. "be quiet, jim, and never mind the cur. let's get on with our job. i choose the parson," he continued, looking the missionary full in the eyes. keith started as he heard his name mentioned. he had been standing silently in a corner, watching with disgust the way in which the business was being conducted. he noticed that the men chosen were pritchen's tools. why had the chairman selected him? "i would rather not act," he quietly replied. "please appoint some one else." "ye'd better do it, parson," urged caribou sol. "a chaplain may be needed, an' ye'll be mighty handy." a peculiar note in the old man's voice and the look in his face placed keith on his guard. "yes, i may be needed," he thought. "if some poor chap gets into the hands of those brutes it will be well to see that fair play is given at any rate." "very well, then, i agree," he assented after a short pause. pritchen noted how quick sol was to persuade keith to accept, and the look upon his face, so the little scene pleased him immensely. "now, gentlemen," he announced, "i think one more will do. five should make a good number. let me see," and he hesitated as he looked around the room. "what about yourself, bill?" spoke up several. "you'll do." pritchen made a pretence at remonstrating, but the words were drowned in the noise of the miners, who stamped, clapped, and shouted until the clamour was deafening. "all right, then," he replied, when the tumult had subsided. "if you are as determined as that, i suppose i must act. let us now get to work," he concluded, stepping down from the bench. keith had been thinking very seriously during all this time, and when pritchen ended he lifted up his voice. "gentlemen, you have placed upon us a hard and important task, and as one of the committee i wish to ask a few questions." the men giving him respectful attention, he proceeded: "suppose one of us on the committee should be the guilty person, what are we to do?" "choose another," came the reply. "is that the will of all?" "ay, ay." "and, if we find the thief, have you any suggestions to make? it may help us very much." "hang him," said one. "drive him from klassan," replied another. "let the committee decide," spoke up a third, which remark was received with applause. "thank you, gentlemen, that is all," and with this keith joined the men who were waiting for him at the door. as they passed out into the night, caribou sol dropped his head, and his long beard was pressed close against his breast. "fool, fool, that i am!" he said to himself. "why did i refuse to act and thus leave 'im alone with that devil an' his tools? i might have knowed it. i might have knowed it. somethin' will happen. somethin's in the air. i don't know what it is, but when that sarpent gits to wark thare's bound to be trouble. god fergive me!" chapter xvii the search a stiff breeze was swinging through the night as the vigilance committee left the saloon and started for the nearest cabin. the stars were hidden, and the weather had moderated, presaging a storm. the wind was soughing in the trees like a wandering spirit, while far in the distance the faint howl of a wolf was heard. the line of rough buildings stood indistinct in the darkness, unrelieved by one ray of light. they sent a chill to the hearts of several of the men by their gloomy silence. in one of these, perhaps, the stolen treasure was lying, the innocent cause of the disturbance. it had been arranged that the rest of the men should remain in the saloon while the cabins were being searched. then, if nothing came to light, a new line of action was to be entered upon. only tim fleeters accompanied the searchers. he would be necessary, it was considered, to recognize the poke. "ugh!" exclaimed mickie o'toole, as they entered the first house, and lighted a candle. "this place makes me crape, it's so still and death-loike." every nook was examined; the small box, the blankets, while even the stove, from which the fire had died out, was not overlooked. one by one the cabins were entered, and the same monotonous work continued. some of these keith had never entered before, and their bareness appalled him. what was there, he wondered, in this golden lure, which could induce men to abandon every comfort, and undergo such hardships in that desolate land? was the uncertain game worth it all? he could not believe it. at length the last house was searched, the one which stood by the trail leading to the indian village. nothing, so far, had been discovered, and the men peered at one another through the darkness. "well," said perdue, "we've had all this work for nothing, and i'm sick of the job." "but we're not through yet," replied pritchen sharply. "there are several more to visit, your own, the radhurst cabin, and the mission house, to say nothing of the indian shacks." "but ye wouldn't bother the old man and his daughter this time of the night, surely," responded the saloonkeeper. "i'd as soon distarb me mither's grave," said mickie, "as to frighten the swate-faced lady up yon by our presence to-night." "umph! i guess she won't mind," sneered pritchen, "especially if the parson's along." the blood rushed into keith's face, as he listened to these remarks. it was hard for him to stand quietly there and hear these men speak so lightly of one whose image was enshrined in his heart, and who was becoming dearer to him every day. her pure face and large, wondering eyes rose before him, and when pritchen uttered his coarse sneer he turned suddenly upon him. "what do you mean by those words?" he demanded. "anything you like," returned pritchen. "that's not an answer to my question. you named me in connection with miss radhurst, and i want you to explain." "you seem mighty interested." "yes, i am. and wouldn't any man with the slightest spark of chivalry be interested if he heard insinuations about one, especially a woman, who is as innocent and pure as the flower of the field? refer to her again as you did lately, and you'll see how interested i am." the tone in keith's voice warned pritchen and the rest that the less said about the matter the better, so an awkward pause ensued. perdue was the first to speak. "let's search the mission house now," he suggested, "and leave the radhurst cabin till the last." this plan was at once agreed upon, and, in no agreeable frame of mind, keith followed his companions up the narrow trail leading to the house. how often he had traversed that very path during the long years of regular duty. time and again had he looked up at the indian village on the brow of the hill above him, and a spirit of joy always thrilled his being. the children who used to run to meet him were ever sure of a hearty greeting. how dear they had become to him--the lambs of his flock. upon every one he had sprinkled the few drops of water, and sealed them with the sign of the cross in holy baptism. his flock he knew all by name, from the youngest to the oldest, and he was their spiritual father. but on this night no such feelings possessed his soul. a heavy weight oppressed him in some mysterious manner. he tried to shake it off, but in vain. the gliding figures before him assumed the appearance of evil spirits luring him on to a doom over which he had no control. why had pritchen chosen him as one of the committee unless he had some hidden motive in view? had a trap been laid by this wily serpent in which to entangle him? he was not superstitious; yet as they drew near the cabin a chill passed through his body. a feeble light was shining through the window, from the candle which was struggling bravely in the last throes of life. they opened the door and entered. the room was cold, for the fire had gone out. as in the other cabins, they at once set to work and the place was thoroughly searched. several tried the lid of the chest, but, finding it locked, desisted. at length pritchen drew near, and seized the cover with both hands. "hello! this is locked!" he exclaimed. "let's have the key." keith had thought of the chest, and the picture lying within. as pritchen turned to him his face flushed in a confused manner, which perdue, who was watching, observed. "the key, i say!" repeated pritchen in a sharp voice. "let's have the key to this chest. "it must be in the lock," replied keith. "i left it there when i went out, and did not turn it, either." "look for yourself, then," and pritchen stepped back to make room for the missionary. keith stooped down and examined it carefully. he tried the lid, but it was fastened. he placed his hand to his forehead and tried to think. "maybe you locked it and put the key in your pocket," suggested one. keith ran his hands through every pocket, and into each corner, but all in vain; the key was nowhere to be found. "very strange," muttered pritchen. "a chest in the cabin, a strong one at that--locked, and the owner unable to find the key! what do you keep in such a precious box?" keith heard him, but heeded not. he was trying to think. yes, he had placed the picture there before he left the building, and closed the lid down without turning the key. he was sure of that. he was aroused from his reverie by pritchen asking for an axe. "there," and keith pointed to a corner of the room. at first an attempt was made to pry up the cover, by forcing the axe under the edge, but in this they failed. "let's smash the d-thing!" cried pritchen. "we can't waste the whole night here, and we must see into this box." suiting the action to the word, he drove the blade into the smooth lid, and in a short time the cover was in splinters. in silence keith beheld the work of destruction. what could he do? every blow seemed to strike at his own heart, telling him of impending trouble. "hello! what's this? a woman's face! well, i'll be damned! look, boys," and pritchen pointed to the sketch lying in full view. the weak candle light fell tremblingly upon the fair face as perdue bent over the box to examine the picture more closely. then he seized it roughly in his hand, and held it up for a better inspection. it was not the little laugh given by one of the men which stirred keith so intensely, but the wink he caught pritchen tipping to perdue. it was that quick telegraphic message, the base innuendo which stung and lashed him more than a thousand words. the hot blood, recoiling at the silent insult, surged back to the body's secret depths, leaving the face as white as drifted snow. keith's eyes flashed danger as he reached out one long tense arm. "give that to me," he demanded, restraining himself with a great effort. "it has nothing to do with your business here." "it's interesting, though," replied perdue. "innocent and pure as the flower of the field," sneered pritchen, quoting the missionary's own words. scarcely had he ceased when keith, throwing discretion to the wind, leaped upon him, and with one blow sent him reeling back over a small bench standing near. regaining his feet as quickly as possible, with a terrible oath, pritchen rushed for his antagonist, only to go down again before that clinched sledge-hammer fist. this time he did not attempt to rise, but lay on the floor, giving vent to the most blood-curdling oaths. keith towered above him, awaiting his further movement. "lie there, then, you serpent!" he cried, spurning him with his foot. "it's your natural position, anyway." an exclamation of surprise from perdue caused him to glance quickly around, and the sight which met his gaze was one never to be forgotten. over the chest stood the saloonkeeper, holding in his hand a well-filled moose-skin poke, which he had just lifted from the bottom of the box. "is that yours, tim?" he asked. "yes," came the reply. "don't you see my initials, 't. f.' worked in the poke? i did it myself, and could swear to it anywhere." "and what's this?" exclaimed mickie o'toole, holding up another poke, which was empty. "see, and here are letters, too, 'k. r.', so, tim, you're not the only one who's been pinched." "maybe the parson kin throw some light on the subject," and perdue turned towards the missionary with a malicious light in his eye. but keith did not answer. he stood as if rooted to the floor. what did it all mean? was he dreaming? he placed his hand to his forehead. no, no, it was no dream, but a terrible reality. a base, cowardly trick had been imposed upon him; he felt sure of that. "god help me!" he inwardly groaned. "what am i to do?" "no wonder the box was locked and the key gone," he heard some one say, but it moved him not. his thoughts were elsewhere. what would she think? what would his flock think? their pastor a base thief! it was terrible. why had such a cross been laid upon him? what had he done to deserve it all? he thought of another, of one, sinless and pure, who had borne his cross alone; who had been mocked, laughed at, and spit upon. he would not desert him now, anyway, in his time of trial. the idea comforted him somewhat. a new feeling took possession of him, a strength which he had seldom experienced before. he felt a presence very near, some unseen influence giving him a marvellous calmness and courage. he looked at the men, and listened to their cruel words unmoved. he saw pritchen standing by, with satanic delight stamped upon his features, but it affected him not. base and sordid though they were, his companions could not fail to recognize the dignified, lofty bearing of the man before them, and the new light which illumined his face. mickie o'toole paused in the midst of a jocular remark, reverently crossed himself, and forgot to finish his sentence. perdue remained silent, and even pritchen failed to pour forth his quota of filth and blasphemy. they all felt, though none would have acknowledged it, that some mysterious power was in that room, before which their guilty souls shrank and feared. keith, alone, knew that one who said, "lo, i am with you alway," had not deserted him in the hour of distress. it was only after they had left the house and moved down the hill through the gloomy night that the miners recovered from their temporary fear. when at length they thrust keith into the saloon among the astonished waiting men, the vilest words in the english language were none too strong with which to introduce the wretched man. chapter xviii yukon jennie on the afternoon preceding the miners' meeting, yukon jennie sat silently in the corner of the old chief's lodge. her busy little fingers were arranging a number of small pictures, choosing out the best and laying them carefully by themselves. her face was full of animation as she bent over her task, and her eyes sparkled with delight as she gazed tenderly upon some favourite sketch. "the pale-face woman will like that," she said to herself. "when she sees the little stream running through the woods, playing with the sunbeams, laughing at the trees, kissing the flowers, and singing, singing all the time, she will be glad." since the night she had fled from the church, clutching the keen knife in her hand, a transformation had come over this dusky, wayward maiden. as long as her terrible resolve was pent up in her little heart it possessed her whole being. but when she had given vent to feelings in passionate words, the outcome was marvellous. it had proven a veritable safety-valve to her surcharged soul, a relief, which in others of a different disposition would have been effected by scalding tears. to acknowledge any change to her faithful teacher was foreign to her proud nature. when once again, however, in the cold night air she looked for a time towards the dimly lighted saloon, and then made her way slowly to the indian lodge which was her temporary home. the sight of the sad look on the missionary's face stood out clear and distinct as she lay that night beneath her blankets. another face, too, often came before her, weary, and blood-stained from the cruel crown of thorns. no picture had affected her so much as the one she had often gazed upon, in the school room, of the saviour hanging on the cross. over and over again she had sketched it until every detail was indelibly impressed upon her heart. the weary face; the nail-pierced hands and feet; the mocking crowd, had mingled with her dreams, and her passionate resolve, but never until this night had the meaning of it all stood out so real and distinct. during the days that followed jennie fought a stern battle. at times the old longing almost gained the mastery, and she would draw forth the knife, but always to return it to its hiding place among the bundle of rags. sometimes she watched pritchen's movements with a strange fascination, when the wild nature would reassert itself until crushed back again by a mighty effort. the result of this stern struggle was very apparent on this bright afternoon as the maiden busied herself with the sketches. her face, almost radiant, revealed the heart within, an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. when the pictures had been arranged to her satisfaction, she arose and began to array herself in her finest dress, kept only for the most important occasions. it took her some time to complete her costume, and often she glanced at herself in a small broken mirror, with all the pride of some society belle preparing for a grand ball. finally over her head and shoulders she threw a small bright-coloured shawl, a present from the christmas tree two years before. seizing the pictures in her hand, and drawing the wrap firmly around her body, she left the lodge, glided swiftly and noiselessly down the trail leading to the white settlement, and after a while turned sharply to the left. a queer little bundle she presented as she mounted the hill leading to the radhurst cabin. timidly she knocked upon the door, and when constance had thrown it open, she stepped into the building without a word and seated herself upon the edge of the first stool which caught her attention. her little black eyes instinctively drank in every object in the room, from the pictures on the wall to the white-haired man sitting by the window with a book in his hand. but constance formed the chief attraction. white men were no novelty to her, but a pale-face woman was something new, and worth studying. she had seen her every sunday at the church, sitting at the little harmonium, and had been held spellbound by her sweet rich voice joining in the singing. she associated constance with that strange world, the glorious dreamland, which filled so much of her life, and of which the bell was an important factor. from her seat in the back of the church she would look at her own hands, and notice how dark they were, compared with the organist's fair white ones. returning to the lodge she would gaze long and earnestly into the broken mirror, and wonder why her face was not like the white woman's. much time did she spend in her efforts to arrange her hair in the same fluffy way with wavy tresses crowning cheek and brow like the object of her admiration. but, poor child, the more she tried the less she succeeded, for her straight black hair proved too intractable, and refused any other method than the long braid, or its wild abandoned condition. for a time constance continued the sewing upon which she was engaged, and addressed no word to the maiden. she had often heard of this indian characteristic of silence when first entering a building, and wished to prove it for herself. but when at length jennie drew forth her treasure from beneath her shawl, and uttered the broken word "peejee," constance looked up. "what is it?" she asked kindly, going over to where the girl was sitting. "peejee. see, nice peejee," and jennie held out her hand. "oh, pictures," laughed constance, taking the sketches from the maiden. "did you bring them for me?" "me fetch 'm. heem tell jennie come." "who told you?" "gikhyi." "what, mr. steadman?" "ah, ah." "look, father," and constance crossed the room to where mr. radhurst was sitting, a silent witness of it all. "mr. steadman sent jennie here to show us her pictures; how kind of him." jennie went softly across the room, and laid her hand upon the sketches. "calling us to order, are you, jennie?" constance laughed. "come, then, show us your pictures, and tell us about them." eagerly the girl seized the sketch in her fingers. "peety," she said, holding it tenderly up before them. "f'owers, twees, water." constance and her father were much surprised as they examined them one by one. they were crude, of course, from an artistic point of view, but they exhibited genius in no slight degree. trees, houses, dogs and people were all there. presently constance caught sight of a face which made her start. she seized it from jennie almost rudely. "child!" she cried. "who is this? where did you see that man?" somewhat alarmed, jennie shrank back without uttering a word. "connie, what's the matter," questioned mr. radhurst, astonished at his daughter's excitement. "look, father," and constance handed him the sketch. "this is kenneth's picture, there can be no mistake. the girl must have seen him somewhere, perhaps on the trail." "there is a striking resemblance," returned her father. "but we cannot be sure that it's kenneth's." "no, no, father, i can't believe it's any other. it's so real. where did you see this man?" she demanded, turning to jennie. "me no see'm," replied the maiden. "what, never saw him; never met him on the trail?" jennie shook her head. "me no savvy. me no see'm." "look, jennie," said mr. radhurst kindly, "how you make this picture? you see something, eh?" her face brightened at this, and she hastened to reply. "beeg chief savvy." "what, the big chief knows?" "ah, ah. all same peejee." "what, a picture like this?" "ah, ah. all same peejee." father and daughter looked at each other, and the same idea flashed into their minds. "we need help," began constance. "the old chief knows something which might be important." "mr. steadman will help us," replied her father. "he knows the language, and has the chief's confidence." "i shall go to him at once," and constance reached for her cloak. "why not send a note by the indian girl, and ask him to come here, connie? it's quite dark outside, and i don't like for you to go alone. there are too many rough men around, and, besides, i would like to talk with mr. steadman, too, about the matter." "very well, father; what you say is quite true." sitting down before the table, constance drew forth a sheet of note paper from her little writing pad, and with a lead pencil wrote a few words to the clergyman. this was the first time she had ever written to him, and her face flushed as she began, "dear mr. steadman." "i have asked him to come here as soon as possible," she said to her father, as she folded the paper and placed it into an envelope. "that will do, connie. he will know that we need him on urgent business." "jennie," said constance, "will you take this to the mission house, to mr. steadman?" the maiden clutched the letter in her hand, rose, and started for the door. she felt it was something important. "and you will go quick?" "jennie go quick," was the response; "all same wind," and with that she passed out of the room. when once outside, jennie paused and looked across to the indian village. there was a short cut, which would save her the longer way around. this she took, and soon drew near the mission house. by this trail she approached the building on the left side, through a small clump of trees. she was in the act of stepping into full view, when the sight of a man approaching the cabin arrested her steps, and caused her to shrink back a few paces. not long was she left in doubt, for her keen eyes detected the slinking form of pritchen. that he was there on mischief bent, she had no doubt, and she determined to watch his actions. leaving the trail, she skirted the edges of the bunch of trees, keeping well within their shadows for some distance. then she crossed an open space, and stepped behind the very building where pritchen had been concealed. from this position she saw the wretch peering through the window, and then enter the house. with the speed of a deer, she hurried up the path, and, taking her stand at the corner of the building, watched the door almost breathlessly lest pritchen should reappear. satisfying herself that she was secure, and could run to the back of the house, or take shelter among the trees, she plucked up courage. then she crept to the window and looked in. at first she drew suddenly back, fearing she would be seen. finding, however, that the man did not look her way, she at length maintained her ground. it was easy to see everything quite plainly, from the placing of the pokes into the chest, to the throwing of the key into the stove, and the destruction of the picture. what it all meant, she could not tell, and she wondered what had become of the missionary. when, however, pritchen had finished his cowardly work, and passed out into the night, jennie was nowhere to be seen. she had disappeared, bearing with her the secret of the deed of darkness. chapter xix caribou sol another night had shut down over the great yukon valley, a night of wind and storm. it had been snowing since morning on this, the most memorable day in the history of klassan. caribou sol stood in front of his cabin, looking out into the darkness. he did not mind the driving wind, laden with snow, which beat against him; in fact, he never noticed it. his face was marked with anguish as he closed the door and moved slowly along the trail leading to the radhurst cabin. up the hill he crept like a worn-out, weary man. he breasted the tempest with his head bent forward, while his long white beard was tossed across his breast like seaweed flung upon some surf-beaten rock. constance was sitting by the table with a look of expectancy upon her face when sol knocked at the door. much had she changed since the previous evening. her old lightness of spirit was gone, and a sadness weighed upon her soul. tears glistened in her eyes, and the rosy colour had fled her cheeks, leaving them very white. joe simkins had brought the news early that morning, and all day long the suspense had been terrible. not for an instant did she or her father believe that keith was guilty. there was something wrong, they felt sure of that. constance longed to go to him, that he might know that they had not deserted him at any rate, and at times she was tempted to go to the trial, face the men, and give him a word of encouragement. she fancied him defending himself against the base charge with all the determination of his manly nature. that he would fight hard, she had no doubt, but she shuddered when she thought how little one man could do against so many. she was surprised, too, to find what an interest she took in his welfare, and how his trouble pierced her heart like a sharp sword. as the evening wore on, and the storm howled and raged outside, and no one came near the cabin, the suspense became almost unbearable. had the worst happened, so that even joe did not dare to come and break the news? she had often heard how gold thieves were treated by enraged miners, and she shivered as the idea came to her this night. mechanically, she picked up a book, a small copy of keble's "christian year," which keith had left there. opening it at random, her eyes rested upon a verse for the twenty-third sunday after trinity, which attracted her attention. slowly she read: "but first by many a stern and fiery blast the world's rude furnace must our blood refine, and many a blow of keenest woe be passed, till every pulse beat true to airs divine." the book dropped upon her lap, and for some time she remained in silent thought. "perhaps that is meant for me," she meditated. "i have been careless and indifferent to the higher things of life, living only for to-day. is the great master allowing these things to happen, the loss of mother, brother, home, and now----" she was startled by a knock upon the door, and she trembled as she laid the book upon the table and crossed the room. caribou sol grasped her hand in his own strong one, and looked searchingly into her eyes. "bad storm," he panted, "an' a tough climb up yon hill. i ain't as young as i uster be." then constance noticed how haggard was his face, while his hair and beard seemed whiter than when first she saw him. a feeling of dread entered her heart. "tell me, oh, tell me!" she cried, "what has happened!" "ye've heard somethin', then, miss?" questioned the old man. "yes, joe simkins was here this morning and told us what took place last night. but we have heard nothing about the trial." sol sat down upon a bench near where mr. radhurst was lying, and placed his head in his hands. "my god!" he groaned, "it was awful!" "what's awful?" demanded constance. "tell us quick!" "they've fired 'im!" "what?" "fired the parson! druve 'im from klassan!" "the brutes! the wretches!" and constance stamped her small foot upon the floor, while her hands clinched and her eyes glowed. "are they men or only beasts? did no one stand up for him?" "only me an' joe," replied the miner, looking with admiration upon the spirited woman before him. "we done what we could. but they're divils, miss, is them miners, when they're roused." "did he fight hard?" "fight? you should have seed 'im. i never seen anything like it. he was a match fer 'em all, but it was no use. they got turned agin 'im, an' 'ud listen to nothin'." "what did he have to say about the gold being found in his cabin?" asked mr. radhurst. "he couldn't explain, sir. nor could you nor me, if we'd had sich a cowardly trick played upon us. he jist stated the matter in words that rung with truth, any ninny could see that. but every wan on that committee got so excited that they jist threw questions at 'im." "'whar is the key,' says pritchen. "'why did ye git so scart when we axed ye to open the chist?' speaks up perdue. an' afore he could answer, some one else slung another at 'im. it wasn't a trial, miss, it was jist a bunch of sarpents hissin' all the time." "and did mr. steadman seem frightened when they wanted to open the chest?" queried constance, in surprise. "i heerd so." "but why?" "on account of the picter." "the picture?" "yes. tim slater, he was thar, ye know, says 'twas an uncommon fine 'un, lyin' right atop the chist." "but why should the picture frighten him?" "he wasn't altogether frightened, miss. ye can't frighten 'im. he only got a little white around the gills, so tim says. ye see, 'twas a woman's picter, all fixed up on that kind of paper them artist chaps use, an' done with a pencil. 'twas mighty fine, so tim says, an' i guess he knows." constance made no reply to these words. "a picture!" she mused, "and a woman's!" anxious though she was to hear more about the trial, her thoughts wandered. she longed with womanly curiosity to know about that picture. was it a young face, pretty, and whether the missionary had explained whose it was? something, however, restrained her. she did not dare to ask, lest she should betray the note of eagerness in her voice, and she was sure her face would flush even if she mentioned it. "but it wasn't the only charge they brung agin the parson," continued sol. "they raked up all sorts of stuff. it was certainly wonnerful." "what else did they say?" questioned mr. radhurst. "they said, or at least pritchen did, that he killed an injun woman some years back." "what!" "yes, that's what he said. but, my, you should have seed the parson then. he was jist like a tager, an' i never heerd a man say sich cuttin' things in all my life. he jist went fer pritchen an' opened up a page in his history which 'ud make ye creep. he told sartin an' clear that the villain himself was the one who killed the woman. an', says he: "'thar's a gal in this town who was thar as a wee child. she seed it all. she seen her mother killed afore her very eyes. bring her here,' says he, 'an' she'll tell yez what a liar this man is.'" "and what did they do?" asked constance almost breathlessly. "jist laughed at 'im." "the brutes!" "'bring her!' he cries; 'she's in klassan. if yez are men, ye'll do what's fair. her name is yukon jennie, an' she'll tell yez all." "this appeal kinder touched some of 'em, an' they axed fer the gal, though i saw that pritchen was mighty oneasy. so we waited till the gal was fetched." "did she come?" and constance leaned eagerly forward, as the old man paused. "no, miss. they couldn't find hair nor hide of her. she'd skipped out." "oh!" "yes, cut an' run. ye should have seed the look on the parson's face when he heerd that; it was terrible. an' ye could have heered the men hoot an' laugh clean up here, if ye'd been listenin'." "but where did she go?" asked mr. radhurst. "the girl was here until quite late yesterday afternoon." "that's what the men couldn't find out. the old chief was mighty surly, too, an' wouldn't tell nothin'. but thar was one thing i did notice," he continued. "while the rest was hootin' an' shoutin', a scart look come over pritchen's face when he heered that the girl had skipped, an' that the chief was cranky. he seemed feered of somethin', an' i can't make out jist what it is." "were those the only charges, mr. burke?" questioned constance, anxious to hear more. "no, thar's another i'm comin' to now, an' a mighty nasty one, at that." constance's face became still paler, and her lips quivered as she heard these ominous words. was there no end to these terrible things? "they say that the other poke found in the chist has a mighty suspicious look about it." "in what way?" "waal, ye see, thar was two letters on the poke, which seemed to pint to somethin' bad. pritchen was out huntin' mountain sheep a short time ago, so he says, in the ibex valley. while thar he stayed in an old log shanty, an' the place was all upsot lookin', so he says, as if a terrible fight had taken place. then he finds a book layin' on the floor with the parson's name inside." "what book was it?" asked constance eagerly. "i'm not sure that i kin remember the full name," and the old man scratched his head in a puzzled manner. "but it's a book of poetry written by a chap by the name of brown or black, i jist can't tell which. i never heered of 'im afore, 'ave you?" but constance did not reply. she was thinking of what keith had told her about his copy of browning. he had lost it somewhere on the trail, but he had told her nothing about the cabin. what did it all mean? "but that wasn't all, miss. thinkin' somethin' was wrong, pritchen hunted around fer a time, an' found whar a man had been buried, but the wolves hadn't left much, only torn clothes. the chap had been put into the snow, while a cross an' two letters had been cut in the rock above. the suspicious thing is, that them letters an' the ones on the poke found in the chist are jist the same." "very strange," remarked mr. radhurst. "do you remember the letters?" "yes, there were jist two, 'k. r.'" at these words, constance started and rose to her feet. trembling violently, she approached the miner. once she put out her hand as if for support. "tell me," she said in a hoarse whisper, "if you know anything more?" sol looked at her in amazement. "i didn't know ye'd feel so bad, or i'd not told ye," he replied, mistaking the cause of her agitation. "but thar isn't much more to be said. the parson told in plain words how he'd found a sick man in the ibex cabin, an' cared fer 'im as well as he could. when he died he buried 'im in the snow, an' put them marks on the rock, but about the poke, he had never seed it afore." "did he tell the man's name?" asked constance. "no." "no! and why not?" "he wouldn't tell, an' that was the hardest thing agin him. then some one axed 'im why he didn't report the matter when he reached klassan, an' at that the parson lit out: "'tell,' says he. 'what chance had i to tell with all yez agin me, ruinin' my injun flock, an' playin' that mean trick upon me in sendin' me to siwash crik? de yez think i'd care to tell ye?'" "what trick?" asked mr. radhurst. "what! ye never heered?" "no, not a word." "no? waal, now, that's queer. it's been the talk of the camp ever since. they made out that jim blasco, that divil out yon, was wounded, an' a doctor was wanted mighty bad. so they got the parson to go, an' sich a laughin' an' shoutin' they made over it all at his expense. i didn't think so much about it then, but now it jist fairly makes me bile." "why, mr. steadman never said a word to us about it when he came to siwash creek," said constance in surprise. "ay, is that so, miss? waal, it's jist like 'im. some 'ud have blabbed the whole thing, an' made a big story outer it. but not 'im. he's too much of a man fer that. he doesn't tell everything he knows, an' i reckon he has some good reason fer not tellin' that chap's name that died out in the ibex cabin." constance arose, and, going to her own little curtained apartment, brought forth a small picture. "mr. burke," she said, "you have met quite a number of men in this district, did you ever see any one who looked like that?" sol took the picture in his hand and gazed upon it for a time. then he held it up close to the light for a better inspection. "fine chap, that, miss. is he a relation of yourn?" "it's my brother, kenneth, and his initials are just the same as the ones on the rock and the poke." "ye don't say so, waal! but, miss, fer god's sake, what's the matter?" and the old man dropped the picture and stared at the young woman. and good reason was there for his surprise, for upon constance's face was stamped a look of horror, and her eyes were fastened upon the small window near at hand. "a face! a face! i saw it there!" she gasped, "looking into the room. oh, it was awful!" and she dropped upon a bench out of sheer weakness. an ugly look came into sol's face, as he rose to his feet, while his hand instinctively sought his hip pocket, and rested upon the butt of a revolver concealed there. "we're watched," he whispered. "them divils are wild to-night. some are havin' a drunken spree, an' it's hard to tell what they'll do afore mornin'. my old carcase ain't wuth much, but some of them'll be wuth less if they come meddlin' around here. i guess, though, we'd better draw that curtain, an' shet out all pryin' eyes. thar, that's better. now don't be frightened, miss. nothin'll harm ye as long as this old gun holds true, an' she ain't failed me yit, though she's seen some hightly ugly times." "thank you," replied mr. radhurst, who had remained still through the excitement. "you are very good, but i don't think any harm will come to us. perhaps some one was passing and happened to glance in at the window. sit down, please, and tell us some more about the trial, for i am anxious to hear all." "it may be as ye say, sir. i only hope so," and sol resumed his seat. "thar ain't much more to tell about that fuss. i saw at once when the trial began that it was all up with the parson, an' that they intended to condemn him, but i didn't think it'd take so long. they jist played with 'im like a cat plays with a mouse. but at last it was ended, an' pritchen, who was chairman, stood up, an', said he: "'we give ye yer chice; hit the trail in two hours, or stay here an' take yer dose from us.' "i kin see the parson standin' thar now with a wonnerful look on his face. he didn't seem to hear the chairman's word, fer he was gazin' through the dirty winder, out inter the storm, an' away to the injun village beyond. "'de ye hear me, damn ye!' cried pritchen, bringin' his fist down upon the table with a bang. 'why don't ye answer? we can't fool here all day.' "then the parson turned and looked square into his eyes. he was very calm, an' he spoke so quiet an' solemn like: "'man,' says he, 'd'ye mean it? fer nellie's sake, an' the kids, won't ye have marcy. ye know i didn't do them deeds, an' ye know, bill pritchen,' says he, movin' up close to the chairman, 'that ye yerself are the one that left that young chap out thar to die. ye was his pardner. ye stole his gold, that's what ye did.' "the parson could go no further, fer the men set up sich a shoutin' an' a laughin' that ye couldn't hear yerself speak. "then he gave them a look i'll never fergit, full of scorn and pity. i never thought a man could look that way. he straightened himself up, an' turned to the chairman. "i'll go,' says he, 'i'll hit the trail. i'll leave ye. but remember, i'll come back when i git ready.' "'come back, if ye dare,' says pritchen, an' the men hooted as the poor chap walked from the buildin' as proud as a lord. "i follered 'im to his cabin, fer i was sore hit, an' stood with 'im as he was ready to leave. he had his rifle, snow-shoes, his medical case, an' a small pack of grub on his back. he wouldn't say much, not even whar he was goin'. he seemed like a man in a dream. "'sol,' says he, jist afore he started, 'i'm as innocent of them charges as the new-born babe.' "'i know it,' says i, 'but what kin we do?' "'nothin',' says he. 'nothin' now, but the good lord will bring to light the hidden things of darkness in his own way, never ye fear that, sol.' "then he looked across to this cabin, an' remained very still fer a time. "'won't ye say good-bye?' says i. "'i can't,' says he, with a groan. 'with this shadder over me, i can't face her; it's better not. but ye'll look after'm, sol,' an' he lays his hand upon my shoulder. "'till death,' says i. "'god bless ye, man,' says he, an' with that he was gone--gone out inter the night through the wild howlin' tempest." for some time the three sat in silence, each wrapped in earnest thought. as constance listened to the snow-laden wind beating against the window, she pictured keith battling his way through the dreary night, or else crouching by a lonely camp fire. her ideas of christianity were undergoing a marked change. formerly she had associated religion with large churches, where well-dressed people attended, and the services were conducted by white-robed clergymen, assisted by high-class music and well-trained choirs. she knew that the clergy, for the most part, were a devoted, hard-working class, but the thought of connecting them with the heroic in life had never entered her head. once she had attended a synod service, where the clergy marched in, two by two, singing "onward, christian soldiers." though she had been told that some of them were men broken down by strenuous toil in frontier work among the indians and miners, she had experienced no thrill or quickening of the heart. her heroes were of a different class: soldiers, who fought and died for their country, or sailors, who braved the perils of the great deep. of these she loved to read, while a missionary book, or a magazine telling of the noble deeds done, and lives given for the cause of christ, was something not to be considered. but her eyes had been opened, and she saw a man, a student of no mean order, who had given up his life to uplift a band of uncouth indians in a lonely region, away from all the refinements of civilization, who knew nothing of ease or of popular applause. and the most wonderful of all was that he did not consider it a sacrifice, but simply a joy to be able to serve. then to see this man, in his noble efforts to assist and cheer the miners, opposed, scoffed at, and driven out, perhaps to die, by the very ones he had tried to help, was strange to contemplate. she had heard people laugh at missionaries and their efforts to benefit the natives. now a longing entered her heart to go to those very people, and tell them what she had seen of the efforts of one man. the report of a rifle startled her from her reverie. then the sound of voices came faintly through the night. sol sprang to his feet, and rushed to the door. "stay here!" he cried. "i'll be back in a minute." presently he returned with a pained expression upon his face. "i was afeared of it," he replied, in answer to constance's inquiring look. "them varmints are burnin' the mission house. blow out the candle, an' come to the winder to see fer yerselves." with the room in darkness, and the curtain drawn back, the three stood and watched the scene of destruction. the flames, fanned by the wind, were sending up huge forked tongues into the night, while anon a rifle shot or a shout would wing its way across the snow. "god help us!" groaned sol. "what will they do next? they don't realize what they're doin' to-night. they must be mad or they wouldn't burn the mission house, whar the injuns keep their supplies. what will the natives do when they return? god help us then!" "amen," fervently responded mr. radhurst, as he returned wearily to his position on the couch. chapter xx the old chief's messenger the morning of the trial yukon jennie stood in the chief's lodge, girded for a long journey. she was clad in a soft buckskin suit, the skirt of which reached but a short distance below her knees. her leggings were of a bright scarlet material, and her feet encased in a pair of moccasins of her own handiwork. on her head was a hood of gray, so capacious that only a small portion of her face was exposed to view. around her waist was a leathern belt, pendant from which were a small hatchet, a sheath knife, and a drinking cup. altogether, she presented a picturesque figure, standing there awaiting the old man's pleasure. on her face was a look of determination, mingled with a high resolve, for was she not about to undertake a task of supreme importance, fraught with hardships and dangers, for the sake of her tribe? she was only a girl--a waif--and in the eyes of the great hunters counted for little. they fed, housed, and clothed her, but never considered her as of any real importance. after leaving the mission house the night before, she had searched for keith in order to deliver constance's message. failing in this, she had gone to the saloon, hoping to find him there. hearing the talking within, she feared to enter, and waited for some time outside in the bleak darkness. at length wearying of this, she returned to the chief's lodge, and sat quietly in one corner, apparently lost in thought. after a while she again sallied forth, and had advanced but a short distance when the vigilance committee hurried from the mission house and started down the hill. keeping at a safe distance, she followed them to the saloon, heard the rough, angry words, and saw violent hands laid upon keith. she paused only for an instant, and then with the speed of a deer, sped back to the lodge and told the chief what she had witnessed. no comment was made as jennie related her story, but all through the night the aged man sat and brooded in deep silence. early in the morning he aroused the maiden, and in a few brief words ordered her to prepare for a long journey. "you must go," he said in the native tongue, "swift as the wind, straight as the wild goose, and carry this to amos." as he spoke he took from his neck four strings of beads fastened securely together, and handed them to the maiden. "guard them well," he commanded, "and come back soon." jennie's eyes sparkled with delight as she seized the necklace in her hand. never before had she seen the old man part with his treasure. it was the symbol of his office as chief of his tribe, and well did jennie know the meaning when it was entrusted to any one else. she had heard of it being done once before. long years ago, so it was said around the camp fire, had the chief sent the beads by a trusty courier over leagues and leagues of mountain, forest and plain to summon the natives to hurl back a marauding band of indians. with the beads about her neck, and a small blanket and some food on her back, jennie bade the chief good-bye, and sped away from the lodge out upon the long trail. all day long she fought her way through the blinding storm with the unerring instinct of a wild animal. the region was familiar to her, though every trace of a path had been obliterated. no living thing met her gaze, as hour after hour she plodded on. when night shut down she sought shelter in a thicket of fir trees, lighted a fire, ate her scanty meal, and, wrapping her small blanket around her body, was soon fast asleep. towards morning the wind dropped to rest, the snow ceased falling, and the bright moon smiled forth from banks of drifting clouds. a shy rabbit, hopping around in search of a meal from some tender cotton-wood bark, started back at the sight of the curious bundle lying in the snow; while some distance off a black fox sniffed the air and turned warily away. early in the morning jennie was up and on again. on the fourth day, footsore and weary, she dragged her tired body towards the nearest camp. the sun had gone down and darkness had spread over the land. there were only a few indians here, the rest having gone farther afield. it was the hour of prayer, and, according to their usual custom, they were all gathered into the largest camp. it was a quaint structure, this rude abode, which served as the little sanctuary in the wild. it had the appearance of a log house cut in two, and pulled apart, leaving a clear passage of about four feet right through the building. in this space a glowing fire of large logs was sending out its generous heat, while the smoke ascended through the opening above. on either side of the fire the indians were gathered, reclining on blankets, wolf and bear skins, placed over a liberal supply of fir boughs. amos, the catechist, was reading the lesson for the day when jennie glided into the lodge. his noble face was full of earnestness as he rolled forth the long words in the rythmical takudh language, pausing occasionally to explain some passage to the intent listeners. though all present had noticed jennie's entrance, no sign of recognition was made as she quietly settled down in their midst, and listened to the reader. with impassive faces, and a stoicism worthy of the ancient grecians, they bowed their heads while amos repeated several of the prayers of the church, and then led in the singing of "nearer, my god, to thee," one of their favourite hymns. intensely fond of music, their voices rang out sweet and clear upon the night air. old and young joined in the hymn, a translation made years before by that prince of pioneer missionaries, the venerable archdeacon mcdonald, who did such a great work at fort yukon in the early sixties. "ndo nyet nyakkwun ttia ndo nyet nyakkwun, kwizyik nititae, guselshit chi. tthui sih chilig telya ndo nyet nyakkwun ttia, ndo nyet nyakkwun."[1] not until the hymn had been sung, and the beautiful "grace of our lord jesus christ" said, did the indians turn their attention to jennie. then all reserve was thrown off, and they surrounded her, plying question after question as to the cause of her visit. to none of these, however, did the maiden reply, but unfastening the buckskin jacket, she drew forth the necklace, and, without a word, handed it to amos. at once all talking ceased, and a deep silence pervaded the place, broken only by the crackling of the fire or the snarl of a dog outside. every eye was fixed upon the badge, the symbol of so much power, as the catechist held it in his hand and examined it carefully. curious though they were to know the meaning of it all, they no longer questioned the messenger. that it was of supreme importance, they were well aware, but it was a custom of long standing that when the chief sent his badge of office, summoning his people together, the courier must be as silent as the grave. only from the head of the tribe must the information be imparted, and then in solemn council. for some time amos sat in deep thought, still holding the necklace in his hand. at length he arose, and addressing a few words to the hunters who were present, passed with them out of the lodge. going to the catechist's temporary shack, the men conversed long and earnestly together, and finally decided upon a definite line of action. early next morning, long before the sun had reddened the eastern horizon, four stalwart natives, including amos, left the camp and set out upon different trails. days passed by, and then bands of indians began to straggle in. the nearest came first, erected their brush houses, and awaited the rest. at last the most remote arrived, and with them came amos. well had the couriers performed their task of gathering the hundreds of natives together for their march to klassan. it was a quaint, motley crowd, which one day broke up camp and filed out upon the narrow, winding trail. sturdy hunters were there; buxom women, with bright-eyed pappooses strapped upon their broad backs; little children, youths and maidens, all with their burdens, according to their strength. even the dogs, and they were almost numberless, carried their packs--from ten to thirty pounds. little wonder that amos looked upon the procession with a feeling of pride as it wound its way along sweeping valleys, through deep gorges and thick forests. were they not his own people, and he their chosen leader? since the day of the wild storm, when jennie had set forth from klassan on her important errand, the weather had undergone a marked change. a soft wind blew in from the south, laden with messages of spring. the sun no longer skimmed the horizon for an hour or two and then disappeared. it now rode high, and poured its hot beams upon the great snowy waste. the trees, touched by wind and sun, dropped their white mantle and aroused from their long slumber. the brooks and rivulets, locked for months in an icy embrace, babbled once again, as they poured their icy waters down to the lordly yukon. the river kaslo began to struggle in the throes of a mighty upheaval. as a rule, the ice wore gradually away, and passed off too much decayed to cause any serious damage. but now it was different. the torrents of water hurled down from countless tributaries, large and small, lifted the solid mass and broke it into a million fragments. these, carried forward by the sheer force of the current, crashed and roared, tearing away thousands of tons of earth from the banks, and scraping the scarred rocks as clean as a bone. some were piled up in the wildest confusion on point or headland, others rushing down became jammed in the black canyon, the most dreaded spot in the river. day by day the mass rose higher, straining and groaning to free itself from its narrow prison and the weight of ice and water behind. but still it held firm in the terrible, vise-like grip of those flinty walls, and might hold for days, flooding the valleys for miles back, and threatening all before it with certain destruction. never in the memory of the oldest native had spring leaped forward so early with unsheathed sword to deal such a sudden blow to its stern adversary, winter. the indians marching to klassan felt the change most keenly as they plodded wearily onward, wading in water to their knees, or sinking at every step into the soft snow. it was a weary and dispirited band which one night drew near the village. silently they came--this army of the mountains--like grim spectres out of the darkness. the foremost reached the mission house, and paused in amazement at beholding nothing there except a heap of ruins. others came up and crowded around in silent wonder. was this all that remained of their supplies, the mission house filled with goodly treasures, the pride of the band? then the truth flashed upon them--the white men had done it, had inflicted this base insult! from hundreds of lips at once arose a wild cry of sorrow and rage, which winging through the darkness, startled the miners from their sleep, and paled the cheeks of those gambling late in perdue's store. [1] literal translation: "close to thee, my father, close to thee. even the cross raiseth me if still my song shall be close to thee, my father, close to thee." chapter xxi constance's venture the night when the mission house was burned caribou sol slept on the floor in the radhurst cabin. it was not an easy bed, but he did not mind. "all the better fer bein' hard," he laughed, when constance apologized for their poor accommodation. "i won't sleep too sound, an' i'll be able to keep an ear peeled fer them varmints." constance felt safer with the old man in the cabin, but still she could not sleep. what she had heard of the trail and the mystery regarding those letters kept her much perplexed. she thought, too, of keith, out in the wild on that dreary night, and offered up a fervent prayer on his behalf. it was the first time that she had mentioned his name in her petitions, and a sweet, pleasant feeling stole into her heart. at length the long dreary night wore away, and morning broke, flooding the whole land with joy and brightness after the furious storm. but among the miners the day brought nothing but gloom, the memory of the wild revel and deed of destruction being too plainly evident. they realized when it was too late how far they had been led by pritchen, and they naturally felt very sore. many were the furtive glances cast towards the smouldering ruins of the mission house, while visions of revenging natives filled their minds. for days perdue's store was packed with anxious men, discussing the affair in no uncertain language. caribou sol carried the news to the radhurst cabin. "they're 'bout wild down yon," he said. "fairly tumblin' over one another with excitement." "why, what's the matter?" questioned constance. "afeered of injuns, that's what's the matter. an' they've good reason to fear, too. if somethin' isn't done afore them natives come back, there'll be lively times around these diggin's." "can't the matter be settled with the old chief?" queried mr. radhurst. "why not compensate him for the damage which has been done, and let him pacify his people?" "they tried it, sir, but it wouldn't work. they sent several men up to the old chap to have a big pow-wow. they carried presents, too, but he wouldn't talk. he jist sat thar an' listened to 'em, though i don't believe he understood much. when they offered 'im the presents, he shook his head an' pinted to the door, an' said somethin' in the injun tongue which nearly scart 'em out of their wits." "but surely the indians are christian enough not to take any wild revenge," said constance. "even though they will no doubt be angry when they find what has been done, don't you think that the teaching they have received for the past ten years will have some restraining influence?" "i suggested that, miss, down to the store, but i got only sneers fer my trouble. 'religion,' says they with oaths, 'it's only skin deep. when they've clothes to wear, plenty to eat, an' things go their way, they're fine christians then. but jist wait till ye see 'em look upon yon ruins, an' ye'll see how fer their religion goes. our guns'll have more influence then, than all their bible pap.' "'ye may be right,' says i; 'but we'll see.'" "oh, if only mr. steadman could be here when they return!" exclaimed constance. "i know he could handle them better than any one else." "ay, ay, miss, there's no doubt about that. but, poor chap, i'm thinkin' he'll have enough to attend to out on the hills by this time." "is there much talk about him at the store?" asked mr. radhurst. "no, sir. he's seldom mentioned. once pritchen made a remark about the trial, but, gittin' no encouragement, he shet up. the men are feelin' purty sore over the whole bizness. i begin to gather they think there's somethin' crooked about the affair, though they say nothin' open. pritchen seems to be the most unsettled one of the bunch. not only is he dead scart of the injuns, but he sees that the miners are turnin' agin 'im fer gittin' 'em into sich a scrape. the strange thing is that he's been mighty friendly with me of late, an' axed me a number of questions about you folk." "about us?" cried constance in surprise. "why, what did he want to know?" "oh, nothin' much in perticular, only what yez were here fer, how long yez were goin' to stay, an' questions like that. i didn't give 'im much satisfaction, 'cept that yez were lookin' fer a relative, a young chap that come up here some time ago." "and what did he say?" "seemed kinder surprised an' mighty interested when i told 'im yez were on the right track good an' hot; had discovered the lad's fiddle an' found out that the old chief has a picter of 'im." "'do they know whar the injun got the picter?' says he, sudden like. "'not yit,' says i, 'but i'm thinkin' they'll find out.' "'how?' says he. "'i don't know,' says i, 'but sich things ginnerly come out in time.' at that he laughed as if it was a huge joke. he's a deep one that, fer sure, an' sometimes i think he knows more about the whole bizness than he lets on. thar's somethin' fishy, too, about his havin' that book, an' knowin' about them letters on that rock. it's mighty curious, an' i can't savvy it at all." during the days that followed, constance's mind was seriously perplexed. she longed to go to the old chief, and question him about the picture, but dreaded the undertaking, knowing nothing of the native language. if only old pete would come, he would go, for she had great confidence in the worthy prospector. she wondered why the delay, for he had expected to return in a short time with a supply of moose-meat. then, the miners' fear concerning the arrival of the natives oppressed her heavily. for herself, she did not care so much, but when she looked upon her feeble father, and noticed his worn, brave face, her eyes would become moist. often she would lie awake at night in her little room, thinking of it all. "what if the indians should return to-night?" she said to herself, over and over and over again. "would they know the difference between the innocent and the guilty, or would they serve all alike?" at length the suspense became unbearable. something must be done, or else she felt she would go crazy. one bright afternoon, when her father was sleeping comfortably, she slipped out of the house and hurried down the narrow path to the indian trail. up this latter she quickly moved, fearful lest the miners should see her. reaching the top, she looked back, and breathed a sight of relief, for not a person was in sight. had she known, however, that from a small cabin window, keen, cruel eyes were watching her every movement, and a cunning mind was revolving the purpose of her visit, she would have hesitated before advancing further. constance's heart beat fast as she knocked upon the door of the chief's lodge. a voice sounded within, but what it meant she could not tell. nevertheless, she opened the door and entered. at first she could see very little, but her eyes becoming accustomed to the change, she at length observed the chief sitting upon the floor, while his wife sat a little distance away, busily engaged upon some beaded work. a look of surprise passed over the chief's face when he saw the fair visitor standing before him. then his old wrinkled visage broke into a smile, and he reached out a thin, scrawny hand in welcome. constance shrank inwardly from touching the extended member, but she knew it would not do to show any sign of fear or disgust. "good," said the chief, when she had complied with his wish, motioning her to a stool near by. as constance obeyed, she noticed that a lighted candle stood by the old man's side. before him were two small pictures, which aroused her curiosity, for in the dimness of the cabin she could not tell what they were. the chief loved pictures dearly, and because he was too old to read they were doubly precious. he treasured each one which the missionary had given him with the greatest care, and was never weary with asking questions about their meaning, till the complete stories were indelibly impressed upon his mind. what a comfort they had been to him through the long evenings, as he sat in the darkness of his cabin. since jennie had left him, and the mission house had been burned, the chief had been fighting a hard battle with himself, and the crisis had just been reached when constance arrived. he realized that when his people returned from the mountains and learned what had been done there would be much excitement and anger. carried away by the impulse of the moment, they would be tempted to drive the whites out of klassan in no gentle manner, unless restrained in time. they would look to him, their leader, and what was he to say? he himself was undecided. at times his old savage nature almost overwhelmed him when he brooded upon the injustice which had been done. at such moments, if the natives had returned, it would have gone hard with the miners. he thought of what the missionary had told him about moses fighting great battles and defeating his enemies. then he would bring out the picture of the patriarch, with his hands upheld by aaron and hur, while the battle raged below. would it not be right, he thought, to do the same now, and thus save his people? but gradually the feeling of anger would pass away, and he would bring forth his other favourite picture of christ hanging on the cross, and gaze for a long time upon it. this man was greater than moses, so he had been told, in fact, the greatest who had ever lived, the son of god. he forgave those who injured him, and prayed for them with almost his last breath. for days, the power of the man of sorrows had been making itself felt in the old chief's heart, and then the picture of moses was laid aside. but in an evil moment pritchen had arrived, demanded the photograph of kenneth radhurst, and roused the chief's anger. in indian and broken english he had vented upon the white man the fury of his wrath, and refused to grant his request. since then the two pictures were studied together, the struggle becoming fiercer all the time. how little the miners at klassan realized that in that despised cabin their lives were being weighed in the balance; that light was contending with darkness; the love of christ with the hatred of hell, and that only little was needed to decide one way or the other. such was the condition when constance arrived upon the scene. knowing nothing of the conflict which was raging in the chief's heart, constance sat upon the rough stool uncertain what to say. the flickering light of the candle fell upon her puzzled face, while her blue-veined hands lay clasped in her lap. it was a strange sight, worthy of the brush of a master, this fair woman, the stately flower of a dominant race, and the two old indians, sere and withered, like clinging leaves in late november. "pretty picture," constance at length remarked, breaking the silence, which was becoming painful. "good," answered the old man, lifting up his treasures with pride, and handing them to her. "beeg chief," he continued, much pleased at the pale-face woman's interest. "you got all same peegee? you savvy 'um?" constance shook her head and smiled. "no, not like these. but i have one here," and she drew forth kenneth's picture from beneath her jacket. "see." the chief took it in his trembling hand, and held it up close to the candle. then he turned it over, examined it carefully, while a surprised look passed over his face. presently he reached to the left, and drew towards him a buckskin bag, and fumbling in this brought out the picture pritchen had given him, the same one jennie had copied. finding it was safe, he appeared more satisfied, but still seemed much puzzled as he laid the two together and gazed earnestly upon them. "all same peegee," he exclaimed at length. "you savvy 'um?" "yes," replied constance, trembling with intense eagerness. "my brother." "ah," came the slow, unsatisfactory response. "you know him?" she continued. the old man shook his head. "me no savvy." "but where you get picture?" she persisted, pointing to the photograph. still he shook his head, and looked intently into constance's face, as if to read the meaning of her words. suddenly a laugh filled the room, coarse and startling. it came from the old woman, who had been an amused and silent spectator of the whole scene. then ensued an animated conversation between the aged pair, and, as constance listened, without understanding a word, she noticed that the chief's face was clearing of its puzzled expression. "him no savvy," said the woman, turning to constance. "me savvy much. me talk all same white man." "then you will tell me where that picture came from," replied constance eagerly. the woman chuckled and reached out a scrawny hand for the photograph. "see um, peegee?" she demanded. constance nodded. "black bear geeve um dis." "black bear!" queried constance in surprise, not knowing that this was the most offensive epithet in the tukudh vocabulary. again the old woman chuckled and grinned, exhibiting her toothless gums. then she arose, and drawing close to constance, pointed in the direction of the miners' cabins, while a fierce look came into her wrinkled face. "there, there!" she cried. "him there. bad man. black bear, ugh!" "who is he? tell me his name," replied constance, shrinking back involuntarily from the excited creature before her. "no, me no savvy." "what, don't know his name?" "me no savvy." "but how did the chief get this picture?" the old woman looked at her silently for a while, as if collecting her thoughts. then, in broken english, she told her tale of the mean trick which had been imposed upon them. so vivid was the description that constance knew it could be pritchen and no one else. it came to her with a shock, for she feared him more than all the others, and somehow she felt that he was responsible for all the trouble which had taken place. how could she go to him and ask him what he knew? would he not only laugh at her? at length, sick at heart, she arose to go. before leaving, however, she shook hands with the chief, and turning to his wife, said: "i want to thank the chief for giving medicine to heal my father." "you fadder?" asked the woman in surprise. "yes, the missionary got it. my father was very sick, and it made him better. you tell chief that?" "me tell um by um by. me glad." suddenly she added: "you all same clistin?" "what?" and constance looked her surprise. "you all same clistin? you pray?" "oh, yes, i pray, and try to be a christian." "you fadder all same clistin?" "yes." "good. me glad." then she added: "white man all clistin?" "no," answered constance doubtfully. "some bad man clistin, eh?" this was certainly puzzling, and, receiving no reply, the native continued: "clistin burn mission house, eh?" "no, no! a christian would not do that. only bad men. but look, all the men over there are not bad." "some good, eh?" "yes." "umph!" grunted the old woman, as she went back to her position on the floor, and continued her bead work. as constance left the lodge, she was surprised to find how dark it was. she had not noticed how the time had passed so intent had she been upon the object of her visit. she reproached herself for staying so late. what would her father say? and how uneasy he would be. quickly she hurried down the trail, fearful lest she should come in contact with any of the miners. turning up the little path leading to her cabin, she gave a sigh of relief. no one would be there, as it was out of the regular thoroughfare. just at this moment, when she felt quite secure, a figure loomed up suddenly before her and barred the way. with a cry of mingled surprise and fear, constance started back as she recognized pritchen's burly form, and heard his sneering laugh. "frightened, are you?" he asked. "i must be a monster." "what do you mean?" constance demanded, summoning what courage she could. "how dare you stop me here in this lonely place!" "oh, just out for a stroll and happened to pass this way." "well, let me past, please." "yes, when i get ready. t'ain't often i have the pleasure of meeting such a fine, high-spirited lady in my nightly meditations." "will you let me pass?" "you seem to be in a hurry." "i am. my father is waiting for me, and will be anxious." "ha, ha, that's a good one. now, you wouldn't be a bit uneasy about your dad if i happened to be the parson, would you?" constance was getting desperate, and not wishing to bandy words with the villain, made an effort to go by him. "oh, no, you don't do that," and an oath leaped from his vile mouth. "let me go by, i tell you." "yes, when i get what i want." "well, what is it? tell me, quick." "visiting the old chief, eh?" "yes." "any success?" "what do you mean?" "get the picture?" "what picture? and why do you ask?" "oh, you know, well enough. the one the old devil has." "he has my brother's picture, which i believe you gave him. i didn't get it, however, and maybe you'll tell me where you got it." "hell if i'll tell you, and what's more, i believe you've got it, and i want it." "but i tell you i didn't get it." "oh, that's a fine story. didn't get it! but i believe you did, and i want it." constance looked around, as if seeking some avenue of escape. what was she to do? alone there with such a villain! should she cry for help? pritchen seemed to read her thoughts. "it's no use to run or make a fuss," he growled. "you can't get clear of me, and you'll soon be choked off if you start to do any croaking. you might as well make up your mind at once, and hand out that picture." "but i tell you i haven't got it," she persisted. "oh, please, please, let me go. have you no pity at all?" "give me that picture, or by heavens, i'll take it!" and he sprang forward, and seized her with his rough hands. with one piercing cry, constance struggled to free herself from his terrible clutches, while her brain reeled as she felt herself being borne to the ground. just when the last hope of help had fled, a harsh growl and a roar fell upon her ears, while out of the night sprang a dark object, and hurled itself full upon the villain bending over her. the last that constance heard was pritchen's cry of rage and fear as he struggled with his antagonist, and then she fell back unconscious upon the trail. chapter xxii old pete when old pete left klassan, and went back to siwash creek with keith's dogs, he expected to return in a short time with a supply of moose-meat. but the game was scarce, and he was forced to go far afield before meeting the proud monarchs of the forest. it led him into a new region, where he spent some time in prospecting a ledge of rocks, which showed indications of gold-bearing ore. by the time he again reached his own cabin spring was upon him, and the snow was rapidly disappearing from the ground. one day he spent at siwash creek, packing up his meagre household belongings, and that evening alec mcpherson came to visit him. this sturdy son of the heather looked with surprise upon the dismantled room, and turned inquiringly to his companion. "what, mon, are ye awa' sae soon!" he exclaimed. "i thought ye would stay wi' us noo." pete did not seem to hear this remark, but continued stuffing several articles of wearing apparel into an old canvas sack. when the last pair of socks had been carefully stowed away, and the bag deposited in one corner of the room, he suddenly asked: "what's the news from klassan, alec?" "nothing, pete. since ye came from yon, we've had never a word. the big storm blocked the trail, an' atop o' that came the thaw, an' the water noo is a-spillin' owre the land." "what! no word from the parson or the lassie?" "none." "wall, then, alec, i'm a-goin' down, as fast as them hounds'll take me. i'm anxious to hear some word." "but ye won't strike the trail noo, mon, in its bad condeetion? stay here till things settle doon a bit." seating himself upon a stool pete began to whittle at a small plug of tobacco, and then deliberately filled an old blackened pipe before replying. "sit down, alec," he demanded at length. "thar's somethin' on me mind i want to tell ye. ye've been a good friend to me, man, an' i kin never fergit it. we've trod the trails together fer years, but i'm a-thinkin' we'll do it no more." "tut, tut, mon, what's come owre ye? haven't we fine prospects in sight anent the summer?" "ay, ay, alec, it's true what ye say. but haven't we allus had fine prospects in sight? tell me that. an' what have we got? i'll tell ye what we've got. we've got old age pilin' a-top of us; we've got stiff jints, an' rheumatiz a-plenty; an' we've got a cabin apiece. that's what we've got, alec, a-trailin' after this devil gold. we're gittin' old, man, an' the things we should have we haven't got, i tell ye that plain." "why, pete, i thought ye liked the life, sae grand an' free, wi' the great works o' nature all around ye. didn't ye often say ye could never live in harness, but wanted the wild always fer yer hame?" "sure, man, i know i said it, but i've been a-thinkin' different of late. out in yon new region i've had strange thoughts, an' they overcome me. thinks i to meself, i'm an old man without a home, an' no one to care for me whether i come or go. what's the use of me a-rustlin' fer a home-stake when there's never a one to share it with me? the wild life may be fine to read about in stories an' sich like, an' the young chaps may like it, but i want a home now; i want some one to care fer, an' to care fer me. what good is all the gold in the warld, alec, when ye haven't a wife or kiddies to brighten yer cabin?" "ye're owre late thinkin' aboot sic things," said alec rather dryly, puffing away at his pipe. "i know it, man, i know it. but hearken. i've a son an' a daughter now in me old age, an' though they're neither kith nor kin of mine, they're very close to me, an' i love 'em. they've been good to me, an' i want to be near 'em. they're now at klassan, so that's why i'm a-goin' thar." "an' how lang will ye stay doon yon? will ye no wark?" "make a livin', man? i'm not a-worrin' about that. all my life long the good lord has provided fer me better than i desarved, an' if he cares fer the flowers an' the birds he'll not abandon an old man, never ye fear that. but thar'll be wark, alec, an' these rough hands'll not be idle as long as life is in this carcase." "may god bless ye, pete!" and alec stretched out his horny right hand. then in the silence of that little cabin these two hardy prospectors joined hands, while their eyes filled with tears, at what they felt was at last the parting of the ways. some time before pete reached klassan the trail became so bad that it was impossible for the dogs to drag the sled with its load of meat and the prospector's small outfit. the only thing to do was to cache the supplies up between three trees, on a triangular scaffold made of fir poles. "thar, laddies," said pete, when the task was finished, "it's safe at any rate, an'll keep till we kin come fer it." with a small pack on his back and rifle in his hand, he pushed forward, with the dogs bounding along by his side, glad of the freedom from harness. night had shut down over the land when at length the lights of klassan came into view. "we'll soon be thar, b'ys," encouraged the old man, "an' i reckon yer master'll be mighty glad to see us. mebbe he'll have some supper ready, though it is late, an' we won't be sorry, hey, yukon?" and he gave the faithful brute an affectionate pat on the head. into the village he strode, past the store, the miners' cabins, and up the trail toward the indian encampment. he had just reached the forks of the road when a heart-rending cry for help split the air. pete paused in amazement, while with a roar brisko bounded forward. it was a woman's voice, he was sure of that, and his heart beat fast when he realized that there was only one white woman in the place. with pete to think was to act, and springing up the trail with huge strides, he soon reached the spot where the prostrate woman lay. he saw the dark figure on the ground and heard the crashing of the bushes through which pritchen was struggling, at the same time beating off the furious onset of the dog. pete lost not an instant, but drawing forth his match case, made of two cartridge shells fitted closely together, he struck a light, and as it flashed upon constance's face so still and white, a deep groan escaped his lips. "my god," he cried, looking wildly around. "whar is the villain who has done this?" throwing aside his pack he stooped down, and lifting up the inanimate form in his strong arms, carried her up the hill as tenderly as a mother would bear her little child. "poor lassie! poor lassie!" he crooned. "what has happened? who could frighten sich a sweet lamb? but never mind, pete is here, an' he'll look inter this bizness later." when constance opened her eyes she found herself lying in her own home, with her father and old pete standing anxiously by the couch. she tried to rise, but, feeling rather unsteady, was glad to lie down again. "what has happened?" she asked, "or have i been dreaming? where is that terrible man?" "hush, darling," replied her father soothingly. "lie still and rest awhile, and you will soon be strong." "ye've been dreamin', lassie," said pete, delighted to know that constance was recovering. "ye've had bad visions, an' so fergot yer supper. it's all ready, an' yer dad's been waitin' fer ye to wake up fer some time." constance found it very pleasant to be there, weak though she was, listening to the old man's words, and to feel so secure. "please tell me how i got here," she asked, looking up at the prospector. "i think you had much to do with my rescue." "tut, tut, lassie, never ye mind that now. drink this hot tea, an' eat this cracker, then we'll tell ye all about it." while constance obeyed this injunction, her father and pete ate their supper at the little table near by. the latter was hungry, very hungry, as it had been hours since he had tasted any food. he asked no question, and seemed to be the most free-from-care fellow in the world. in his quaint way he told stories of his frontier life, till constance found herself alternately weeping and laughing at his tales of pathos and humour. but if any one could have looked below the mere surface of words, he would have seen how anxious pete was to hear the whole story of the night, and how the missionary was getting along. not, however, till the colour had been somewhat restored to constance's cheeks, the dishes cleared away, and the men seated by the couch, was the tale of adventure related. then followed the account of keith's troubles, his trial, and expulsion. mr. radhurst told of the latter, as constance found herself unequal to the task so painful was the memory of it all. pete sat on the stool drinking in every word, with his eyes fixed full upon the face of the narrator. at times his huge frame trembled with emotion, and a groan escaped his lips. it was only when mr. radhurst had finished that he leaped to his feet and gave vent to his pent-up feelings. "oh, god!" he cried, shaking his fist in the direction of the saloon. "let me live long enough, to punish that villain, that devil!--what's his name, did ye say?" "pritchen, bill pritchen," replied mr. radhurst. "bill pritchen, ye scoundrel, ye'll answer fer this, an' to pete martin at that!" he was about to say more when he suddenly stopped, and a look of remorse crossed his face, as he saw constance lying on the couch so very still. he seemed to read reproach and wonder in her clear eyes. "fergive me, lassie!" he cried. "i didn't mean to frighten ye. but i do feel bad, thar's no mistake." "don't mind me, pete," said constance, "for i am rather unstrung this evening. but there is one thing which has been worrying me much, and i would like to speak about it now." "go ahead, then," and pete once more resumed his seat. "father told you the story of that man dying out in the ibex cabin, and that the letters on the rock are the same as on the empty poke which was found in that chest. it's a wonder mr. steadman didn't say something about it." "he did, lassie. he did." "not to us." "no, not to you; but he told it to me." "who was the man, then, oh, please tell us!" and constance rose to a sitting posture in her eagerness. "lassie," and pete spoke very slowly, "i don't mind tellin' ye now; mebbe it's best ye should know. that chap was yer brother!" if the prospector expected an outburst of lamentation at this announcement he was much disappointed. startling though it was, father and daughter uttered not a word, but sat very still. the news was not altogether unexpected, for often had they discussed the matter when alone, and had reached the conclusion that it could be none other than kenneth who had died in the cabin. and yet, mingled with this idea, there was the faint hope that they might be mistaken, and that their loved one some day would be given back to them. but now the last slender thread was snapped to which they had clung so long. for a while constance sat motionless on the couch, looking into pete's face. but she saw him not, for her mind was elsewhere, drifting, drifting far away to other days. she did not notice when mr. radhurst left his seat and came close to her side. but when he put his arms tenderly around her, and drew her close to him, she awoke from her reverie. then when she saw the pained look on her father's face, and the tears which were stealing down his faded cheeks, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed like a child. for some time no one spoke, and old pete sat silently by, a sympathetic witness of the little scene. "it will do the lassie good," he said to himself. "if them tears hadn't come i'd be a-feered, jist as i would of a biler without any safety valve." after awhile constance dried her eyes and, turning to pete, apologized for her emotion. "but then, i know, you understand. kenneth was so dear to us--and to think that we shall never see him again!" "don't say that, lassie. as ye are a christian woman ye must believe that ye'll meet yer brother agin, when them pearly gates are opened. i was jist a-thinkin' how once i uster laugh at the idea of a future life. says i to meself, an' to others, 'this life is enough fer me, so i'll have a good time now.' but as i growed older i began to see, an' it all come gradual like, that this life is only a trail after all. now, ye see, we have nothin' but trails here, an' purty tough ones at that. by an' by thar'll be roads, an' then when them cities git built thar'll be paved streets. then when us old pioneers walk on them fine, level highways we'll think of the time when only trails ran here, an' we'll be mighty proud to tell others that we've roughed it a bit. so, lassie, when mushin' over a hard trail, i says to meself that it's jist like life. some day thar'll be the holy city we read about, whar the streets are paved with gold, an' if we are to enjoy them thar we must be willin' fust to tramp the trails down here awhile. i know that larned men would laugh at this idea of mine, but i tell ye it's been a heap of comfort to me in my lonely life. but the parson'll tell ye all about it some day better'n i kin." "so you think he will come back again?" asked constance eagerly. "come back? certainly he'll come back. he ain't made of sugar an' water. he'll not desart his flock long fer a pack of wicked fools. he knows the good lord's with 'im, an'll not let his wark be ruined. i reckon that even now he's a-doin' his master's will somewhar out on them mountains." "i wonder much why he didn't tell us about kenneth's death. was there a reason?" "thar was, lassie. ye was in a big trouble when he fust met ye, an' he kept it from yez both fer fear it would be too much to bear. he did it fer kindness sake, an' wished to wait till things settled down a bit." "are you sure that was his reason?" "sartin. didn't he tell me so when we talked the matter over together?" constance sat for some time in deep thought, while pete and her father talked on. keith would come back. there was comfort, nay, more, there was joy, in the hope, and then she would thank him for his thoughtfulness. suddenly a wild cry fell upon their ears--a cry of sorrow and rage, which paled their cheeks and caused them to look at one another with apprehension. "the injuns! the injuns have come!" cried pete, rushing to the door. "my god, i feered it!" chapter xxiii the rumbling of the storm after the indians' cry had rung through klassan there was no more sleep for the miners. excitement reigned in each cabin, where men waited and wondered what the night would bring forth. visions filled their minds of tales they had heard, and stories they had read, of enraged natives falling suddenly upon bands of white people and wiping them out of existence in the most cruel manner. following the yell came a silence as deep as death. listen and watch as they might, no signal came from that quiet camp, and night kept her secret well. some, imagining they saw indians stealthily creeping down upon them, sat or stood with rifles at their side, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible. but as the slow hours dragged by, and nothing happened, the suspense became so unbearable that with one accord they made their way to the saloon. here morning found them earnestly discussing the situation, and planning some method of defense. sighs of relief escaped from many a lip as the light struggled in through the dirty window, filling them with new courage. it is marvellous what a magical effect the day possesses. men who, through the dreary night of doubt and fear, are veritable cowards, will then become the most arrogant boasters. so several who raised the loudest lamentations of apprehension now proved the greatest talkers. "give us daylight," said one, "and i reckon we can stand off a whole horde of redskins." "don't be too certain about that," replied another. "if those indians make up their minds to wipe us out, it's all the same as if we were dead men." "but can't we stand a siege here, and mow them down as they come up?" persisted the other. "mow them down! mow the devil down! why, they're five to one, and, if they rushed us, where'd we be? but never fear, that's not their way of working. they'll not run any unnecessary risk when they've got night in which to do the job. if it comes to a hand-and-hand tussle we're out of it, that's all there is about it. they're as tough and supple as mountain ash, and are always in training, while we're as soft as a lot of kids." the sun rose above the lofty peaks and swung high in the heavens, but still the indians maintained their silence and showed no sign of hostility. midday came, and yet no signal. "i guess they'll do nothing," suggested one. "maybe they're afraid of our guns." just then the mournful sound of an indian drum fell upon their ears, causing them all to start and look at one another. what did it mean? were they gathering for the affray? as they listened and waited old pete drew near and entered the building. he was a stranger there, and the men gazed with wonder and admiration upon the hardy prospector. his great stature, commanding presence, buckskin suit, hawk-like eye, and long, flowing beard streaked with gray, would have made him a marked man in any company. but his sudden appearance at such a time made a strong impression. "who is he? where did he come from?" passed from lip to lip, as pete strode up to the bar and confronted perdue, who was standing blandly at his post. "any baccy?" he inquired, glancing at the array of black bottles along the wall. "plenty, pard. what's yer choice?" "yer best, an' i guess that'll be none too good." "now, what'll ye have next?" and perdue rubbed his fat hands in anticipation of a new customer. "a match." "what! nothing more? what's yer brand?" "ain't got any, 'cept old age, an' the good lord done that himself. guess he brands us all the same way sooner or later." "oh, i don't mean that," retorted the saloon-keeper, somewhat nettled at the laugh from the men at his expense. "i mean, 'what de'ye drink?'" "oh, i see," and pete stroked his beard meditatively. "wall, t'stimerlate the heart i sometimes drink the water of life; to freshen up the mind a bit, i swaller a few drops from the mighty spring of nater; while to keep this old carcase bright i find the good lord's sparklin' water jist the thing. have ye ever tried it?" perdue was certainly puzzled. it was impossible to take offence at the old man's words, spoken so quietly and impressively. neither could he detect any sign of fun-making in his open face and kindly eyes. he wondered if this giant were altogether sane. he had often heard stories of men who, living so long in lonely places, had become quite demented. perhaps this was one of them. "yer a stranger here, are ye not?" he asked not ungently. "where did ye drop from?" "jist from the injun camp up yon." "what! not from there!" and perdue looked his surprise. "sartin. been strollin' round, sizin' things up a bit." "but wasn't ye afraid of the injuns? i understand they're as mad as hornets." "mebbe they be, an' i guess ye're right. but they never sting a friend. they know pete martin purty wall by this time." "what! you're not pete martin, the prospector, are you?" and perdue's eyes opened with astonishment. and not only was the saloon-keeper surprised. the men in the room moved a little nearer, and craned their necks to obtain a better view of the stranger. much had they heard of him: his great strength, wonderful endurance, feats of daring, and simplicity of life. "way back in new brunswick," replied the prospector, "the old parish register says that i was baptized peter bartholomew martin. i was ginnerally known, however, as 'pete,' while up here i only git 'old pete,' though it doesn't make any difference what a feller's called. i guess the lord'll know me by any name; i only hope so." "but what are the indians doing?" asked one of the men. "doin'? what ain't they a-doin'! they're gittin' down to bizness mighty lively; that's what they're a-doin'." "in what way?" "wall, they're tryin' to decide whether it's best to pinch only the ones who burnt their store, or to hand out a bunch to the whole gang. ye see, it's this way," and pete glanced around upon the eager listeners, "they're sorter divided like, some wantin' to go the limit, an' others not. now, the ones who hold back are the rale christians, the best men of the lot. this camp jist depends upon which side wins out, an' if ye're saved ye may give the credit to that parson chap ye hiked away from here in sich a mighty hurry." "we're better rid of him," said perdue. "ye may think what ye like, pard; it's a free country in that way. but let me remind ye that if ye'd done this same trick to them injuns ten years ago, when i fust struck these diggin's, they'd a wiped ye out quicker'n ye could say jack rabbit." "ye seem to know a heap about things here for a stranger," remarked perdue. "ay, it's true, man, what ye say. i ain't been here long, but long enough to find out a few things, 'specially 'bout that fine lassie up yon." "why, what about her?" asked several. "what! didn't ye hear?" "hear what?" "'bout the chap that caught her on the trail last night, an' scart her so that she fainted dead away." at this, several men who were sitting on benches sprang to their feet, and angry oaths rang through the room. "who was it?" they demanded. "tell us more about it! we're bad men, god knows, but we've a little manhood left. tell us his name!" "don't git excited, now," replied pete. "jist keep cool, an' don't do nothin' rash, or ye may be sorry fer it." then in his quaint way he told the story of his trip from siwash creek, the cry in the night, the attack of the dog, escape of the villain, and the finding constance lying unconscious on the trail. pete related his story well, while many a muttered oath burst from the men during the recital. "do you know his name?" came the cry. "yes." "is he here?" "i don't know. mebbe ye kin tell when ye hear, fer it's bill pritchen." when pete entered the saloon, pritchen was sitting at a small table dealing a pack of cards. looking suddenly up, and noticing the prospector, his face became pale, and his hand shook. he made up his mind to leave the room at the first opportunity and not run the risk of meeting the old man. anyway, his back was to the bar, so he would not be recognized. as pete talked on he felt somewhat relieved. but when the story of darkness began to be unrolled a great fear seized his cowardly heart. he did not dare to leave the place, for if his name were mentioned he must be on hand to defend himself before the miners became too much excited. during the recital a burning rage possessed him, and he longed to drop the prospector in his tracks. he saw the trap which he had laid for another about to close upon himself with a deadly grip, and all owing to this one old man. when, however, pete mentioned his name, he leaped to his feet with a terrible oath. "you lie!" he shouted. "it's an infernal lie, i tell you, and you'll answer for this!" pete swung suddenly around, and looked full upon the irate man before him. "so yer the gintleman, are ye? i'm rale glad to make yer acquaintance. mebbe ye kin explain matters, an' unravel this tangle a bit." "there's nothing to explain, d-you! i was out walking last night and met miss radhurst on the trail. just as i was about to pass her a brute of a dog fell suddenly upon me, and tore my clothes, while the young woman fell to the ground in a dead faint." "oh, that's the way ye put it, is it? an' so ye left the young lassie a-lyin' thar on the snow, while ye took to yer heels with the dog after ye. didn't ye stop to think that there might be other dogs around what would hurt the woman? oh, no, ye never thought of that. ye may tell what ye like, but that lassie up yon has another story, which i jist told." "it's a lie, i tell you; a job put up against me! and you, you confounded meddler, will answer for this!" "mebbe i will, man," and pete's eyes gleamed with a light which spoke danger. "at present the matter lies atween you an' the lassie, so i leave the b'ys here to jedge which to believe. but as we are now acquainted, i'd like to ax ye another question." "spit it out, then." "haven't i seed ye afore, bill pritchen?" "h-if i know." "but ye do know. ye know very well that i met ye on the trail in 'dead man's land,' last fall." "you must have been dreaming then." "no, i wasn't a-dreamin' an' ye know i wasn't." "well, suppose you did meet me, what of it?" "i'll tell ye what i want," and pete moved nearer. "i want to know what's become of that fine young chap what was out with ye, the lad what had the fiddle?" "how do i know? i can't keep track of every idiot who happens to meet me on the trail and travels along with me for a time." "but i tell ye ye do know, an' what's more, i'm here to find out." "then you'll find out something else!" cried pritchen, as his hand dropped to his hip pocket. he was quick, but pete was quicker, for almost like a flash a huge hand reached out, seized the revolver, and wrenched it from the villain's grasp. with an oath the latter sprang forward to strike, but he was as a child in the giant's terrible grip. he struggled for awhile, writhed in agony, and then sank upon the floor. "git up, ye coward! git up, an' answer me!" pete's voice was terrible, and his eyes blazed as he bent over the prostrate man, who made no effort to move. "git up, i tell ye!" again came the command. "git up an' explain what ye did to kenneth radhurst!" receiving no reply, he continued: "then i'll tell the men what ye did, ye coward. ye left 'im a sick man, to starve, to die in the ibex cabin; that's what ye did. ye stole his gold, an' left 'im thar." "you lie!" came from the prostrate man. "it's no lie, i tell ye that. an' what's more, when the parson came along, cared fer 'im, an' when he died buried 'im, ye made out that he killed 'im. ye went sneakin' around an' found a book he left thar, an' tried to stir up the men here at klassan agin 'im. that's what ye did." a cry of rage burst from the miners as they listened with amazement to this revelation. "is it true?" they shouted, as they surged near. "tell us, is it true?" "it's not true! by heavens, it's a lie!" and pritchen, with face pale as death, struggled to his feet and faced the angry men. "stand back, b'ys, stand back!" cried pete. "lave 'im to me! he's injured 'im that's as dear to me as the apple of me eye. lave 'im to me!" just what would have happened is hard to tell, if at that moment three indians had not entered the room. one was amos, the catechist, who was accompanied by three stalwart hunters. in the exciting affray between pete and pritchen the indians for a time had been forgotten. but the presence of these natives recalled their uncertain position, and with one accord they turned their attention to the visitors. for a few minutes silence reigned in the room, and then amos stepping forward delivered his message in broken english. "pale-face brothers," he began. "the tukudhs come back from hunt. dey find store burn, teacher gone. beeg chief call council. he want pale face come. amos has spoke." with this the catechist stepped back by the side of his companions, who had remained perfectly erect during it all. among the miners there was a hurried whispered conversation, and at length caribou sol arose to speak. "whar," he asked, "will the council be held?" "on de flat, at foot of hill. half way," replied amos. "when?" "bime by, to-day. two, mebbe tree hour. beeg chief wait word." "all right, then. go an' tell the chief that the white men will come to the council. is that the will of all?" and sol glanced around the room. "ay, ay," came the response as one voice. "it is well." "it is well," repeated amos, as he and his companions turned and left the building. pritchen, too, hastened away. in the excitement of the moment no one thought of him. terrified, filled with rage, he reached his own cabin, stumbled through the door, and flung himself upon his cot. chapter xxiv the council the miners' cabins at klassan were erected on a level strip of land along the kaslo river. upon the hill above nestled the indian camps, secure from the wild north wind in winter, and the over-flowing stream in the springtime. at the foot of the hill was a space of ground, covered in summer with wild grass, but now denuded of every sign of vegetation. this spot was chosen by the indians for the holding of the council as being half way between the two settlements. here, too, the earth was dry, free from the mud which was found so abundantly elsewhere. near by stood several fir trees, gaunt and half dead, through whose naked branches the storms had howled for many years. it was a bright spring day, and the sun riding high poured its hot beams upon the land. masses of fleecy clouds drifted overhead, and early-returned birds flitted through the air or chirped and twittered among the trees. everything in nature spoke of peace; peace in the great blue vault above; peace in the air, and peace on earth. most fitting was the day for men of different tongues, different races and different modes of life to meet together in sacred council for the settling of their disputes. no intimation was given, no sign was vouchsafed to the miners as they gathered there, that miles up the river millions of tons of water were ready to burst their bonds, and sweep down upon them their fearful besom of destruction. it was late ere the indians arrived, and the miners became much impatient. when at length they did appear, they seemed to the white men like an army marching to battle. the old chief led the way with uncertain steps. behind him came scores of hunters, great, stalwart men some of them, regular anaks in girth and stature. they were a proud race of men, unsubdued and untarnished by contact with civilization. and good reason was there for their proud bearing and firm, elastic step as they moved along the trail. was not the land theirs? had they not received it from a long line of ancestors? no sword had ever conquered them, and no foreign yoke had ever been placed upon their necks. the birds of the air, the fishes of the streams, the lordly moose of the forests, and the bighorn sheep of the mountains--all were theirs. and so they came to the council, not as suppliants, not as beggars, but as free men, in whose veins flowed the blood of a race which will break, but not bend. how many, oh, how many before them, throughout the length and breadth of north america, had drawn near in the same spirit to greet their pale-face brothers in open council. they too had assembled with weapons laid aside, with confidence in their faces, and peace in their hearts, only to find in the end treachery for goodwill, betrayal for trust, and contempt for respect. could these sturdy tukudhs have looked forward to the day when their land would be flooded by thousands of greedy gold seekers, their game slaughtered, and their sons and daughters demoralized by bad whiskey, their attitude would have been very different to these fore-lopers of a foreign race. on the ground a wolf-skin robe was placed, and upon this the old chief squatted, facing the miners. around him gathered the hunters of his band, two hundred strong, in the form of a semicircle. there was no haste, no jostling one another as they took their various positions. everything was done quietly and with much decorum, the younger giving the foremost places to their elders. by the side of the chief stood amos, who was to act as interpreter, dressed in a simple hunting costume. his face bore an expression of care, and ever and anon he cast anxious glances towards the indians and then at the white men. to him the day had been one of severe strain, and he knew the end was not yet. in the indian council he had fought a hard battle against the hot-headed youths who thirsted for revenge upon the miners. with infinite patience, much tact and burning eloquence he had pleaded for the christlike virtue of forgiveness. he listened to their harangues, settled disputes and appealed to their higher nature. he sketched their mode of living ten years before, and emphasized the changes which had taken place upon the arrival of the missionary. after hours of discussion the matter reached a deadlock, so it was left for the old chief to decide. he favoured peace, and gave as his reasons for this conclusion the christian teaching he had received, and the friendly visit of the pale-face maiden to his lodge." "let the guilty men be punished," he had said in conclusion. "let us not do it in the spirit of revenge, but only as a warning to others." squatting upon the wolf-skin robe the chief now scanned the miners as intently as his weak eyes would permit, and then addressed a few words to the interpreter. "pale-face brothers," began amos, turning to the white men, "chief of tukudhs give you welcome to council. he come here with peace in heart. his hunters all leave guns in camps, dey trust white man. but white man no trust tukudh. dey come with guns. dey keep guns in hand. old chief moche sorry." the miners looked at one another when amos ended, uncertain what to do. "stack yer guns, b'ys," demanded old pete, who was the only one among them without a rifle. "be fair to the injuns an' they'll be fair to us." "well said," replied caribou sol, and suiting the action to the word, he stepped forward and laid his weapon in the open space of ground, half way between the two parties. one by one the rest of the miners went forward, and in the same manner deposited their rifles. a general exclamation of "ah, ah," from the natives signified their approval of this friendly act. but still something disturbed the chief. he looked long and intently at the white men, and again spoke to amos. "de chief," explained the latter to the miners, "ask if white man all here?" "no," responded sol, who had been requested by his companions to act as spokesman, "there are two absent, the gray-haired man up in yon cabin, and bill pritchen." "de chief only want bill," was the response. "he no want ole man in cabin on hill." "but mebbe he won't come. can't we git along without 'im?" when this was communicated to the chief he shook his head. "we wait den till bill come," and having said this amos moved back a few steps. the indians maintained a stolid silence as they watched the miners discussing the matter. "fetch 'im," said old pete. "why should he stay away. i guess he'll be needed." and so it was decided that several should go in search of pritchen and bring him as quickly as possible. this was received with evident satisfaction on both sides, and operations for a time were suspended. pritchen was found in his cabin, and expressed himself as quite unwilling to attend the council. his face told most plainly the state of his mind, which was far from enviable. at times the longing seized him to flee into the wilderness--anywhere would be better than klassan he thought. but this he knew was not practicable, for the indian hunters, with the instinct of sleuth hounds, would track him down in a short time. while he waited and listened the messengers drew near. "i'll not go, d-you!" he cried. "leave me alone, can't you?" "well, if you won't come peaceably," replied one, "we'll not try to force you now. but i think it's better for you to come quietly along with us than to have the gang to come after you. there'll be no coaxing if they come, i tell you that." pritchen fully realized the truth of these words, so after a few moments of hesitation he agreed to comply with the request. as he drew near to the council ground a nameless fear took possession of him. he saw the miners shrug their shoulders as he took his place among them. they seemed to forget his presence, however, as they turned their attention to the old chief to watch his next move. neither did they have to wait long, for with much deliberation and many gestures, the hoary patriarch began his harangue. first, he invoked the aid of the great father of heaven upon the gathering. then he told of the nobleness of his race, of the mighty men and warriors who had died. he described the vastness of the land which they had owned from time immemorial. he next gave an account of their wild condition before the arrival of the missionary. "we were brutes," he said in substance, flourishing his arm in an eloquent manner. "we had many wives and treated them worse than dogs. they cut and drew our wood; they brought in the moose, when killed, into camp, and waited upon us, doing our slightest bidding. when they refused to work we beat them, and when too old to toil we turned them out to die, or left them on the trail. our wives, dreading such a life for their little girl babies, often killed them and we thought nothing of it. "we robbed, cheated, fought and killed one another. our hearts were always bad, all same black bear. we were like men walking at night in a thick wood, lost and unable to find our way out. oh, it was a bad time! then the teacher came to us from beyond the great mountains. he lived in our midst, and learned our language. at first we treated him very badly and tried to kill him, but we could not, for something stopped us. when we shot at him the arrows and balls went wide. when we threw our knives and hatchets they did not touch him. when we broke down his cabin and stole from him, he prayed for us, and built a new house. when we were sick, he healed us. when we wanted food he shared with us of his own supply. he led us slowly out of the wood. he told us about christ and another life. he taught us how to build good cabins, and live as true christians. thus the spirit came to us like the breath of spring, and thawed and warmed our cold hearts. new, sweet flowers of love, truth, purity and peace sprang up, which choked and killed the bad weeds. we put away our old manner of living. we cared for our children, treated our wives better, built a church, school room and store. we lived happier, with plenty to eat and to wear, and looked forward to another life after death. then the miners came; they built cabins in our midst, dug our land for gold, and tried to ruin our young men and women. they drove away our teacher, and burnt our store. our men have come back from the hunting grounds; they find what has been done, and are very angry. "'are we not men?' say they. 'we will fight and drive out the strangers.' but the spirit conquers; it holds them back. 'call a council,' it says. 'gather the white men, and let them punish the ones who injured us.' "in your midst stands one man who has caused all the trouble. his heart is bad, like the heart of a black bear. he wronged our teacher; he stole gold; he put it in the mission house; hid it there. he said our teacher did it. he laughed at him, and drove him from klassan. he is there! he is there!" and the chief stretched out his hand and pointed straight at pritchen, who shrank back as from a terrific blow. the speaker was about to proceed, but ere he could utter another word old pete sprang forward, and with blazing eyes confronted the indian who had made this serious charge. "tell me!" he cried, "is it true? is it true what ye say about the missionary? is the skunk among us what done that deed? tell me, quick!" "over there," replied amos, pointing to the wretched pritchen. "it's a lie! a d-lie, i tell you!" shouted the latter. "i know nothing about it! the injun hates me, and wants to ruin me. let them prove it, if they can! they can't do it!" pete was about to turn towards him with angry words on his lips, when cries of rage from the miners caused him to hesitate, and to realize his position. the men were thoroughly aroused, he knew that, and ready to fall upon the villain without more ado. that the scoundrel needed a severe punishment there was no doubt, but he wished to be just and not let the base mob instinct rule. "b'ys!" he shouted, "jist wait a leetle, afore ye do anything rash. let the injun prove to us first what he says is true. it may be all imagination." "injun speak true," said amos somewhat indignant to think that the chief's words should be doubted. "what ye say may be kerrect," replied pete, "but all we ax is fer ye to show yer proof. how d'ye's know that pritchen put the gold in the cabin?" "jennie see 'um." "jennie who?" "jennie. yukon jennie. injun squaw. she see 'um. she tell old chief." "whar is she then?" and pete looked around as if expecting to see the girl. "up dere," and amos stretched out his hand towards the indian lodges. "fetch her down. we'll wait." "no squaw come to council. only men, hunters." "but this ain't all injun council. white men here, an' they ax fer the gal." when this was communicated to the chief, a scowl passed over his face, and a sharp discussion took place among the indians. what they said the miners could not tell, but after much bickering amos lifted up his voice and gave several short calls in the direction of the lodges. soon a reply was returned, and then down the trail sped jennie towards the council ground. as she drew near her steps slackened, for was she not breaking a custom of long standing among her people? encouraged by amos, she at length reached the place, and was requested to relate her story. so intent were the miners upon their task that they scarcely noticed the change which had taken place around them, or how the time was passing. the wind had risen, moaning gently at first, but increasing in strength, blowing in from the yukon, and drawing up the kaslo as through a mighty funnel. it shook and swayed the trees along the banks of the stream; it played with the old chief's blanket, causing him to clutch it firmly, and tossed jennie's long black hair in confusion about her oval, dusky face. timidly the maiden stood before the expectant miners, uncertain what to say. "speak out, gal," encouraged pete. "ye needn't fear. nothin'll harm ye." "hold on!" called out one of the miners. "wouldn't it be as well for bill to stand forth so all can see him?" "hear, hear!" shouted the men. but pritchen shrank back, and glanced around as if seeking some avenue of escape. "no, ye don't do that, man," said caribou sol, interpreting his thoughts. "not till we're through with ye, at any rate." pritchen was in a trap, he fully realized that, and a wild rage mingled with his fear. he reached for his revolver, but it was not there. anyway it would have been of little use, for instantly a score of revolvers leaped from as many hip pockets, and covered him in the twinkling of an eye. "come out here!" roared pete, "an' stand up like a man. thar's no use kickin'." there was nothing else to be done, and sulkily pritchen stepped forward and faced the indian girl. "thar, that's better. now go ahead," continued pete, turning to jennie. the latter, however, did not speak, but stood staring at pritchen, as a bird fascinated by a serpent. "de' ye know that man?" demanded the prospector, seeing her embarrassment. "yes. me know 'um," came the low reply. "whar did ye fust see 'im?" "heem bad man; bad heart. heem keel my modder long tam ago." "it's a lie!" shouted pritchen. "jennie no lie. me see 'um." a movement among the miners was quieted by pete's next question. "gal, did ye see that man put the bags of gold in the missionary's cabin? tell me that." "yes. me see 'um." "how did you see 'im do it?" "jennie see in windee. heem look all around. heem see box. heem take wan poke, heem take two poke, all same dis," and the girl drew her hand twice from beneath her shawl, and stooped to the ground to show how it had been done. "you lie!" snarled pritchen. but it was easy to see from his pallid face that the girl's words were having their effect. "jennie no lie!" and the maiden, with fear all gone and an indignant mien, looked unwaveringly into the villain's eyes. "me tell true. me clistin. me no lie! you laugh at peegee in box. you put down cover lak dat," and she slapped her hands together. "you lock box. you trow key in stove. you laugh, bad, ugh!" during this disclosure pritchen had stood with his eyes fixed upon the ground, to all outward appearance abashed and confounded. but such was not the case. he was thinking hard and fast, while from the corner of his left eye he beheld a sight which filled him with a new determination. he was a desperate man, in a desperate position, and though hope had fled his heart, the spirit of revenge rankled deep. he had played his game and lost, but at any rate he would leave a mark which would be felt. scarcely had jennie finished speaking, when, quick as thought, he leaped towards the pile of rifles lying on the ground, and seizing one turned fiercely upon old pete. the rifle was raised, his finger pressed the trigger, and the report rang out. instead, however, of the ball touching the prospector, it bored its way into the earth, while the rifle flew from pritchen's grasp, and a dozen hands were laid roughly upon him. he struggled, fought, and tore like a wildcat, but all to no avail. the blood in the miners' veins ran fire. they surged around their victim, overpowered him, and with a leathern belt bound his hands firmly behind his back. "a rope! a rope!" shouted one. "there, in my cabin you'll find a strong one!" "that tree!" yelled another. "we'll sling him up!" old pete tried his best to stop them in their mad design. he shouted, pleaded, and even fought to free the captive. "drive 'im from klassan!" he roared, "but don't let his blood be on our heads!" he might as well have spoken to the wind which was roaring around them. the men were besides themselves, demented. they had reached the limit of their patience, and the wild passions surged within their breasts. in their eyes the cowardly deeds of pritchen were without parallel. what dastardly tricks! what base, underhanded work! what designs of hell! the rope, and rope only, was the proper punishment! half dragged and half stumbling, the wretched man reached the tree, nature's solid gallows, standing ghost-like and grim in the deepening darkness. he looked wildly around, and tried to free his hands. "mercy! for god's sake, mercy!" he cried, as the noose was slipped around his neck. "let me go! give me another chance, and i'll leave the country!" "the rope'll take you to a new country, and a hot one at that, quicker than you can mush," jeered one. "mercy! mercy!" pleaded the wretched man. "spare me this once! i'll tell you all, and get out!" "did ye kill that injun woman?" asked pete, stepping near. "yes." "did ye lave young radhurst to die in the ibex cabin, an' stole his gold?" "yes." "an' did ye steal tim fleeters' gold an' put it in the mission house?" "yes. yes, i did it all. for god's sake, forgive me! i'm a bad man! o god, help me!" a yell of rage was the only response to his wild pleadings, for a dozen hands had seized the rope, which had been thrown over one of the large projecting branches. "all together, pull!" was the shout, and with a terrible, gurgling cry, pritchen swung from the ground into the air. and even as the men pulled, dead set upon their fearful deed, there was sweeping down upon their own heads the mighty flood of ice and water. the jam had given way and, sweeping down, was bearing all before it. the excitement of the men and the roaring of the wind up-stream prevented the noise from reaching their ears. thus, unconscious of destruction to themselves, they were all intent upon their efforts to hurl a comrade into eternity. chapter xxv the light of the cross the afternoon sun was flooding the whole landscape with the golden glory of a burnished shield as keith steadman, the outcast, sat on a mountain ridge looking down upon the village of the fierce quelchie indians. his clothes were torn and tattered, his bronzed face and hands scratched and bleeding. gaunt, footsore and hungry, he presented a forlorn figure, a mere speck on the mountain's brow. behind him klassan lay, two hundred and fifty miles off. for ten days he had been on the trail, along the kaslo river, then up an unnamed branch, through forests, over valleys and plains, and across a high mountain pass. though an outcast, driven from home in disgrace, and the light of her he loved so dearly, no shadow of a doubt crossed his mind concerning the father's goodness. he pictured his flock, which he had tended with such care, scattered upon the many hills. he saw vice rampant at klassan, the church closed, the school unattended, and the indians exposed to every temptation. nevertheless, he did not consume his strength in useless whining, or rail at the blow which had fallen. his soul was too large for that. he remembered the command his master had given to his disciples long ago, "when they persecute you in this city, flee ye into another," and he felt it applied to him. perhaps they had been too secure and too self-centred at klassan. for years no storms had come to bend them, no wind of adversity to sift the chaff from the wheat, and no fire of trial to purge the gold from the dross. now, all had come at once, and was it not for the best? "o lord," he prayed, "in the sifting and testing process may there be many who will stand the trial, and come forth stronger and purer for the fire of affliction?" as for himself, he could not doubt the leading of the divine hand. he had been so much centred in his own flock, wrapped up in their welfare, that he had neglected the sheep in the wilderness, who knew not the name of christ. he had been, like many an earnest pastor, too parochial, unable to look beyond the bounds of his one field of labour. he had forgotten that, though his work was of great value at klassan, after all "the field is the world," and that christ's command was to "go into the village over against you." he imagined that his presence was absolutely necessary in his own circumscribed sphere of labour, and overlooked the fact that "he that keepeth israel neither slumbers nor sleeps." but when he had stood before his accusers and judges on that stormy day in the saloon, and later bade farewell to caribou sol at the door of the mission house, a new purpose burned in his soul, which shone forth in his face, so that even his enemies marvelled when they saw the light. it was the lord's will, he realized that clearly, and as he used evil men in days gone by for the furtherance of his mighty plans, were not these men now to be used as instruments in spreading abroad the gospel light? his mind naturally turned toward the quelchie indians, the most cruel and savage band in the north, the dread and terror of the whole land. mothers hushed their children to rest by the one word "quelchie," and nothing startled a camp more quickly than the mere mention of that dreaded name. to this tribe the message must be carried, and he was the one to go. thus, so near the object of his desire, and the end of the long trail, he rested for a while on the mountain's brow, and gazed down upon the village nestling beneath. he could see the smoke curling up from numerous lodges, and occasionally the cry of a child or the sharp bark of a dog fell upon his ears. he drew forth the little locket, and gazed long and earnestly upon the face within. through the time of trial, on the rough trail, and by the lonely camp fire at night, the thought of constance had been as an inspiration. he longed to see her, to look into her eyes, and listen to her words as she told of her faith in him. he wondered what she was doing, and if she missed him much. he pictured her moving about the cabin, or sitting in her accustomed place by the window. would he ever see her again? into the new field ahead were dangers unknown, and what great changes might take place in a short time! thinking thus, he moved cautiously down the steep mountain side, where only the bighorn sheep could walk secure. he was on an old indian trail which would lead him to the village. by that same pass the dreaded quelchies had filed on various occasions to bring death and destruction to some unsuspecting bands of natives beyond. now for the first time in the world's history it was being trodden by the weary foot of a messenger of peace. the quelchie village lay in a valley, surrounded by frowning mountains, well protected from the fierce northern winds. a small stream flowed hard by, frozen in winter, gently babbling in summer, and flooded in springtime from its own countless tributaries. the indians had recently returned from their various hunting grounds, and were enjoying life to the full in their wild, uncouth way when keith entered the settlement. a lean, skulking cur gave the alarm, which was taken up by scores of his companions, who rushed upon the stranger, yelping and snarling in the most ferocious manner. from dozens of lodges men, women and children suddenly poured, and, beholding the cause of the disturbance, joined the dogs in their wild clamour. the rifle was wrenched from his hand by a large indian, who was soon fighting with half a dozen more for the control of the prize. everything that keith possessed was stolen; his knapsack, in which he kept a few treasures; the cap was torn from his head, while rough hands laid hold upon the very clothes he wore. he was hustled and pushed first one way and then another. at times he stumbled and fell, though endeavouring to maintain as dignified a mien as possible. in the confusion his buck-skin shirt was parted at the neck, and the locket exposed to view. instantly a scramble ensued for the trinket. then keith's blood was aroused. they might lay hands upon anything else, but not upon that. straightening himself up, he drove blow after blow at his dusky assailants with his clenched fist, knocking down two or three, and compelling the rest to fall back a few paces. seizing the opportunity which the lull in the storm afforded, he addressed a few words to them in the tukudh tongue, which, although somewhat different from their own language, they were able to understand. "quelchies!" he shouted, above the din of the yelping dogs, "listen to what i have to say! i have a great message for your chief. take me to him." a yell of derision was the only response, and the savages were about to renew the onset when a strong, clear voice was heard commanding them to desist. the effect was magical, and looking around for the speaker, keith beheld a stalwart indian of more than ordinary height, with grace of movement and fine, intelligent face, advancing toward him. in this man he thought he recognized his rescuer, one who had the power to save him from the surging horde. "great warrior!" he cried, addressing the stranger, "keep back the indians! take me to your chief. i have a message to deliver." for a time the native maintained a dignified silence, though never for a moment did his eye leave the missionary's face. he seemed to be studying every line and expression of that bronzed countenance. the effect of this close scrutiny keith could not tell, though he somehow felt that it meant life or death. "come," said the indian at length. "come with me." that was all, and without a word keith followed his deliverer, who strode on before, leaving the rest of the indians quarrelling over the articles they had filched. he was conducted to a building rather larger than the others, composed entirely of logs. within, several women were sitting on wolf and bear-skin rugs, who gazed with silent curiosity upon the pale-face stranger. "stay here," said the guide, motioning him to a place on one of the rugs. "i will be back soon." the interior of the lodge was similar to many others keith had seen, and interested him not. the women, he concluded, were the indian's wives. he noticed that they were superior in appearance to the ones he had seen outside, and of a pleasing cast of countenance. one of them was quite young, and good to look upon. her long black hair parted in the middle exposed a noble forehead. she was busily engaged upon a pair of moccasins, weaving in a delicate pattern of bead-work. occasionally she shot a glance at the stranger, and then keith noted how bright were her eyes, while upon her face was an expression of sadness and weariness. presently his eye rested upon something which made him start. by the side of the young woman, and fastened to the wall, he beheld a prospector's pick and shovel. how had they come there? had some poor, unfortunate man ventured into this camp, been slain by the quelchies, while only these tools remained to tell the tale? he was about to break the silence, and question the woman, when the indian returned and motioned him out of the building. he was at once taken to a large lodge standing somewhat apart, which keith concluded must belong to the chief. nor was he mistaken, for he soon found himself in the presence of the aged patriarch of the quelchie band. squatting on the floor, surrounded by a motley group of women and children, he presented a weird spectacle. coarse gray hair flowing down over his shoulders allowed only a portion of his withered, wrinkled face to be exposed to view. his eyes, more like holes in a piece of leather than anything else, peered straight at the visitor. keith involuntarily shuddered as he looked upon the pitiable object before him. this, then, was the man of whom he had heard so much. how often he had listened as the tukudhs related tales of his fierce jealousy, insane rage, and inhuman cruelty, when thwarted by friend or foe. in days gone by he had heard men dilate in glowing terms of the free, beautiful life of the indians in their wild, uncivilized condition. they had pictured them roaming the woods and mountains, skimming along grassy lakes or gliding down the rapid streams. but of the sterner, sadder side they knew nothing, and how he longed to show those very men the difference between klassan, where the light of christ had come, and this wretched quelchie village in heathen darkness. "oh, lord," he prayed, "help me, give me power to say the right word and to bring the spirit into these miserable lives." advancing to the old chief, he bowed low, and detecting a faint sign of pleasure upon the dusky face, he felt somewhat encouraged. "great quelchie chief," he began, "i am a stranger in your midst. i have come a long way over a hard trail to bear to you a message from my own chief, whom i have served from a child. may i speak?" "the pale-face is welcome," came the reply. "the chief of the quelchies will listen." the missionary's heart thrilled with joy at this opportunity to say a word for his master. he told about the great father in heaven, who so loved the world that he sent his only son to live among men and to die on the cross that all might be saved. he described the cruel lives of the tukudhs in times past, and what a change had taken place since they became christians; of their church, school, books they had, the hymns they sang, and the happier lives they led. for a long time he spoke, the indians listening with rapt attention. he forgot his hunger and weariness and the danger of his position as he pictured the glories of the christ-life. he glowed with enthusiasm. his words burned with fire as he simply told "the old, old story of unseen things above, of jesus and his glory, of jesus and his love." then he sang for them a hymn, one loved by his own flock at klassan. it was a translation of "jesus, lover of my soul," and he sang it with a full, rich voice and an intensity of expression. all this time the stalwart indian had stood quietly by the chief's side with his gaze fixed full upon the speaker's face. but no sign did he give to show that the words had any effect. when the address was ended, however, he turned to his chief and spoke a few brief words, bearing no connection, so keith thought, to the burning message he had just delivered. "the pale-face stranger is hungry," he said. "he has been a long time on the trail, and is weary. i will take him to my lodge." the chief nodded his approval. "take him," he replied. "give him food, and bring him to me to-morrow." once again within his guide's house, keith was supplied with an abundance of food. though not of the savouriest, and badly cooked, the meat tasted delicious after his long fast. much refreshed, he turned to his host, who was observing him with a kindly expression. "tell me," he inquired, "why you are so kind to me. i am a stranger, and of a race hated by your people. yet you have delivered me from the hands of the indians, shelter me now in your lodge, and provide me with food. is this the way you treat an enemy?" a peculiar smile crossed the indian's face as he listened to these words. "i am shrahegan," he replied, "and is there not a good reason why i should be kind to my pale-face brother?" "what reason?" asked keith in surprise. "does not my brother remember shrahegan?" "remember you! why, i never saw you before!" again the native smiled as he continued. "does not my brother remember eight snows ago when he shot the fierce grizzly in the pass beyond the mountains, and saved the life of an indian boy?" "yes, oh, yes, i remember that day very well," and keith thought of the fine bear-skin rug in the radhurst cabin. "but what has that to do with your kindness to me?" "shrahegan was that boy," came the startling response, "and shrahegan never forgets." "what! you that boy? i can't believe it!" and keith looked at the indian in amazement. "you may not believe it, but it is true. shrahegan saw you then, and once again at klassan." "at klassan!" "yes, at klassan." "but what were you doing there?" "ah, shrahegan went as a spy. the quelchies wished to attack the tukudhs; kill the men, and steal their women. he crossed the mountain, and crept upon the village at night. he looked through a window into a big building, and heard the indians sing just like you sang to-day. then he saw there the man who had saved his life, dressed all in white, talking to the people, though he could not hear what was said. then shrahegan crept softly away back to his own people, and told the chief his story." "and that was why you spared me," said keith in astonishment. "yes. shrahegan saw there the man who saved the old chief's son, and shrahegan never forgets a kindness." "what! are you the chief's son?" "yes." "and what would have happened if i had not saved your life, or if you had not recognized me?" "you would have been put to death. no paleface ever entered the quelchie camp and lived to tell about it." "so other white men have come here, then, and you cruelly killed them?" "they came to steal our land, and to find out what you call gold." "ah, now i see. that is why you have the prospector's pick and shovel there. you killed the man and kept these." "yes, there were two men, but one got away, and the quelchies could not catch him." at once there flashed into keith's mind the story constance had told him of the prospector who had died in the vancouver hospital, and the map he had entrusted to her. he had seen the sketch and it corresponded exactly with this locality. was it the place, he wondered, where pritchen and kenneth had been? "tell me," he said, "how many pale-face men have entered this valley and went back again?" "only this many," and shrahegan held up three fingers. "the man i told you about, and two when the geese went south. the quelchies did not know they were here till too late to catch them." "shrahegan," and keith looked earnestly at the indian, "will you show me where that gold lies? will you take me to the place?" a stern expression came into the native's face, and keith feared he had gone too far. it was only a fleeting shadow, however, which was instantly dispelled. "yes, shrahegan will take his pale-face brother to the gold," was the brief reply. "but come, rest now. it is late." that night as keith lay wrapped up in a large wolf-skin robe, he thought much of the stirring scenes which had happened during the day. he saw most plainly the guidance of the father's hand, and his great over-ruling power. "because the saviour bore his cross," he said to himself, "endured agony and shame, a great light has sprung up throughout the world. so god grant, that from my cross a light may come forth to lighten this tribe, sunk so long in the weary darkness of superstition and sin." chapter xxvi guarded while the old chief, and the indians about him, were quietly listening to the missionary's message, and drinking in every word, there was one person present who was consumed with a bitter hatred. this was the medicine man, who, sitting on the ground, never once took his eyes off the face of the speaker. crafty, base, and devoid of any spark of humanity, he was the terror of the whole band. believing himself to be in league with the unseen powers around him, he exercised over the ignorant and superstitious people all the influence of his fearful craft. an octopus in human guise, he reached out, gripped his victim, and held him in his merciless grasp. his pretensions at curing the sick by wild juggling; his sleight-of-hand work; foretelling of future events, and conjuring in order to drive away evil spirits, were all parts of his method of work. his greed was beyond description, and he acted according to the price paid. in times of sickness, women would take their beads to the "doctor's" tent, silently throw them at his feet, and then return. if the amount satisfied the conjuror, he would go to the sick man's side, when incantations took place. if the sick person recovered he would acknowledge all the praise; but, if otherwise, he declared that some rival opposed him, who had been better paid. his jealousy was a constantly burning fire, and woe sooner or later fell upon the man, woman, or child unfortunate enough to incur his anger. so when he beheld a rival in the stranger, the pale-face who boldly told of changes which had taken place at klassan, where he knew the medicine men had been put to confusion, he determined to bestir himself. for two or three days he watched the effect the new teaching had upon the quelchies. he listened to the earnest discussions in the various camps, as every detail was carefully considered. he was a silent observer of all that took place, and insinuated himself into any company where he was likely to further his designs. what he learned was sufficient to cause him much unrest, and he realized that some sudden and startling coup was necessary to remove his rival, and to re-establish his own influence. he hated the old chief for allowing the missionary the freedom of the camp, and he hated the people for listening so readily to the words of a stranger. fortune wonderfully favoured him, for on the very day that keith and shrahegan left for the gold-bearing creek the old chief's youngest and most beloved son became seriously ill. the medicine man was immediately called to the side of the sufferer, who, dressed in his hideous costume, began at once his strange incantations. those in the lodge watched almost breathlessly his wild contortions, anxious to catch any word which might fall from his lips. "an evil spirit is in the camp," he muttered at length. "it has cast its spell over the chief's son, and he will die. other children will die, too, unless the spirit is driven out." a long pause followed this startling announcement, and the listeners bent eagerly forward to catch the name of the one who was causing the trouble. they were forced to wait for some time, however, before the crafty rogue was ready to satisfy their curiosity. then "pale-face stranger" fell upon their ears, causing them to look quickly at one another. the conjurer thrilled with joy as he noticed the effect of his words, and saw the indians quietly leave the lodge to spread the news to those without. the old spell had still its influence, and he gave a low chuckle of delight. knowing nothing of what was taking place at the quelchie camp, keith returned with shrahegan after two days' absence. it was only natural that he should feel much elated over the success of his visit. he had been more than human if his heart had not beat fast when he looked upon the gold gleaming from the bed rock, exposed to view, along the steep banks of the creek. here were virgin riches untold, which for ages had been awaiting the coming of the miners. he glanced around upon the splendid scenery; the long, deep gulches; the banks lined with trees, among which the squirrels scolded, and the early birds warbled. he thought how peaceful it all seemed, with the little brook babbling and sparkling below him. then there came to his mind the change which would take place when this vast wealth became generally known; the mad rush of gold seekers; the mushroom mining town, with all its greed and wickedness. before leaving the place he staked his claim, and broke off several fine pieces of gold as specimens. for the first time the prospector's fever possessed him, and all the way back to the village he could think of little but his great discovery. this, however, was suddenly dispelled when he entered the camp and beheld the storm which was about to fall upon his head. "the indians are much excited," said shrahegan, who soon found out all about the matter. "i hardly know what to do." "where is the sick boy?" asked keith. "i should like to see him." "in the chief's lodge. come, i will take you to him." the youth was lying upon several rugs on the floor, breathing hard. he was only a stripling, but noted for his rare skill in the chase and endurance on the trail. the medicine man was by his side, holding the conjurer's rattle in his hand. he paused in his hideous, mournful noise when he beheld his hated rival enter the building. this time the old chief gave no sign of welcome, but sat on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chin, and head bent forward in token of grief. "pale-face brought evil upon my boy," he said fiercely, when shrahegan addressed him. "if he die the stranger must answer for it." this keith well knew, and unless something was done at once, not even shrahegan's protection could save him from the angry indians incited by the conjurer. "great chief," he said, advancing to the bowed figure, "cannot the medicine man cure your son?" "no," came the fierce response. "does he say he will die?" "yes, he will die." "well, then, great chief, will you let me examine the youth, i am a doctor, too, and perhaps i can do something to help your son." before an answer could be given, the medicine man leaped before the missionary and in wild rage gave vent to his fury. he danced, screamed, and denounced the pale-face stranger in the most violent terms. for a time this was permitted, and then into shrahegan's face came a look of determination. with one grip of his powerful hand he seized the conjurer by the arm, shook him like a rat, and sent him tumbling out of the lodge. the indians within the room looked aghast at such a move, and half expected the house to collapse, or something terrible to happen. it was a thing unknown for any one to meddle with the "doctor," and of this shrahegan was well aware. but it seemed to disturb him not in the least. he turned quietly to the missionary. "examine the sick boy," he said. "shrahegan gives you permission to look at his brother." "is it the will of the great chief of the quelchies?" asked keith, turning towards the old man. receiving only a nod in reply, he at once stepped to the side of the prostrate lad, and made a careful examination of his condition. "he is very sick," he quietly remarked. "what is the matter?" asked shrahegan anxiously. "a high fever." "not an evil spirit?" "the only evil spirit," continued keith, "is the one who has increased the fever by vile medicine and terrible noise." "what, the medicine man?" "yes. he soon would have made an end of your brother." a fierce look came into shrahegan's face, and he made a move as if to leave the building. keith laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder. "stay," he said. "don't do anything rash. i want your help. we must remove the lad to a quiet lodge, and i shall try to undo the harm which has been done. it is the only way to save his life." shrahegan looked intently into the missionary's face, as if to fathom the depth and strength of his mind. "does my pale-face brother know?" he asked, "the risk he is running? does he know that the wrath of the medicine man is upon him? that the indians are very angry, and, if the boy die, the pale-face will die too?" "i know it all," replied keith. "i am not afraid of the medicine man. there stands with me one greater than he, who will help me. he is my master, my great chief, jesus, whom i serve." "and the pale-face is not afraid?" repeated shrahegan in surprise. "why should i be afraid? what good will it do? it will not cure your brother, and i know shrahegan will help me." "shrahegan will help; he will do all he can. but remember, the indians are much excited, and, if the boy die, shrahegan can do but little to help his pale-face brother." "and if the boy gets better?" queried keith, "what will your people think?" "pale-face will be safe," came the evasive reply. "good. now we must get busy." by this time the condition of the sick lad was very serious, and keith knew that whatever was done had to be done quickly and wisely. therefore as soon as the youth was removed to another lodge, he brought forth his little medical companion, which shrahegan had rescued from the indians, made a careful selection, and rapidly prepared the medicine which he thought best to administer. but before laying a hand upon the patient he fell upon his knees and poured out his soul to the giver of life for help and strength in the time of trial. then the fight began, a fight not only for the life of one person, but for the souls of all those around him, sunk in the darkness of vice and superstition. for hours he stayed by the side of the sufferer, shrahegan only keeping watch with him. seldom they spoke, and then only in a whisper. the day and the night passed, but still keith remained at his post, much of the time on his knees. shrahegan brought him food, but he ate very little, there was too much at stake to think of bodily wants. throughout the camp the smouldering fire of excitement was intense, ready to burst forth at any instant. during the day perpetual watch was kept upon the little lodge, and at night anxious ears were strained to catch the faintest sound. the old chief remained in his own house, silent and bowed with grief. his wives sat almost motionless by his side, not daring to address their imperious master. the medicine man prowled like a wolf from place to place, the very incarnation of jealousy, fear and rage. on the morning of the third day shrahegan emerged from the silent lodge. he was surrounded by an eager, persistent crowd of natives, who demanded information concerning the patient. to these he said nothing, but going at once to the old chief, led the feeble, tottering man to his son's side. keith, weary and haggard, arose as the two entered. he saw the look of surprise and delight upon the chief's face, when he beheld his son lying before him on the road to recovery. "great chief," said keith, "see, your son is better. soon he will walk again." "is the evil spirit gone?" came the eager query. "all gone. you have nothing to fear." "was the medicine man here? did he help?" "no," replied shrahegan contemptuously. "he would have killed the boy, and now he is outside, raging in his fury and jealousy. this is the medicine man," and he pointed to keith, "the doctor who has done the good work." "give not the credit to me," answered the missionary, "but to the great medicine man, the doctor of souls, jesus, my master. he has wrought this cure. i had but little to do with it." saying this, he moved wearily from the lodge, to seek food and rest, leaving the feeble chief and the noble shrahegan alone with the patient. chapter xxvii guided when keith stood before shrahegan's lodge, the second day after the recovery of the sick youth, the spirit of conquest for christ's sake possessed his entire being. once it was only klassan; then the village over against him; now, the whole northland, with its numerous tribes of the wandering foot. then the thought of his helplessness swept upon him. what was he to do? only one man to carry on the great work. he must have help, men to man the field. if the miners at klassan would not endure him, some one else must be stationed there, while he worked among the quelchies, or in some other place. two or three men he must have, and that as soon as possible. to write for them would take too long, with the uncertainty of their coming. no, that plan would not do; he must go himself. he, therefore, determined to return to klassan. the indians would protect him while there, and when the ice ran out of the yukon, either to drift down to st. michael in an open boat, or await the arrival of the first steamer. he would go to eastern canada, lay the matter before the mission board, and appeal for help. then, if the men could not be supplied, he would go from place to place, searching, ever searching, till he obtained the ones he required. he would have able men or none at all, he was set upon that. he was aware of the feeling which prevails in the minds of some that anyone will do for the mission field. but he knew from long experience that on the frontier--the ragged edge of civilization--where life is wild and strenuous, only strong men could succeed; men sound in limb, keen in intellect, and thoroughly consecrated to the master's cause. next, the money question confronted him. suppose he got the right men, where would he obtain the necessary funds for their maintenance? it meant a big expense to provide passages for three or four men, and support them in a land where living was so dear. the missionary society, he knew, was able to do but little, and this would be the strongest barrier to his plan. he might appeal for help in the various towns and cities, but such aid would only be ephemeral. what was he to do? in his perplexity he began to pace up and down before the lodge, and unconsciously thrust his hands into the pockets of his buck-skin jacket, as was his wont when in troubled thought. as he did so he touched the nuggets of gold which had lain there since his return from the rich creek. he drew them forth, gazed upon them, and at once a light clear and strong burst full upon his mind. for a while he seemed dazed by the immensity of the idea, and he stood looking upon the shining specimens in his hand, thinking it must be nothing but a dream. "it is god's doing," he said to himself. "he never places his servants in a great battle without providing weapons for the conflict. i doubted about the money, the means to carry on the work, and here it is at hand, gold in abundance. and why should it not be used for the furtherance of the kingdom? it is virgin gold, untainted by the touch of greedy men. if it is considered right to use the money which flows into the mission exchequer from many doubtful sources, why should not this be used? why should missionaries who are in the field hesitate to stake their claims when a new mine is discovered, and use the gold to carry on their work? it has not been done in the past. they have stood aside, watched the crowd arrive, who wallowed in the wealth, erected saloons to further their evil designs, and work havoc among the natives of the land. then, after watching this, the missionaries have begged the crumbs which fell from these rich men's vile tables to combat the very evil they had introduced. why should satan's minions be provided with fine saloons and dance-halls in a new mining camp, while christ's ambassadors must use a miserable tent or log shack? no, no! it must not be so here! i will bring in honest men to stake their claims as i have done. we will use the gold to erect a temple to god, a hospital, a fine recreation room, library, and other things for the welfare of the place. then if the saloons do come, and the baser element, we will be prepared to contest the ground inch by inch, and fight a glorious battle for the right. "and aside from the work for the white men, why should not this gold be used for the uplifting of the natives? the land is theirs, and in a sense the gold is theirs, and how much better to use it for their own good than to beg it from those unwilling to contribute?" when keith was once fairly settled upon any line of action it was not his nature to delay long the doing of it. he thought of the quelchies he would leave behind for a while, and this caused him a certain degree of sorrow. he had become attached to these uncouth natives during his short sojourn among them. the little children, sturdy and bright, were much in need of a teacher, while the older ones had listened earnestly to his message. after his successful victory over the medicine man the old friendly feeling returned, and though the conjurer's wrath burned fiercely, he did not dare to oppose the missionary any longer. he had observed no change in the indians' manner of living. there had been no outward sign of acceptance of the truths he had taught. but in this he was not surprised. he had planted the seed into their hearts and minds, and was content to leave the increase to the master of life. when the time came for him to say farewell the old chief reached out his thin, scrawny hand. "pale-face come again soon, eh?" "yes, as soon as i can," replied keith. "will the great chief give me welcome?" "the chief of the quelchies will welcome the brave pale-face teacher. come again soon." "god helping me, i will." "ah, good," and the old man's wrinkled face broke into a weary smile. for some distance on the trail keith was accompanied by shrahegan. this noble indian seemed so different from the rest of his people that the missionary often longed to question him concerning the reason. "shrahegan," he said, as they moved on their way, "you told me once the cause of your kindness to me, but why are you different from your people? you are much nobler, have deeper thoughts, and are opposed to the medicine man." the indian paused and looked earnestly into his companion's face. an eager look shone in his eye as he slowly replied. "shrahegan has a strange fire here," and he placed his right hand upon his breast. "once a black bear, wolf and fox all lived here, but now they have gone, and only the fire burns all the time." "what fire?" questioned keith, looking wonderingly at the fine figure before him. in reply, shrahegan stretched out his arm and pointed toward the east, where the grand peaks of the rocky mountains, snow-capped and sun-crowned, were standing out clear and distinct. "there," he said, "beyond the mountains, the land of the rising sun, where the great river flows to the home of the lights which dance in the heavens--there the fire began to burn." "what, the mackenzie river district?" "ah, ah. shrahegan saw much there, and learned many things. he saw the big canoe, breathing smoke as black as night, flying up the river, and heard men tell of the wonderful things in the land of the pale-face. ah, shrahegan found much." "and you long to see the strange things?" asked keith. "ah, the fire has been here ever since. shrahegan thinks much. his feet walk in the ways of the quelchies, but his heart is over there. and what have my people done?" he continued almost fiercely. "they make no change; they know nothing. they live like the moose, the bear, the wolf, and the fox. they eat, sleep, talk, fight, and die, but do nothing. as we are to-day, our fathers were the same before us, and so will our children be. and what has the medicine man done? nothing. he says he knows much, but he is wrong. shrahegan feels the fire. he hears a strange voice which gives him no rest." it was truly a marvellous spectacle to see this giant savage, travailing in the throes of a new birth. it reminded keith of a picture which often came to his mind, of the beginning of civilization among his own rude ancestors. all around was a dreary land, wind-swept and cold, over which men, women and children were crawling, fighting and dying. in the midst of this pathetic scene one man had lifted his head and was listening as if to a voice from the far-off sea, while in his dull, stupid eye the gleam of a new light could be dimly discerned. the light of god was breaking, which at last burst forth into such marvellous glory. "shrahegan," said keith, when the indian had finished, and stood looking away toward the east, "what do you want? what will give you rest?" "to see. to know," came the slow, thoughtful reply. "for yourself only?" "no, no! for my people, too. shrahegan wants them to have the fire, and to see other things." "and do you want a teacher?" "ah, shrahegan wants the pale-face teacher to live among his people, to help them. and will he come?" he questioned, looking deep into the missionary's eyes. "yes, he will come, or send another better," came the reply. "and while he is away shrahegan will not forget?" "shrahegan will not forget. how can he when he has seen the light and felt the fire?" when once alone, keith's steps quickened. the king's business required haste and he must not delay. after crossing the mountain he reached the unnamed river flowing free and strong before him. here was an opportunity which a frontiersman could not afford to overlook. the stream would speed him on his way to klassan. with some difficulty he fashioned a small raft from the dead, broken trees on the bank, and entrusting himself to this with a prayer for guidance, was soon sweeping down with the current. day after day he moved onward, past islands, bars, and jutting points, guiding the craft by means of a long, stout pole by many a dangerous place. just when he expected that one day more would bring him to klassan, he found that the speed of the current was decreasing to a considerable extent. then he was surprised to find the ice drifting slowly in various places. the farther he advanced the slower became his progress, until at length he found the river entirely blocked with the floating mass. there was nothing to do but to abandon the craft which had done him such good service, and travel on foot along an indian trail which wound its devious way through the wilderness. he had hoped to reach klassan early in the afternoon, but in this he was disappointed, and night had shut down when at last he paused to rest atop the hill looking down upon the village. it was not for rest alone that he halted and seated himself upon a jutting rock. it was to collect his thoughts, which were in a perturbed condition. how would he be received at klassan? he wondered, and what had happened since his departure? then he was so near to her. what was she doing down there in the darkness? moving, perhaps, about the little cabin. was she thinking of him, the wanderer, the outcast, with the stain upon his name? he shivered, not from apprehension alone, but from the chill, mist-laden wind rolling and roaring up the valley. he rose to his feet and advanced a few paces, when a strange sound away to the right startled him and stayed his steps. he peered ahead through the darkness. he strained his ears and listened like a hunted creature. presently the truth flashed upon him, terrible, intense. it was the ice-jam! it had given way and was sweeping down with irresistible force upon the village below! would the miners know of it? would they flee to the high banks? and what of her? was she safe? he threw aside his rifle and leaped forward like a greyhound. down, down, through the darkness he sped, over rocks, beating the bushes aside, falling and stumbling, but ever on, with clothes torn, hands and face scratched and bleeding. he heeded not the wounds, he never felt them, for the awful roar of the onrushing waters was in his ears. would he never reach the place! how the trail had lengthened, and the obstacles, how many there were! what was that? ah, a cabin. thank god, she was safe! he reached the door. he stumbled. he fell. he regained his feet. he beat upon the wood with his hands. he saw a light, felt a warm rush of air, and heard a cry of astonishment. "run, run!" he shouted. "the water! it's coming! the jam has burst! for god's sake, save yourselves!" that was all, all he had time for, then out into the night, and down the trail straight to the miners' cabins. he reached the forks of the road. he sped past, and then suddenly stopped. a cry, a noise, fell upon his ears. there, yes, to the right. he rushed on. he saw dim forms of people, and into their midst he sprang like a wildcat after its prey. he hardly knew what he said. he comprehended not the meaning of what they were doing. he only heard a yell of fright as a wild, hurried scramble for the high banks ensued, while something fell with a dull thud almost at his very feet. he was about to follow the miners and indians in their flight, when a groan arrested his steps. he looked down. it was a man, helpless and bound. what did it mean? what was that crowd doing there in the darkness? the thoughts surged like lightning through his brain. he reeled and almost fell. but the roar above nerved him. he called for help, but only the waters sent back their terrible response. desperate, determined, he seized the prostrate man in his arms and staggered with him toward the bank. would he reach it? would his strength hold out? yes. no. o god, help him! for the cruel waters had reached him! they thrust out their long, icy tongues, they swept him off his feet and hurled him forward, still grasping in his arms the body of the helpless man. chapter xxviii the shadowed glen the night the jam gave way constance was seated by the table engaged upon a piece of needlework. the candle by her side threw its feeble, flickering beams upon her dark hair and well-formed face. the rich tide of health was not flowing as of old, free and strong. it had fled from her cheeks, leaving them at times very white. occasionally her busy fingers ceased and her work lay unheeded in her lap, while a far-away look stole into her dark brown eyes. the wind beat against the little window and shook the loose panes of glass; it whirled around the cabin, and rattled the rudely constructed stove pipe. constance shivered, but not from the cold, and often unconscious sighs escaped her lips. her father was sitting near, reading, or pretending to read, a book keith had loaned him. it was one of the few volumes left of the missionary's carefully chosen library. the rest had gone up in smoke. it exemplified the truth that what we keep we lose; what we give we have. mr. radhurst was much improved. the haggard look had left his face; his eyes were clear and his step strong and decisive as of old. occasionally his gaze wandered from the page he was reading to his daughter's face. he was uneasy about her of late, and noted with apprehension the paleness of her cheeks and the absence of her cheery songs. "connie," he kindly said, laying aside the book, "i'm afraid this life is not agreeing with you." "why, father dear," she smilingly replied. "do you think i look very sick?" "you look far from well, my child, and you need a decided change. this is no place for a woman. you have no companion, no place to visit, nothing but the same dreary routine from morning till night, week in and week out. then this commotion among the miners and your adventure with that rascally pritchen are telling upon you, i can see that." "yes, father, i am uneasy about the miners, i must admit. we saw them with all those indians this afternoon, but have heard nothing. every one seems to have forsaken us." "connie," and mr. radhurst's voice was low, "i think we had better leave the north. it is no place for us. we are not accustomed to the hardships, and i am too old. it was a great mistake i made, but the fever ran in my veins, and my eyes were blinded. now i see differently, and think it best to go back." had mr. radhurst uttered these words several months before constance would have been filled with delight. but now they brought little joy to her heart. she had changed much. her old life, with all its associations, was fading, and the north was gripping her hard, as it does so many sooner or later who enter its portals. chains had been forged which were binding her to the land, chains of hardships, sorrow, and, not the least, love. she had lost a dear and only brother here, but she had gained much in compensation. life had become more real since keith steadman had crossed her path and infused into her heart and mind the longing for higher and nobler things. she compared him with many she had met in days gone by, and how superior he appeared. they were living so much for self, with their little rounds of business, pleasure and small talk. he was living for others, not a common life, but one filled with thought and activity, an unconscious hero in a stern, dreary field. go back! back to what? that was the question which surged through her mind, causing her long lashes to droop, and her head to bend over her work, till the rich abundance of her hair almost hid her face. her father, noticing her embarrassment, wondered. he felt there was some reason for her bent head and unusual silence, but with fatherly solicitude forebore to question her farther. a peculiar noise outside startled them. "what's that?" exclaimed constance. "the wind," replied her father, "or else a prowling dog." when, however, the pounding upon the door began both sprang to their feet, and with fast-beating hearts crossed the room. then when the door was opened and keith, weary, ragged and blood-stained, staggered into the building, they stared in amazement. they listened speechlessly to his brief message, gasped forth in quick, short syllables, and before they had recovered from their astonishment he was gone. constance was the first to realize the situation. "quick, father!" she cried, reaching for her cloak and hood. "we must leave the cabin! the flood is coming! hurry!" "but i don't think it will reach us, connie. we are too high up. but what about the miners?" by this time constance was out of the house, listening to the dull, ominous roar, sounding down through the darkness. she shivered and drew the cloak more closely around her shoulders. how weird it all seemed! oh, if the night would only pass and give the blessed daylight! "connie," said her father, who had joined her, "i think we had better cross to the higher ground by the indian encampment. we must not run any risk, and, besides, we may learn how the miners are faring." together they made their way through the night, along the rough trail, and after much stumbling reached the indian village. here they paused and listened. no light was to be seen, and no human voice could they hear. the camp was deserted. "let us go farther," suggested mr. radhurst. "we may find out something lower down." through the midst of the lodges they moved for several hundred yards along the high bank of the kaslo. the waters were now surging tumultuously on their left. they could hear the ice groaning and tearing in its onward sweep, but could see nothing. when the last house had been reached they stood straining their eyes in an effort to pierce the darkness. "what's that?" cried constance, grasping her father's arm more firmly. "i heard nothing but the waters," was the reply. "but i did, father, and it sounded like a shout far ahead. oh, let us go on along the bank! i am afraid something terrible has happened!" they had groped their way but a short distance when a light fell upon their eyes. small at first, it soon grew larger, and then they knew it was a watch-fire upon the shores. forms of men were seen flitting here and there, gathering sticks to throw upon the flames, which ere long developed into a magnificent blaze. guided by this they soon reached the spot, and great was the miners' surprise to behold the gray-haired man and the hooded maiden emerge from the darkness. "what's wrong?" inquired mr. radhurst, looking from one to another. "wrong?" replied a husky fellow, who had just deposited an armful of wood, "everything's wrong to-night! flood and death, that's what's wrong!" constance's face paled as she listened to these words. "why," she gasped, "didn't all escape?" "naw. the best has gone down, the only men of the whole gang." "who? oh, tell me quick!" "old pete an' the parson." the words smote constance like a sudden blow. pale at the first intimation of the disaster, she was like death now. she tried to speak, but could utter not a sound. "don't be frightened, miss," said the man not unkindly, noticing her excitement. "it may not be as bad as we think." "oh, tell me!" she gasped, "what has happened?" "well, to tell you the truth, miss, we don't know much ourselves. you see we were at that devilish job when the parson landed upon us with a yell which made our blood run cold. then there was a scramble for the high bank, and i guess the injuns are scramblin' yet, for they haven't shown up since. it was pete who first shouted out for the parson, and when he could not be found i thought the old man would go mad. he made for the river with one bound, and the last we heard of him was his cry, "i'm comin', laddie!" and then the flood was upon them." "but didn't anyone go to their rescue?" asked constance excitedly. "did the men all stand by and let them drown?" "not a bit of it, miss. most of the men are down yon searchin' the shore, but it's so dark i'm afraid they can do very little. we've made this fire to guide them back, and if they do find the poor chaps, a little heat won't be amiss, i reckon." "oh, what can we do!" and constance wrung her hands in agony of mind. "wait, connie. we can wait," replied her father. "wait! wait, and----" a thought flashed through her mind. it was like a still, small voice. "call upon me in the day of trouble," it said. yes, why had she forgotten? it made her feel that a presence was very near, and that he who long ago had delivered his people from the waters of egypt would hear her now. "father," she said quietly, "we can wait, and we can do something more, we can pray." "yes, connie, we can do that." "and will you pray, father?" "you do it, dear, for you know better what to say." a slight flush came into her face as she knelt upon the ground before the fire. she knew the men were watching her, but she did not mind, for what were they to the ones now in peril? "oh god," she prayed, "lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night, for the love of thine only son, our saviour, jesus christ." "amen. amen. amen," came from the miners, who with bowed and uncovered heads were standing reverently around her. that was all she could utter. when she rose from her knees the men were bestirring themselves. some had gone for more wood, while others were poking the fire. this latter work was unnecessary, but the men had to do something. the pathetic sight of the beautiful woman kneeling on the ground, offering up that fervent prayer, had touched their hearts, and more than one brushed their sleeves across their eyes when safe under the friendly cover of darkness. the wood-gatherers had been gone but a short time when they came hurrying back much excited. "they're coming! they're coming!" shouted one, "and i believe they've found them!" the report was true, for soon a band of men slowly approached, bearing something between them. constance stepped quickly forward and scanned the faces of the men, and, oh joy! there before her stood keith, with water dripping from his clothes, his wet hair streaming over his forehead and his face white and haggard. he did not look upon the men, nor did he see the eager woman gazing so longingly upon him. he beheld only the prostrate form of pete martin lying by the fire. intense agony was expressed in every line of his face as he stooped down and examined the unconscious man. "thank god! oh, thank god!" he murmured, as he found the prospector's pulse still beating. "we must get him somewhere out of this," he continued, turning to the men. "he is alive and we may do something for him yet." "bring him to our cabin, mr. steadman," said mr. radhurst. "we will care for him." "thank you," and keith turned towards the old man. then his eye rested upon constance's animated face, standing by her father's side. it was like a ray of sunshine to his clouded heart, a light in the darkness, peace in the midst of storm, and a faint smile crossed his face--the first in many days. tender hands bore old pete over the trail to the radhurst cabin and laid him upon the couch within. outside, the miners stood in little groups waiting, but hardly knowing what they were waiting for. homeless, penniless were they, but they never thought of it then. their own losses were swallowed up in the excitement of the moment, and the sudden blow which had fallen. down below, the river--the river of death--surged and moaned. it had swept away the cabins and had gripped in its icy grasp the body of one wretched man, whose hand no more would be raised to strike at the standard of the lord and his co-workers. chapter xxix the shining trail when morning dawned it was a dreary sight which met the eyes of the tired watchers gathered about the smouldering embers of the fire upon the high bank. the waters had subsided, leaving masses of ice, trees, rocks and mud strewn around in every direction. of the miners' cabins nothing remained; they had been swept out into the river. looking down upon the scene of desolation, the men realized the helplessness of their position; without cabins, food or blankets matters seemed serious enough. most of them said nothing, but sat or stood watching the river flowing sullenly by. a few, however, broke into loud complaints. of these perdue, the saloon-keeper, was the most incessant in his lamentations. "only think," he wailed, "i've lost everything, saved nothing. my supplies and money are all gone." "an' yer pizened whiskey, why don't ye say," replied caribou sol, turning fiercely upon him. "what are ye howlin' fer, anyway? why can't ye stan' up an' take yer dose like a man, instid of whinin' like a baby?" "chuck him into the river, sol," called out one of the men. "that will cool him off." "no, i'll not soil me hands with the likes of 'im; i've other things to do," and sol turned on his heel and started for the indian camp. he had almost reached the place when he saw the missionary emerging from the old chief's lodge, and with him was amos, the catechist. "good morning, mr. burke," said keith, extending his hand. "i'm afraid you have had a bad night of it." "none the best, sir," came the reply. "but, say, how's pete?" "bad, very bad," and a pained expression came into keith's face. "any chance of gittin' better, de'ye think?" "i'm afraid not. he is wounded internally. he was badly jammed by the ice." "an' how did you come through without gittin' pinched?" "i cannot tell. it was all like a terrible dream. the water swept me off my feet, and when i thought it was all up with me, pete seized me in his strong arms. a block of ice caught us and drove us to the shore, crushing pete as it did so. oh, it was fearful! we were face to face with death." "an' bill went down?" "that was pritchen, was it?" "yes." "what were you doing to him?" "stretchin' his neck." "i thought so. did he confess?" "yes, coughed up everything." "poor chap!" "it sarved 'im right. he was a bad egg." "but he was not always bad." "ye don't say so! what changed 'im into sich a divil?" "drink, gambling and evil companions." "it seems, sir, that ye knowed 'im afore he struck the north." "know him! i should say i did know him! he was my only sister's husband. oh, nellie, nellie! how can i ever tell you all! but how about the men?" he suddenly asked, wishing to change the subject, which was becoming most painful. "what, the b'ys down yon?" "yes." "in a bad way. nothin' left." "and they've no food?" "not a scrap." "well, look here, mr. burke. there's the school room which the men can use until they get new cabins built. they will have to do their cooking outside, but there is a stove in the place which will keep them warm at night. i have just seen the old chief, and the indians will loan what blankets they can spare until the steamer arrives." sol's eyes opened wide with amazement. "de'ye mean it?" he asked. "i know ye'ud do what ye could to help us out, but i didn't think them injuns 'ud ever fergit what was done to 'em." "yes, i mean every word i say. and what's more, the indians are willing to give what food they can to the miners. they have a fair supply of dried fish and moose-meat, which will help some." in reply sol stretched out a huge hand. "put it thar!" he said, and tears stood in his eyes. "i can't say any more, but i'll tell the b'ys, an' they'll thank ye." when keith returned to the radhurst cabin he met constance just outside the door. "oh, i am so glad you have come back!" she said. "pete is awake and calling for you." "how long did he sleep?" questioned keith. "only a short time after you left. i am afraid he is failing fast." a faint smile passed over the old man's face as they entered the room where he was lying. it was constance's room, which she had gladly given up to the patient. "laddie, laddie!" he said. "i'm so glad to see ye. i knowed ye'd come back." "how are you feeling now, pete?" asked keith, as he grasped the hand which was extended in welcome. "not very well. i've a bad pain in my chist, but i'm a-thinkin' it'll go away soon." "we will do all we can to help you, pete, never forget that." "i don't mean that, laddie, fer an army of doctors couldn't help me now. i guess it's only the good lord who will give me any relief." "pete, pete, don't say that!" cried constance. "we can't spare you yet. what will we do without you?" "it's the good lord's will, lassie, an' though i'd like to stay wid yez a while longer, still when he calls i must be a-goin'. an' yit i wonner," he continued after a pause, "what he wants the likes of me up yon fer anyway." "he wants you, perhaps," replied keith softly, "for the same reason that we want you here, because he loves you." "loves me! loves me! what is thar in me to love? an' what have i ever done that he should love me?" "'i was an hungered, and ye gave me meat,'" quoted constance, "'i was thirsty and ye gave me drink, i was a stranger and ye took me in.' that is what you did to us at siwash creek, and i am sure christ won't forget that." "oh, that's nothin', lassie. i jist done it 'cause i couldn't see yez suffer, that's all." "i think it very much. and didn't christ say that a cup of cold water given in his name will not lose its reward?" "'in his name!' ah, lassie, that's jist whar the stick comes. i didn't think much about 'im when i was a-doin' them things. thar wasn't the burnin' love in my heart for 'im that i should have had, an' it's never been very strong in my heart at any time." "i think the master will judge differently," said keith. "did he not say, 'that greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends?' isn't that what you did for me last night?" "did he say them words, laddie; are ye sure?" and the old man looked his eagerness. "yes, that's just what he said. i will read them to you," and keith opened his bible and read the beautiful scene, recorded by st. john, of the true vine and the branches. for a while pete remained very still, with his eyes closed, to all appearance asleep. "laddie," he suddenly remarked, "them words are very comfortin', but thar 're others which make me feel bad in that same good book." "what! in here?" "yes, whar the master tells us about the journey food. i don't recollect the exact words, but he says if we don't eat his flesh and drink his blood we have no life in us. now, them are purty straight words, an' i've often thought about 'em. i took the communion once, jist after my confirmation, an' a most solemn an' elevatin' sarvice it was. but i ain't took it since. i ain't been worthy." "but you shall have it now if you wish," said keith eagerly. "but de'ye think i'm worthy, laddie?" "that's not the question, pete. i doubt if any of us are really worthy of the blessings we receive, and if we waited until we were worthy to follow his command about the communion we would never take it at all. if we waited until we were well before obeying the doctor's orders, what good would they do? now, christ is the doctor of souls, the great physician, and he has given us this blessed food to strengthen, comfort, and to give us more and fuller life. what he wants to see in us is an earnest desire, a true, living faith." "i do want it, laddie," said pete eagerly. "it is his command, an' he said, 'do this in remembrance of me,' didn't he? i ain't fergot them words, an' when i meet 'im up yon, mebbe he'll ax me about it, an' what kin i say if i haven't obeyed 'im. so if ye don't mind, an' it ain't too much trouble, mebbe ye'd give it to me now." it did not take keith long to bring the communion vessels from the church, and when the fair linen cloth had been spread upon the little table, the bread and wine made ready in the small silver chalice and paten, and the missionary robed in his white surplice and stole, the short, beautiful service began. pete followed earnestly every word, and at times a low "amen" escaped his lips. "lassie," he said, turning to constance when the benediction had been given, "won't ye sing a leetle?" "yes," came the reply, "what would you like?" "thar's a hymn me mother uster sing very often, an' it's mighty fine. it begins this way, 'jeeroosalem, the golden.' i've sung it meself out on the hills." "i know it," replied constance, and in a low, sweet voice she sang the familiar words with eyes filled with tears. "go on, lassie, don't stop," said pete, when the first verse was ended. verse after verse was accordingly sung, and when at last the amen fell from her lips, she glanced at the old man and found that he had fallen asleep. "it is well," said keith gently. "we will leave him now for a time." when pete again awoke the day was far spent, and the sun was swinging low in the west. he opened his eyes, and looked around in a dazed manner, when, meeting constance's anxious eyes fixed upon him, a smile flitted across his face. "i had a wonnerful dream, lassie. i saw me father an' mother very plain. they was a-holdin' out their hands to me, jist like they uster do when i was a leetle lad. they looked so happy, an' they was a-smilin' at me. all around them thar was flowers, an' beautiful trees, in which the birds were a-singin'. a leetle brook flowed right by, an' i could hear it ripplin' an' makin' music, like the leetle stream which ran through the medder near my old home. i heard children a-playin' an' laughin' by the brook, an' among the flowers. oh, it was wonnerful! when i tried to go somethin' held me back. i struggled so hard that at last i woke, an' it all went away." again he fell into a sleep, not a peaceful one as before, but troubled. he tossed much, and often unintelligible words escaped his lips. when he next awoke constance and keith were sitting near, watching him attentively. he did not notice them, however, for he was off on the trail, following up the golden lure. "alec, man," he said, "are ye thar? it's gittin' dark, an' the trail's rough. lower this pack from me back, man; it's too heavy, i can't stan' it. whar's me blanket, alec? it's cold to-night. throw some sticks on the fire. thar, that's better ... we ain't got much further to go, alec; jist across yon range, down the valley, an' up t'other side ... ah, thar's the gold! i knowed it was thar! i've been a-follerin' it all me life ... look, man, see how it shines! gold! gold! thank god, i've struck it at last!" he looked around the room, and his eyes fell upon the anxious watchers. "whar am i, lad?" he asked. "i thought i was on the trail an' had made a rich strike." "you are here, safe in this cabin," replied keith, "so don't worry." "what's the time, laddie?" "almost midnight." "ah, i didn't think it was so late. but i know it can't be long now, fer i'm slippin' away fast." then he looked at constance and noticed the tears in her eyes. "don't cry, lassie. i'm only an old man, an' ain't wuth the fuss." he was soon away again, this time a child, back in his old home. "mother, are ye thar? bring the light, mother, an' hold me hand while i say me prayers." he fumbled over the blanket, as if expecting the loving pressure as of old. at once constance bent over him and took his cold, rough hand in her own. he grasped it firmly, while a look of contentment stole into his face. "now, kiss me, mother. i'm very tired, an' want to go to sleep." gently as a mother constance stooped low, and as her lips touched his bronzed forehead he started suddenly up. "the trail! the shinin' trail!" he cried. "how bright it is! an' ... oh, i see..." the little clock in the room struck midnight, and the watchers looked at each other in silence. "it's all over," said constance, gently withdrawing her hand. "the long trail is ended." "and thank god," keith replied, "that it's of no earthly mine the gold he's struck to-night." chapter xxx the consecration "the ice is going! the ice is going!" the cry rang through klassan late one afternoon, and produced a magical effect. men dropped their frying-pans, axes, or whatever they had in their hands, and hurried to the river. the indians swarmed from their lodges and raced along the bank, eager to see the stirring of the great, icy monster. it was truly a marvellous spectacle which met their view. far up the yukon the vast field was moving irresistibly onward. from shore to shore the wildest confusion reigned as the huge blocks of ice tore and jammed one another in their rapid rush. now a massive, sparkling fragment would be lifted into the air, held for a time as if in a vise, and then, released, would plunge with a roar beneath the surface, to emerge hundreds of feet below like some monster of the sea. logs, swept down from tributary streams, snapped like pipe-stems in the merciless grip, while trees, torn roots and all from the banks, were whirled along like wisps of hay. where the banks were steep and high the crush was terrible, and the ice wedged and jammed as if struck by the sledge of thor. the water rose accordingly, and every creek was inundated for miles back. after the river became clear of ice anxious days of waiting followed. when would the steamer come? that was the question on the lips of all. at length their patience was rewarded, for early one morning a shout was raised that at last she was coming. far away down stream a film of white smoke was to be seen curling up into the sky. nearer and nearer it approached, and then the wheezy puffing could be faintly heard, sounding like the sweetest of music to the weary, waiting ones. steadily she approached, bravely stemming the racing current, until at length her smoke-stack and pilot-house appeared above the bank. she was a jaunty little craft, and had made a noble struggle up that northern stream, laden with supplies. rocks had ripped and scarred her hull; floating ice had damaged her small stern wheel, and for several days she had been stranded upon a bar. but she had conquered every obstacle, and now port was in sight. ere long the eager watchers were able to discern the steamer's name, for the sun resting upon the pilot-house showed clearly "the arctic" in brightly gilded letters. the captain and the pilot were at their posts; the deck-hands were sitting below, well forward, and the roaring furnace, with doors wide open, was throwing out its ruddy glow. then a long, shrill blast ripped the air, followed by another, and yet another. far from the distance came back the echo, nature's answer and welcome to the little steamer. for several hours keith sat in the vestry of the church, which had been his dwelling place since his return from the quelchie camp. he was surrounded by his mail. papers and parcels of books strewed the floor, while on the table was a liberal supply of letters. he had been busily engaged upon the latter, and they brought him varied news; this of joy, that of sorrow. he rose from the table, when his eye caught sight of an unopened letter lying on the floor which had fallen from the table. quickly opening it, he ran his eyes over the contents, and as he did so his face flushed. he sat down again, re-read the letter, and then remained for some time in deep thought. at length he arose and wended his way to the radhurst cabin. constance was not in. she had gone to old pete's grave, so her father told him. would he come in and wait for her return? "no, thank you," keith replied. "i shall stroll that way myself. i want to visit the grave, too." as he drew near the spot where the prospector was lying he beheld constance kneeling by the side of the mound, arranging some early wild flowers she had gathered that morning. how pretty she looked, and as keith paused and watched her a pained feeling stole into his heart. she would leave on the steamer to-morrow, and what would the place be like without her? he was going, too, but how could he come back and carry on his work without her helpful presence? would she return, too? the thought had often entered his mind. but how could he expect such a thing? how could he ask her to leave the comforts of civilization and dwell far off in the wilderness among a rude people? an involuntary groan escaped his lips, which caused constance to start and to look suddenly up from her work. "oh, it is you, mr. steadman!" she remarked with a smile. "i didn't know any one was near." "miss radhurst," said keith suddenly, "will you please walk with me along this bank? i want to show you a very pretty scene." "yes, only let me finish my task. there, that is better, but oh, how soon the flowers fade! now i am ready." side by side they wended their way along the bank, then down into a little valley close by the river, where a small stream purled through a grove of fir and cottonwood trees. birds were flitting here and there, while a noisy squirrel, sitting on a high branch, chattered and scolded incessantly at the intruders into its domain. "so you will leave in the morning?" said keith, as if it were quite news to him. "yes. everything is packed and ready." "i am going, too." "yes, i know it, but you will come back again." "come back! come back! yes, i expect to come back, but to what?" returned keith almost bitterly. "why, mr. steadman, i thought it would be such joy for you to return to your flock. and besides, have you not great plans in store for the quelchie indians, and the new mining town, of which we have talked so often. i think you have much in store." "there is much," came the slow reply. "there is vast work yet to be done. but a letter has filled me with serious thoughts, and i have come to you for advice." "to me! for advice!" "yes. here is the letter, a fair-sized one, is it not? well, the long and the short of it is this: i have been asked to go to toronto to take charge of a church there. it is a great surprise." "and you will accept?" queried constance, with a far-away look in her eyes. "shall i?" "why do you ask me? i am not able to judge. it is too important a matter for me to decide." "i ask you because--because i love you," keith stammered. "oh, miss radhurst--constance--bear with me," he pleaded, noticing her agitation. "you have talked about my returning to this country. you have pictured it out in glowing colours, and i know that i should be enthusiastic. but i cannot, for when i come back you will not be here. wait, please wait a little longer!" he cried, as constance endeavoured to speak. "you know not how i love you. ever since i saw you that wild night at siwash creek your image has been enshrined in my heart. through that terrible trial, on the long trail, and out in the quelchie camp, the story of which i have told you over and over again, you were ever with me. my love has intensified; it has become a burning fire. and oh, constance! tell me, is there any response? dare i hope for any return of my love?" he was close to her now, looking passionately into her face, from which all the colour had fled. her eyes remained fixed upon the ground as she listened to his rapid words. her heart was beating fast, and only with an effort could she control her voice. "what has this to do with your decision about that church in toronto?" she slowly asked, with averted face. "it means much. if you consent to become my--wife, i might accept that offer." "and why?" she turned as she spoke and looked him full in the eyes. in her words keith detected a note of surprise and reproach. "for--for your sake," he stammered. "for my sake?" "yes. the life would not be so hard there. you would have comforts which you could not obtain here." "and you would give up your grand work in the north, where you have had such success and so promising a future, for a--a woman? surely you do not mean it!" "but what would life be like here without the woman i love? it would be unbearable!" "and would a woman be worthy of your love unless she were willing to share your lot wherever it might be? a true, loving wife would rather be with her husband in the midst of the fight, by his side to sustain and comfort him in his trials. then, where love reigned, the little log cabin would be a more blessed spot than a palace where love was not." "constance! oh, constance! can you give me that love? could you be happy with me in a rough frontier town? tell me. tell me, do you love me?" "mr. steadman----," she began. "not that! not that!" he cried passionately. "well, keith, then. oh, keith, i do love you! i have loved you so long, but i am not worthy of your love, and--and--" "darling! my darling!" he cried, clasping her in his arms and imprinting upon her lips the sacred betrothal seal. "you are mine at last! my very own! oh, my darling, i am so happy!" "and i am happy, too," constance replied. "my heart is just singing with joy." the sun shone brightly through the trees and kissed the happy lovers; the little brook babbled and laughed joyously at their feet; all around the birds flitted and carolled in the fresh, balmy air, while from the depths of keith's heart came the fervent "father, i thank thee." the end. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see 19064-h.htm or 19064-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/0/6/19064/19064-h/19064-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/9/0/6/19064/19064-h.zip) the triumph of john kars a story of the yukon by ridgwell cullum author of "the golden woman," "the son of his father," "the way of the strong," "the men who wrought" with frontispiece in colors [frontispiece: the defenders were reduced to four.] a. l. burt company publishers -------new york copyright, 1917, by george w. jacobs & company all rights reserved contents i. at fort mowbray ii. the mission of st. agatha iii. the letter iv. on bell river v. in the night vi. john kars vii. at snake river landing viii. two men of the north ix. murray tells his story x. the man with the scar xi. the secret of the gorge xii. dr. bill dispenses aid and argument xiii. the fall trade xiv. arrivals in the night xv. father josé probes xvi. a man and a maid xvii. a night in leaping horse xviii. on the northern seas xix. at the gridiron xx. the "onlookers" again xxi. dr. bill investigates xxii. in the springtime xxiii. the darkness before dawn xxiv. the first streak of dawn xxv. the out-world xxvi. the deputation xxvii. the battle of bell river xxviii. the harvest of battle xxix. the lap of the gods xxx. the end of the terror xxxi. the close of the long trail xxxii. the summer of life the triumph of john kars chapter i at fort mowbray murray mctavish was seated at a small table, green-baized, littered with account-books and a profusion of papers. but he was not regarding these things. instead, his dark, intelligent eyes were raised to the smallish, dingy window in front of him, set in its deep casing of centuries-old logs. nor was the warm light shining in his eyes inspired by the sufficiently welcome sunlight beyond. his gaze was entirely absorbed by a fur-clad figure, standing motionless in the open jaws of the gateway of the heavily timbered stockade outside. it was the figure of a young woman. a long coat of beaver skin, and a cap of the same fur pressed down low over her ruddy brown hair, held her safe from the bitter chill of the late semi-arctic fall. she, too, was absorbed in the scene upon which she was gazing. her soft eyes, so gray and gentle, searched the distance. the hills, snow-capped and serrated. the vast incline of ancient glacier, rolling backwards and upwards in discolored waves from the precipitate opposite bank of snake river. the woods, so darkly overpowering as the year progressed towards its old age. the shaking tundra, treacherous and hideous with rank growths of the summer. the river facets of broken crags awaiting the cloak of winter to conceal their crude nakedness. then the trail, so slight, so faint. the work of sleds and moccasined feet through centuries of native traffic, with the occasional variation of the hard shod feet of the white adventurer. she knew it all by heart. she read it all with the eyes of one who has known no other outlook since first she opened them upon the world. yes, she knew it all. but that which she did not know she was seeking now. beyond all things, at that moment, she desired to penetrate some of the secrets that lay beyond her grim horizon. her brows were drawn in a slight frown. the questions she was asking peeped out of the depths of her searching eyes. and they were the questions of a troubled mind. a step sounded behind her, but she did not turn. a moment later the voice of murray mctavish challenged her. "why?" the brief demand was gentle enough, yet it contained a sort of playful irony, which, at the moment, jessie mowbray resented. she turned. there was impatience in the eyes which confronted him. she regarded him steadily. "why? it's always _why_--with you, when feelings get the better of me. maybe you never feel dread, or doubt, or worry. maybe you never feel anything--human. say, you're a man and strong. i'm just a woman, and--and he's my father. he's overdue by six weeks. he's not back yet, and we've had no word from him all summer." her impatience became swallowed up by her anxiety again. the appeal of her manner, her beauty were not lost upon the man. "so you stand around looking at the trail he needs to come over, setting up a fever of trouble for yourself figgering on the traps and things nature's laid out for us folk beyond those hills. guess that's a woman sure." hot, impatient words rose to the girl's lips, but she choked them back. "i can't argue it," she cried, a little desperately. "father should have been back six weeks ago. you know that. he isn't back. well?" "allan and i have run this old post ten years," murray said soberly. "in those ten years there's not been a single time that allan's hit the northern trail on a trade when he's got back to time by many weeks--generally more than six. it don't seem to me i've seen his little girl standing around same as she's doing now--ever before." the girl drew her collar up about her neck. the gesture was a mere desire for movement. "i guess i've never felt as i do now," she said miserably. "how?" the girl's words came in a sudden passionate rush. "oh, it's no use!" she cried. "you wouldn't understand. you're a good partner. you're a big man on the trail. guess there's no bigger men on the trail than you and father--unless it's john kars. but you all fight with hard muscle. you figure out the sums as you see them. you don't act as women do when they don't know. i've got it all here," she added, pressing her fur mitted hands over her bosom, her face flushed and her eyes shining with emotion. "i know, i feel there's something amiss. i've never felt this way before. where is he? where did he go this time? he never tells us. you never tell us. we don't know. can't help be sent? can't i go with an outfit and search for him?" the man's smile had died out. his big eyes, strange, big dark eyes, avoided the girl's. they turned towards the desolate, sunlit horizon. his reply was delayed as though he were seeking what best to say. the girl waited with what patience she could summon. she was born and bred to the life of this fierce northern world, where women look to their men for guidance, where they are forced to rely upon man's strength for life itself. she gazed upon the round profile, awaiting that final word which she felt must be given. murray mctavish was part of the life she lived on the bitter heights of the yukon territory. in her mind he was a fixture of the fort which years since had been given her father's name. he was a young man, a shade on the better side of thirty-five, but he possessed none of the features associated with the men of the trail. his roundness was remarkable, and emphasized by his limited stature. his figure was the figure of a middle-aged merchant who has spent his life in the armchair of a city office. his neck was short and fat. his face was round and full. the only feature he possessed which lifted him out of the ruck of the ordinary was his eyes. these were unusual enough. there was their great size, and a subtle glowing fire always to be discovered in the large dark pupils. they gave the man a suggestion of tremendous passionate impulse. one look at them and the insignificant, the commonplace bodily form was forgotten. an impression of flaming energy supervened. the man's capacity for effort, physical or mental, for emotion, remained undoubted. but jessie mowbray was too accustomed to the man to dwell on these things, to notice them. his easy, smiling, good-natured manner was the man known to the inhabitants of fort mowbray, and the mission of st. agatha on the snake river. the man's reply came at last. it came seriously, earnestly. "i can't guess how this notion's got into you, jessie," he said, his eyes still dwelling on the broken horizon. "allan's the hardest man in the north--not even excepting john kars, who's got you women-folk mesmerized. allan's been traipsing this land since two years before you were born, and that is more than twenty years ago. there's not a hill, or valley, or river he don't know like a school kid knows its alphabet. not an inch of this devil's playground for nigh a range of three hundred miles. there isn't a trouble on the trail he's not been up against, and beat every time. and now--why, now he's got a right outfit with him, same as always, you're worrying. say, there's only one thing i can figger to beat allan mowbray on the trail. it would need to be indians, and a biggish outfit of them. even then i'd bet my last nickel on him." he shook his head with decision. "no, i guess he'll be right along when his work's through." "and his work?" the girl's tone was one of relief. murray's confidence was infectious in spite of her instinctive fears. the man shrugged his fleshy shoulders under his fur-lined pea-jacket. "trade, i guess. we're not here for health. allan don't fight the gods of the wilderness or the legion of elemental devils who run this desert for the play of it. no, this country breeds just one race. first and last we're wage slaves. maybe we're more wage slaves north of 60 degrees than any dull-witted toiler taking his wage by the hour, and spending it at the end of each week. we're slaves of the big money, and every man, and many of the women, who cross 60 degrees are ready to stake their souls as well as bodies, if they haven't already done so, for the yellow dust that's to buy the physic they'll need to keep their bodies alive later when they've turned their backs on a climate that was never built for white men." then the seriousness passed for smiling good-nature. it was the look his round face was made for. it was the manner the girl was accustomed to. "guess this country's a pretty queer book to read," he went on. "and there aren't any pictures to it, either. most of us living up here have opened its covers, and some of us have read. but i guess allan's read deeper than any of us. i'd say he's read deeper even than john kars. it's for that reason i sold my interests in seattle an' joined him ten years ago in the enterprise he'd set up here. it's been tough, but it's sure been worth it," he observed reflectively. "yep. sure it has." he sighed in a satisfied way. then his smile deepened, and the light in his eyes glowed with something like enthusiasm. "think of it. you can trade right here just how you darn please. you can make your own laws, and abide by 'em or break 'em just as you get the notion. think of it, we're five hundred miles, five hundred miles of fierce weather, and the devil's own country, from the coast. we're three hundred miles from the nearest law of civilization. and, as for newspapers and the lawmakers, they're fifteen hundred miles of tempest and every known elemental barrier away. we're kings in our own country--if we got the nerve. and we don't need to care a whoop so the play goes on. can you beat it? no. and allan knows it all--all. he's the only man who does--for all your john kars. i'm glad. say, jessie, it's dead easy to face anything if you feel--just glad." as he finished speaking the eyes which had held the girl were turned towards the gray shadows eastward. he was gazing out towards that far distant region of the mackenzie river which flowed northwards to empty itself into the ice-bound arctic ocean. but he was not thinking of the river. jessie was relieved at her escape from his masterful gaze. but she was glad of his confidence and unquestioned strength. it helped her when she needed help, and some of her shadows had been dispelled. "i s'pose it's as you say," she returned without enthusiasm. "if my daddy's safe that's all i care. mother's good. i just love her. and--alec, he's a good boy. i love my mother and my brother. but neither of them could ever replace my daddy. yes, i'll be glad for him to get back. oh, so glad. when--when d'you think that'll be?" "when his work's through." "i must be patient. say, i wish i'd got nerve." the man laughed pleasantly. "guess what a girl needs is for her men-folk to have nerve," he said. "i don't know 'bout your brother alec, but your father--well, he's got it all." the girl's eyes lit. "yes," she said simply. then, with a glance westwards at the dying daylight, she went on: "we best get down to the mission. supper'll be waiting." murray nodded. "sure. we'll get right along." chapter ii the mission of st. agatha a haunting silence prevails in the land beyond the barrier of the yukon watershed. it is a world apart, beyond, and the other land, the land where the battle of civilization still fluctuates, still sways under the violent passions of men, remains outside. its fascination is beyond all explanation. yet it is as great as its conditions are merciless. murray mctavish had sought the explanation, and found it in the fact that it was a land in which man could make his own laws and break them at his pleasure. was this really its fascination? hardly. the explanation must surely lie in something deeper. surely the primitive in man, which no civilization can out-breed, would be the better answer. in allan mowbray's case this was definitely so. murray mctavish had served his full apprenticeship where the laws of civilization prevail. his judgment could scarcely be accepted in a land where only the strong may survive. the difference between the two men was as wide as the countries which had bred them, and furthermore allan had survived on the banks of the snake river for upwards of twenty-five years. for twenty-five years he had lived the only life that appealed to his primitive instincts and powers. and before that he had never so much as peeped beyond the watershed at the world outside. his whole life was instinct with courage. his years had been years of struggle and happiness, years in which a loyal and devoted wife had shared his every disappointment and success, years in which he had watched his son and daughter grow to the ripeness of full youth. the whole life of these people was a simple enough story of passionate energy, and a slow, steady-growing prosperity, built out of a wilderness where a moment's weakness would have yielded them complete disaster. but they were merciless upon their own powers. they knew the stake, and played for all. the man played for the tiny lives which had come to cheer his resting moments, and the defenceless woman who had borne them. the woman supported him with a loyal devotion and courage that was invincible. for years allan mowbray had scoured the country in search of his trade. his outfit was known to every remote indian race, east and west, and north--always north. his was a figure that haunted the virgin woodlands, the broad rivers, the unspeakable wastes of silence at all times and seasons. even the world outside found an echo of his labors. these two had fought their battle unaided from the grim shelter of fort mowbray. and, in the clearing of st. agatha's mission, at the foot of the bald knoll, upon the summit of which the old fort stood, their infrequent moments of leisure were spent in the staunch log hut which the man had erected for the better comfort of his young children. then had come the greater prosperity. it was the time of a prosperity upon which the simple-minded fur-hunter had never counted. the fort became a store for trade. it was no longer a mere headquarters where furs were made ready for the market. trade developed. real trade. and allan was forced to change his methods. the work was no longer possible single-handed. the claims of the trail suddenly increased, and both husband and wife saw that their prospects had entirely outgrown their calculations. forthwith long council was taken between them. either the trail, with its possibilities, which had suddenly become an enormous factor in their lives, or the store at the fort, which was almost equally important, must be abandoned, or a partner must be found and taken. allan mowbray was not the man to yield a detail of the harvest he had so laboriously striven for. so decision fell upon the latter course. murray mctavish was not twenty-five when he arrived at the fort. he was a man of definite personality and was consumed with an abundance of determination and resource. his inclination to stoutness was even then pronounced. but above all stood out his profound, concentrated understanding of american commercial methods, and the definite, almost fixed smile of his deeply shining eyes. there was never a doubt of the wisdom of allan's choice from the moment of his arrival. murray plunged himself unreservedly into the work of the enterprise, searching its possibilities with a keenly businesslike eye, and he saw that they had been by no means overestimated by his partner. there was no delay. with methods of smiling "hustle" he took charge of the work at the fort, and promptly released the overburdened allan for the important work of the trail. nor was ailsa mowbray the least affected by the new partner's coming. it was early made clear that her years of labor were at last to yield her that leisure she craved for the upbringing of her little family, which was, even now, receiving education under the cultured guidance of the little french-canadian priest who had set up his mission in this wide wilderness. for the first time in all her married life she found herself free to indulge in the delights of a domesticity her woman's heart desired. it was about the end of the summer, after murray's coming to the fort, that an element of trouble began to disquiet the peace of the mission on snake river. it almost seemed as if the change from the old conditions had broken the spell of the years of calm which had prevailed. yet the trouble was remote enough. furthermore it seemed natural enough. first came rumor. it traveled the vast, silent places in that mysterious fashion which never seems clearly accounted for. well over a hundred and fifty miles of mountain, and valley, and trackless woodlands separated the fort from the great mackenzie river, yet, on the wings of the wind, it seemed, was borne a story of war, of massacre, of savage destruction. the hitherto peaceful fishing indians of bell river had suddenly become the hooligans of the north. they were carrying fire and slaughter to all lesser indian settlements within a radius of a hundred miles of their own sombre valley. the fort was disturbed. the whole mission struck a note of panic. father josé saw grave danger for his small flock of indian converts. he remembered the white woman and her children, too. he was seriously alarmed. allan was away, so he sought the advice of those remaining. murray was untried in the conditions of the life of the country, but ailsa mowbray possessed all the little man's confidence. in the end, however, it was murray who decided. he took upon himself the position of leader in his partner's absence, and claimed the right to probe the trouble to its depths. the priest and ailsa yielded reluctantly. they, at least, understood the risk of his inexperience. but murray forcefully rejected any denial, and, with characteristic energy, and no little skill, he gathered an outfit together and promptly set out for bell river. it was the one effort needed to assure him of his permanent place in the life of the fort on snake river. it left him no longer an untried recruit, but a soldier in the battle of the wilderness. a month later he returned from his perilous enterprise with his work well and truly done. the information he brought was comprehensive and not without comfort. the bell river indians had certainly taken to the war-path. but it was only in defence of their fishing on the river which meant their whole existence. they were defending it successfully, but, in their success, their savage instincts had run amuck. not content with slaying the invaders they had annexed their enemy's property and squaws. then, with characteristic ruthlessness, they had set about carrying war far and near, but only amongst the indians. their efforts undoubtedly had a dual purpose, the primary object was the satisfying of a war lust suddenly stirred into being in savage hearts by their first successes. the other was purely politic. they meant to establish a terror, and so safeguard their food supplies for all time. murray's story was complete. it was thorough. it had not been easy. his capacity henceforth became beyond all question. so the cloud passed for the moment. but it did not disappear. the people at the fort, even allan mowbray, himself, when he returned, dismissed the matter without further consideration. he laughed at the panic which had arisen in his absence, while yet he commended murray's initiative and courage. after the first lull, however, fresh stories percolated through. they reached the fort again and again, at varying intervals, until the bell river valley became a black, dangerous spot in the minds of all people, and both indians, and any chance white adventurer, who sought shelter at the fort, received due warning to avoid this newly infected plague spot. it was nearly ten years since these things had occurred. and during all that time the primitive life on the banks of snake river had continued to progress in its normal calm. each year brought its added prosperity, which found little enough outward display beyond the constant bettering of trade conditions which went on under murray's busy hands. a certain added comfort reached the mother's home in the mission clearing. but otherwise the outward and visible signs of the wealth that was being stored up were none. father josé's mission grew in extent. the clearing widened and the numbers of savage converts increased definitely. the charity and medical skill of the little priest, and the mission's adjacency to a big trading post, were responsible for drawing about the place every begging indian and the whole of his belongings. the old man received them, and his benefits were placed at their service; the only return he demanded was an attendance at his religious services, and that the children should be sent to the classes which he held in the mission house. it was a pastoral that held every element of beauty, but as an anachronism in the fierce setting north of "sixty" it was even more perfect. allan mowbray looked on at all these things in his brief enough leisure. nor was he insensible to the changed conditions of comfort in his own home, due to the persistent genius of his partner. the old, rough furnishings had gone to be replaced by modern stuff, which must have demanded a stupendous effort in haulage from the gold city of leaping horse, nearly three hundred miles distant. but ailsa was pleased. that was his great concern. ailsa was living the life he had always desired for her, and he was free to roam the wilderness at his will. he blessed the day that had brought murray mctavish into the enterprise. just now allan had been away from the fort nearly the whole of the open season. his return was awaited by all. these journeys of his brought, as a result, a rush of business to the fort, and an added life to the mission. then there was the mother, and her now grown children, waiting to welcome the man who was their all. but allan mowbray had not yet returned, and jessie, young, impulsive, devoted, was living in a fever of apprehension such as her experienced mother never displayed. supper was ready at the house when murray and jessie arrived from the fort. ailsa mowbray was awaiting them. she regarded them smilingly as they came. her eyes, twins, in their beauty and coloring, with her daughter's, were full of that quiet patience which years of struggle had inspired. for all she was approaching fifty, she was a handsome, erect woman, taller than the average, with a figure of physical strength quite unimpaired by the hard wear of that bitter northern world. her greeting was the greeting of a mother, whose chief concern is the bodily welfare of her children, and a due regard for her domestic arrangements. "jessie's young yet, and maybe that accounts for a heap. but you, murray, being a man, ought to know when it's food time. i guess it's been waiting a half hour. come right in, and we'll get on without waiting for alec. the boy went out with his gun, an' i don't think we'll see him till he's ready." jessie's serious eyes had caught her mother's attention. ailsa mowbray possessed all a mother's instinct. her watch over her pretty daughter, though unobtrusive, was never for a moment relaxed. some day she supposed the child would have to marry. well, the choice was small enough. it scarcely seemed a thing to concern herself with. but she did. and her feelings and opinions were very decided. murray smilingly accepted the blame for their tardiness. "guess it's up to me," he said. "you see, jessie was good enough to let me yarn about the delights of this slice of god's country. well, when a feller gets handing out his talk that way to a bright girl, who doesn't find she's got a previous engagement elsewhere, he's liable to forget such ordinary things as mere food." mrs. mowbray nodded. "that's the way of it--sure. specially when you haven't cooked it," she said, with a smile that robbed her words of all reproach. she turned to pass within the rambling, log-built house. but at that moment two dogs raced round the angle of the building and fawned up to her, completely ignoring the others. "guess alec's--ready," was murray's smiling comment. there was a shadow of irony in the man's words, which made the mother glance up quickly from the dogs she was impartially caressing. "yes," she said simply, and without warmth. her regard though momentary was very direct. murray turned away as the sound of voices followed in the wake of the dogs. "hello!" he cried, in a startled fashion. "here's father josé, and--keewin!" "keewin?" it was jessie who echoed the name. but her mother had ceased caressing the dogs. she stood very erect, and quite silent. three men turned the corner of the house. alec came first. he was tall, a fair edition of his mother, but without any of the strength of character so plainly written on her handsome features. only just behind him came father josé and an indian. the padre of the mission was a white-haired, white-browed man of many years and few enough inches. his weather-stained face, creased like parchment, was lit by a pair of piercing eyes, which were full of fire and mental energy. but, for the moment, no one had eyes for anything but the stoic placidity of the expressionless features of the indian. the man's forehead was bound with a blood-stained bandage of dirty cloth. ailsa mowbray's gentle eyes widened. her firm lips perceptibly tightened. direct as a shot came her inquiry. "what's amiss?" she demanded. she was addressing the white man, but her eyes were steadily regarding the indian. a moment later a second inquiry came. "why is keewin here? why is he wounded?" the padre replied. it was characteristic of the country in which they lived, the lives they lived, that he resorted to no subterfuge, although he knew his tidings were bad. "keewin's got through from bell river. it's a letter to you from--allan." the woman had perfect command of herself. she paled slightly, but her lips were even firmer set. jessie hurried to her side. it was as though the child had instinctively sought the mother's support in face of a blow which she knew was about to fall. ailsa held out one hand. "give it to me," she said authoritatively. then, as the padre handed the letter across to her, she added: "but first tell me what's amiss with him." the padre cleared his throat. "he's held up," he said firmly. "the bell river neches have got him surrounded. keewin got through with great difficulty, and has been wounded. you best read the letter, and--tell us." chapter iii the letter ailsa mowbray tore off the fastening which secured the outer cover of discolored buckskin. inside was a small sheet of folded paper. she opened it, and glanced at the handwriting. then, without a word, she turned back into the house. jessie followed her mother. it was nature asserting itself. danger was in the air, and the sex instinct at once became uppermost. the men were left alone. murray turned on the indian. father josé and alec mowbray waited attentively. "tell me," murray commanded. "tell me quickly--while the missis and the other are gone. they got his words. you tell me yours." his words came sharply. keewin was allan mowbray's most trusted scout. the man answered at once, in a rapid flow of broken english. his one thought was succor for his great white boss. "him trade," he began, adopting his own method of narrating events, which murray was far too wise in his understanding of indians to attempt to change. "great boss. him much trade. big. plenty. so we come by bell river. one week, two week, three week, by bell river." he counted off the weeks on his fingers. "bimeby indian--him come plenty. no pow-wow. him come by night. all around corrals. him make big play. him shoot plenty. dead--dead--dead. much dead." he pointed at the ground in many directions to indicate the fierceness of the attack. "boss allan--him big chief. plenty big. him say us fight plenty--too. him say, him show 'em dis indian. so him fight big. him kill heap plenty too. so--one week. more indian come. boss allan then call keewin. us make big pow-wow. him say ten indian kill. good indian. ten still fight. not 'nuff. no good ten fight whole tribe. him get help, or all kill. so. him call star-man. keewin say star-man plenty good indian. him send star-man to fort. so. no help come. maybe star-man him get kill. so him pow-wow. keewin say, him go fetch help. keewin go, not all be kill. so keewin go. indian find keewin. they shoot plenty much. keewin no care that," he flicked his tawny fingers in the air. "indian no good shoot. keewin laugh. so. keewin come fort." the man ceased speaking, his attitude remaining precisely as it was before he began. he was without a sign of emotion. neither the padre nor alec spoke. both were waiting for murray. the priest's eyes were on the trader's stern round face. he was watching and reading with profound insight. alec continued to regard the indian. but he chafed under murray's delay. before the silence was broken ailsa mowbray reappeared in the doorway. jessie had remained behind. the wife's face was a study in strong courage battling with emotion. her gray eyes, no longer soft, were steady, however. her brows were markedly drawn. her lips, too, were firm, heroically firm. she held out her letter to the padre. it was noticeable she did not offer it to murray. "read it," she said. then she added: "you can all read it. alec, too." the two men closed in on either side of father josé. the woman looked on while the three pairs of eyes read the firm clear handwriting. "well?" she demanded, as the men looked up from their reading, and the priest thoughtfully refolded the paper. alec's tongue was the more ready to express his thoughts. "god!" he cried. "it means--massacre!" the priest turned on him in reproof. his keen eyes shone like burnished steel. "keep silent--you," he cried, in a sharp, staccato way. the hot blood mounted to the boy's cheek, whether in abashment or in anger would be impossible to say. he was prevented from further word by murray mctavish who promptly took command. "say, there's no time for talk," he said, in his decisive fashion. "it's up to us to get busy right away." he turned to the priest. "father, i need two crews for the big canoes right off--now. you'll get 'em. good crews for the paddle. best let keewin pick 'em. eh, keewin?" the indian nodded. "keewin'll take charge of one, and i the other. i can make bell river under the week. i'll drive the crews to the limit, an' maybe make the place in four days. i'll get right back to the store now for the arms and ammunition, and the grub. we start in an hour's time." then he turned on alec. there was no question in his mind. he had made his decisions clearly and promptly. "see, boy," he said. "you'll stay right here. i'm aware you don't fancy the store. but fer once you'll need to run it. but more than all you'll be responsible nothing goes amiss for the women-folk. their care is up to you, in your father's absence. get me? father josé'll help you all he knows." then, without awaiting reply, he turned to allan mowbray's wife. his tone changed to one of the deepest gravity. "ma'am," he said, "whatever man can do to help your husband now, i'll do. i'll spare no one in the effort. certainly not myself. that's my word." the wife's reply came in a voice that was no longer steady. "thank you, murray--for myself and for allan. god--bless you." murray had turned already to return to the fort when alec suddenly burst out in protest. his eyes lit--the eyes of his mother. his fresh young face was scarlet to the brow. "and do you suppose i'm going to sit around while father's being done to death by a lot of rotten indians? not on your life. see here, murray, if there's any one needed to hang around the store it's up to you. father josé can look after mother and jessie. my place is with the outfit, and--i'm going with it. besides, who are you to dictate what i'm to do? you look after your business; i'll see to mine. you get me? i'm going up there to bell river. i----" "you'll--stop--right--here!" murray had turned in a flash, and in his voice was a note none of those looking on had ever heard before. it was a revelation of the man, and even father josé was startled. the clash was sudden. both the mother and the priest realized for the first time in ten years the antagonism underlying this outward display. the mother had no understanding of it. the priest perhaps had some. he knew murray's energy and purpose. he knew that alec had been indulged to excess by his parents. it would have seemed impossible in the midst of the stern life in which they all lived that the son of such parents could have grown up other than in their image. but it was not so, and no one knew it better than father josé, who had been responsible for his education. alec was weak, reckless. of his physical courage there was no question. he had inherited his father's and his mother's to the full. but he lacked their every other balance. he was idle, he loathed the store and all belonging to it. he detested the life he was forced to live in this desolate world, and craved, as only weak, virile youth can crave, for the life and pleasure of the civilization he had read of, heard of, dreamed of. murray followed up his words before the younger man could gather his retort. "when your father's in danger there's just one service you can do him," he went on, endeavoring to check his inclination to hot words. "if there's a thing happens to you, and we can't help your father, why, i guess your mother and sister are left without a hand to help 'em. do you get that? i'm thinking for allan mowbray the best i know. i can run this outfit to the limit. i can do what any other man can do for his help. your place is your father's place--right here. ask your mother." murray looked across at mrs. mowbray, still standing in her doorway, and her prompt support was forthcoming. "yes," she said, and her eyes sought those of her spoiled son. "for my sake, alec, for your father's, for your sister's." ailsa mowbray was pleading where she had the right to command. and to himself father josé mildly anathematized the necessity. alec turned away with a scarcely smothered imprecation. but his mother's appeal had had the effect murray had desired. therefore he came to the boy's side in the friendliest fashion, his smile once more restored to the features so made for smiling. "say, alec," he cried, "will you bear a hand with the arms and stuff? i need to get right away quick." and strangely enough the young man choked back his disappointment, and the memory of the trader's overbearing manner. he acquiesced without further demur. but then this spoilt boy was only spoiled and weak. his temper was hot, volcanic. his reckless disposition was the outcome of a generous, unthinking courage. in his heart the one thing that mattered was his father's peril, and the sadness in his mother's eyes. then he had read that letter. "yes," he said. "tell me, and i'll do all you need. but for god's sake don't treat me like a silly kid." "it was you who treated yourself as one," put in father josé, before murray could reply. "remember, my son, men don't put women-folk into the care of 'silly kids.'" it was characteristic of murray mctavish that the loaded canoes cast off from the mission landing at the appointed time. for all the haste nothing was forgotten, nothing neglected. the canoes were loaded down with arms and ammunition divided into thirty packs. there were also thirty packs of provisions, enough to last the necessary time. there were two canoes, long, narrow craft, built for speed on the swift flowing river. keewin commanded the leading vessel. murray sat in the stern of the other. in each boat there were fourteen paddles, and a man for bow "lookout." it was an excellent relief force. it was a force trimmed down to the bone. not one detail of spare equipment was allowed. this was a fighting dash, calculating for its success upon its rapidity of movement. there had been no farewell or verbal "godspeed." the old priest had watched them go. he saw the round figure of murray in the stern of the rear boat. he watched it out of sight. the figure had made no movement. there had been no looking back. then the old man, with a shake of the head, betook himself back through the avenue of lank trees to the mission. he was troubled. the glowing eyes of murray gazed out straight ahead of him. he sat silent, immovable, it seemed, in the boat. that curious burning light, so noticeable when his strange eyes became concentrated, was more deeply lurid than ever. it gave him now an intense aspect of fierceness, even ferocity. he looked more than capable, as he had said, of driving his men, the whole expedition, to the "limit." chapter iv on bell river it was an old log shanty. its walls were stout and aged. its roof was flat, and sloped back against the hillside on which it stood. its setting was an exceedingly limited plateau, thrusting upon the precipitous incline which overlooked the gorge of the bell river. the face of the plateau was sheer. the only approaches to it were right and left, and from the hill above, where the dark woods crowded. a stockade of heavy trunks, felled on the spot, and adapted where they fell, had been hastily set up. it was primitive, but in addition to the natural defences, and with men of resolution behind it, it formed an almost adequate fortification. the little fortress was high above the broad river. it was like an eyrie of creatures of the air rather than the last defences of a party of human beings. yet such it was. it was the last hope of its defenders, faced by a horde of blood-crazed savages who lusted only for slaughter. five grimly silent men lined the stockade at the most advantageous points. five more lay about, huddled under blankets for warmth, asleep. a single watcher had screened himself upon the roof of the shack, whence his keen eyes could sweep the gorge from end to end. all these were dusky creatures of a superior indian race. every one of them was a descendant of the band of sioux indians which fled to canada after the custer massacre. inside the hut was the only white man of the party. a perfect silence reigned just now. there was a lull in the attack. the indians crowding the woods below had ceased their futile fire. perhaps they were holding a council. perhaps they were making new dispositions for a fresh attack. the men at the defences relaxed no vigilance. the man on the roof noted and renoted every detail of importance to the defence which the scene presented. the man inside the hut alone seemed, at the moment, to be taking no part in the enactment of the little drama. yet it was he who was the genius of it all. it was he who claimed the devotion of these lean, fighting indians. it was he who had contrived thus far to hold at bay a force of at least five hundred indians, largely armed with modern firearms. it was he who had led the faithful remnant of his outfit, in a desperate night sortie, from his indefensible camp on the river, and, by a reckless dash, had succeeded in reaching this temporary haven. but he had been supported by his half civilized handful of creatures who well enough knew what mercy to expect from the enemy. and, anyway, they had been bred of a stock with a fighting history second to no race in the world. to a man, the defenders were prepared to sell their lives at a heavy price. and they would die rifle in hand and facing the enemy. the man inside called to the watcher on the roof. "anything doing, keewin?" "him quiet. him see no man. maybe him make heap pow-wow." "no sign, eh?" "not nothin', boss." allan mowbray turned again to the sheet of paper spread out on the lid of an ammunition box which was laid across his knees. he was sitting on a sack of flour. all about him the stores they had contrived to bring away were lying on the ground. it was small enough supply. but they had not dared to overload in the night rush to their present quarters. he read over what he had written. then he turned appraisingly to the stores. his blue eyes were steady and calculating. there was no other expression in them. there was a suggestion of the viking of old about this northern trader. his fair hair, quite untouched with the gray due to his years, his fair, curling beard, and whiskers, and moustache, his blue eyes and strong aquiline nose. these things, combined with a massive physique, without an ounce of spare flesh, left an impression in the mind of fearless courage and capacity. he was a fighting man to his fingers' tips--when need demanded. he turned back to his writing. it was a labored effort, not for want of skill, but for the reason he had no desire to fret the heart of the wife to whom it was addressed. at last the letter was completed. he signed it, and read it carefully through, considering each sentence as to effect. "_bell river_. "my dearest wife: "i've had a more than usually successful trip, till i came here. now things are not so good." he glanced up out of the doorway, and a shadowy smile lurked in the depths of his eyes. then he turned again to the letter: "i've already written murray for help, but i guess the letter's kind of miscarried. he hasn't sent the help. star-man took the letter. so now i'm writing you, and sending it by keewin. if anybody can get through it's keewin. the bell river indians have turned on me. i can't think why. anyway, i need help. if it's to do any good it's got to come along right away. i needn't say more to you. tell murray. give my love to jessie and alec. i'd like to see them again. guess i shall, if the help gets through--in time. god bless you, ailsa, dear. i shall make the biggest fight for it i know. it's five hundred or so to ten. it'll be a tough scrap before we're through. "your loving "allan." he folded the sheet of paper in an abstracted fashion. for some seconds he held it in his fingers as though weighing the advisability of sending it. then his abstraction passed, and he summoned the man on the roof. a moment or two later keewin appeared in the doorway, tall, wiry, his broad, impassive face without a sign. "say, keewin," the white chief began, "we need to get word through to the fort. guess star-man's dead, hey?" "star-man plenty good scout. boss murray him no come. maybe star-man all kill dead. so." "that's how i figger." allan mowbray paused and glanced back at the trifling stores. "no much food, hey? no much ammunition. one week--two weeks--maybe." "maybe." the indian looked squarely into his chief's eyes. the latter held up his letter. "who's going? indians kill him--sure. who goes?" "keewin." the reply came without a sign. not a movement of a muscle, or the flicker of an eyelid. the white man breathed deeply. it was a sign of emotion which he was powerless to deny. his eyes regarded the dusky face for some moments. then he spoke with profound conviction. "you haven't a dog's chance--gettin' through," he said. the information did not seem to require a reply, so far as the indian was concerned. the white man went on: "it's mad--crazy--but it's our only chance." the persistence of his chief forced the indian to reiterate his determination. "keewin--him go." the tone of the reply was almost one of indifference. it suggested that the white man was making quite an unnecessary fuss. allan mowbray nodded. there was a look in his eyes that said far more than words. he held out his letter. the indian took it. he turned it over. then from his shirt pocket he withdrew a piece of buckskin. he carefully wrapped it about the paper, and bestowed it somewhere within his shirt. the white man watched him in silence. when the operation was complete he abruptly thrust out one powerful hand. just for an instant a gleam of pleasure lit the indian's dark eyes. he gingerly responded. then, as the two men gripped, the "spat" of rifle-fire began again. there was a moment in which the two men stood listening. then their hands fell apart. "great feller--keewin!" said mowbray kindly. nor was the white man speaking for the benefit of a lesser intelligence, nor in the manner of the patronage of a faithful servant. he meant his words literally. he meant more--much more than he said. the rifle fire rattled up from below. the bullets whistled in every direction. the firing was wild, as is most indian firing. a bullet struck the lintel of the door, and embedded itself deeply in the woodwork just above keewin's head. keewin glanced up. he pointed with a long, brown finger. "neche damn fool. no shoot. keewin go. keewin laugh. bell river indian all damn fool. so." it was the white man who had replaced the indian at the lookout on the roof. he was squatting behind a roughly constructed shelter. his rifle was beside him and a belt full of ammunition was strapped about his waist. the wintry sky was steely in the waning daylight. snow had fallen. only a slight fall for the region, but it had covered everything to the depth of nearly a foot. the whole aspect of the world had changed. the dark, forbidding gorge of the bell river no longer frowned up at the defenders of the plateau. it was glistening, gleaming white, and the dreary pine trees bowed their tousled heads under a burden of snow. the murmur of the river no longer came up to them. already three inches of ice had imprisoned it, stifling its droning voice under its merciless grip. attack on attack had been hurled against the white man and his little band of indians. for days there had been no respite. the attacks had come from below, from the slopes of the hill above, from the approach on either side. each attack had been beaten off. each attack had taken its heavy toll of the enemy. but there had been toll taken from the defenders, a toll they could ill afford. there were only eight souls all told in the log fortress now. eight half-starved creatures whose bones were beginning to thrust at the fleshless skin. allan mowbray's hollow eyes scanned the distant reaches of the gorge where it opened out southward upon low banks. his straining gaze was searching for a sign--one faint glimmer of hope. all his plans were laid. nothing had been left to the chances of his position. his calculations had been deliberate and careful. he had known from the beginning, from the moment he had realized the full possibilities of his defence, that the one thing which could defeat him was--hunger. once the enemy realized this, and acted on it, their doom, unless outside help came in time, was sealed. his enemies had realized it. there were no longer any attacks. only desultory firing. but a cordon had been drawn around the fortress, and the process of starvation had set in. he was giving his fate its last chance now. if the sign of help he was seeking did not appear before the feeble wintry light had passed then the die was cast. the minutes slipped by. the meagre light waned. the sign had not come. as the last of the day merged into the semi-arctic night he left his lookout and wearily lowered himself to the ground. his men were gathered, huddled in their blankets for warmth, about a small fire burning within the hut. allan mowbray imparted his tidings in the language of the men who served him. with silent stoicism the little band of defenders listened to the end. keewin, he told them, had had time to get through. full time to reach the fort, and return with the help he had asked for. that help should have been with them three days ago. it had not come. keewin, he assured them, must have been killed. nothing could otherwise have prevented the help reaching them. he told them that if they remained there longer they would surely die of hunger and cold. they would die miserably. he paused for comment. none was forthcoming. his only reply was the splutter of the small fire which they dared not augment. so he went on. he told them he had decided, if they would follow him, to die fighting, or reach the open with whatever chances the winter trail might afford them. he told them he was a white man who was not accustomed to bend to the will of the northern indian. they might break him, but he would not bend. he reminded them they were sioux, children of the great sitting bull. he reminded them that death in battle was the glory of the indian. that no real sioux would submit to starvation. this time his words were received with definite acclamation. so he proceeded to his plans. half an hour later the last of the stores was being consumed by men who had not had an adequate meal for many days. the aurora lit the night sky. the northern night had set in to the fantastic measure of the ghostly dance of the polar spirits. the air was still, and the temperature had fallen headlong. the pitiless cold was searching all the warm life left vulnerable to its attack. the shadowed eyes of night looked down upon the world through a gray twilight of calculated melancholy. the cold peace of the elements was unshared by the striving human creatures peopling the great white wilderness over which it brooded. war to the death was being fought out under the eyes of the dancing lights, and the twinkling contentment of the pallid world of stars. a small bluff of lank trees reared its tousled snow-crowned head above the white heart of a wide valley. it was where the gorge of the bell river opened out upon low banks. it was where the only trail of the region headed westwards. the bowels of the bluff were defended by a meagre undergrowth, which served little better purpose than to partially conceal them. about this bluff a ring of savages had formed. low-type savages of smallish stature, and of little better intelligence than the predatory creatures who roamed the wild. with every passing moment the ring drew closer, foot by foot, yard by yard. inside the bluff prone forms lay hidden under the scrub. and only the flash of rifle, and the biting echoes of its report, told of the epic defence that was being put up. but for all the effort the movement of the defenders, before the closing ring, was retrograde, always retrograde towards the centre. slowly but inevitably the ring grew smaller about the bluff. numbers of its ranks dropped out, and still forms littered the ground over which it had passed. but each and every gap thus made was automatically closed as the human ring drew in. the last phase began. the ring was no longer visible outside the bluff. it had passed the outer limits, and entered the scrub. in the centre, in the very heart of it, six indians and a white man crouched back to back--always facing the advancing enemy. volley after volley was flung wildly at them from every side, regardless of comrade, regardless of everything but the lust to kill. the tumult of battle rose high. the demoniac yells filled the air to the accompaniment of an incessant rattle of rifle fire. the bell river horde knew that at last their lust was to be satisfied. so their triumph rose in a vicious chorus upon the still air, and added its terror to the night. the defenders were further reduced to four. the white man had abandoned his rifle. now he stood erect, a revolver in each hand, in the midst of the remainder of his faithful band. he was wounded in many places. nor had the indians with him fared better. warm blood streamed from gaping wounds which were left unheeded. for the fight was to the finish, and not one of them but would have it so. nor was the end far off. it came swiftly, ruthlessly. it came with a ferocious chorus from throats hoarse with their song of battle. it came with a wild headlong rush, that recked nothing of the storm of fire with which it was met. a dozen lifeless bodies piled themselves before the staunch resistance. it made no difference. the avalanche swept on, and over the human barricade, till it reached striking distance for its crude native weapons. allan mowbray saw each of his last three men go down in a welter of blood. his pistols were empty and useless. there was a moment of wild physical struggle. then, the next, he was borne down under the rush, and life was literally hacked out of him. chapter v in the night the living-room in ailsa mowbray's home was full of that comfort which makes life something more than a mere existence in places where the elements are wholly antagonistic. the big square wood-stove was tinted ruddily by the fierce heat of the blazing logs within. carefully trimmed oil lamps shed a mellow, but ample, light upon furnishings of unusual quality. the polished red pine walls reflected the warmth of atmosphere prevailing. and thick furs, spread over the well-laid green block flooring, suggested a luxury hardly to be expected. the furniture was stout, and heavy, and angular, possessing that air of strength, as well as comfort, which the modern mission type always presents. the ample central table, too, was significant of the open hospitality the mistress of it all loved to extend to the whole post, and even to those chance travelers who might be passing through on the bitter northern trail. ailsa mowbray had had her wish since the passing of the days when it had been necessary to share in the labors of her husband. the simple goal of her life had been a home of comfort for her growing children, and a wealth of hospitality for those who cared to taste of it. the long winter night had already set in, and she was seated before the stove in a heavy rocking-chair. her busy fingers were plying her needle, a work she loved in spite of the hard training of her early days in the north. at the other side of the glowing stove jessie was reading one of the books with which father josé kept her supplied. the wind was moaning desolately about the house. the early snowfall was being drifted into great banks in the hollows. up on the hilltop, where the stockade of the fort frowned out upon the world, the moaning was probably translated into a tense, steady howl. the mother glanced at the clock which stood on the bureau near by. it was nearly seven. alec would be in soon from his work up at the store, that hour of work which he faced so reluctantly after the evening meal had been disposed of. in half an hour, too, father josé would be coming up from the mission. she was glad. it would help to keep her from thinking. she sighed and glanced quickly over at her daughter. jessie was poring over her book. the sight of such absorption raised a certain feeling of irritation in the mother. it seemed to her that jessie could too easily throw off the trouble besetting them all. she did not know that the girl was fighting her own battle in her own way. she did not know that her interest in her book was partly feigned. nor was she aware that the girl's effort was not only for herself, but to help the mother she was unconsciously offending. the anxious waiting for murray's return had been well-nigh unbearable. these people, all the folk on snake river, knew the dangers and chances of the expedition. confidence in murray was absolute, but still it left a wide margin for disaster. they had calculated to the finest fraction the time that must elapse before his return. three weeks was the minimum, and the three weeks had already terminated three nights ago. it was this which had set the mother's nerves on edge. it was this knowledge which kept jessie's eyes glued to the pages of her book. it was this which made the contemplation of the later gathering of the men in that living-room a matter for comparative satisfaction to ailsa mowbray. her needle passed to and fro under her skilful hands. there was almost feverish haste in its movements. so, too, the pages of jessie's book seemed to be turned all too frequently. at last the mother's voice broke the silence. "it's storming," she said. "yes, mother." jessie had glanced up. but her eyes fell to her book at once. "but it--won't stop them any." the mother's words lacked conviction. then, as if she realized that this was so, she went on more firmly. "but murray drives hard on the trail. and allan--it would need a bigger storm than this to stop him. if the river had kept open they'd have made better time." she sighed her regret for the ice. "yes, mother." jessie again glanced up. this time her pretty eyes observed her mother more closely. she noted the drawn lines about the soft mouth, the deep indentation between the usually serene brows. she sighed, and the pain at her own heart grew sharper. quite suddenly the mother raised her head and dropped her sewing in her lap. "oh, child, child, i--i could cry at this--waiting," she cried in desperate distress. "i'm scared! oh, i'm scared to death. scared as i've never been before. but things--things can't have happened. i tell you i won't believe that way. no--no! i won't. i won't. oh, why don't they get around? why doesn't he come?" the girl laid her book aside. her movement was markedly calm. then she steadily regarded her troubled mother. "don't, mother, dear," she cried. "you mustn't. 'deed you mustn't." her tone was a gentle but decided reproof. "we've figured it clear out. all of us together. father josé and alec, too. they're men, and cleverer at that sort of thing than we are. father josé reckons the least time murray needs to get back in is three weeks. it's only three days over. there's no sort of need to get scared for a week yet." the reproof was well calculated. it was needed. so jessie understood. jessie possessed all her mother's strength of character, and had in addition the advantage of her youth. her mother was abashed at her own display of weakness. she was abashed that it should be necessary for her own child to reprove her. she hastily picked up her work again. but jessie had abandoned her reading for good. she leaned forward in her chair, gazing meditatively at a glowing, red-hot spot on the side of the stove. suddenly she voiced the train of thought which had held her occupied so long. "why does our daddy make bell river, mother?" she demanded. "it's a question i'm always asking myself. he's told me it's not a place for man, devil, or trader. yet he goes there. say, he makes bell river every year. why? he doesn't get pelts there. he once said he'd hate to send his worst enemy up there. yet he goes. why? that's how i'm always asking. say, mother, you ran this trade with our daddy before murray came. you know why he goes there. you never say. nor does daddy. nor murray. is--it a secret?" ailsa replied without raising her eyes. "it's not for you to ask me," she said almost coldly. but jessie was in no mood to be easily put off. "maybe not, mother," she replied readily. "but you know, i guess. i wonder. well, i'm not going to ask for daddy's secrets. i just know there is a secret to bell river. and that secret is between you, and him, and murray. that's why alec had to stop right here at the fort. maybe it's a dangerous secret, since you keep it so close. but it doesn't matter. all i know our daddy is risking his life every time he hits the bell river trail, and, secret or no secret, i ask is it right? is it worth while? if anything happened to our daddy you'd never, never forgive yourself letting him risk his life where he wouldn't send his worst enemy.'" the mother laid her work aside. nor did she speak while she folded the material deliberately, carefully. when at last she turned her eyes in her daughter's direction jessie was horrified at the change in them. they were haggard, hopeless, with a misery of suspense and conviction of disaster. "it's no use, child," she said decidedly. "don't ask me a thing. if you guess there's a secret to bell river--forget it. anyway, it's not my secret. say, you think i can influence our daddy. you think i can persuade him to quit getting around bell river." she shook her head. "i can't. no, child. i can't, nor could you, nor could anybody. your father's the best husband in the world. and i needn't tell you his kindness and generosity. he's all you've ever believed him, and more--much more. he's a big man, so big, you and i'll never even guess. but just as he's all we'd have him in our lives, so he's all he needs to be on the bitter northern trail. the secrets of that trail are his. nothing'll drag them out of him. whatever i know, child, i've had to pay for the knowing. bell river's been my nightmare years and years. i've feared it as i've feared nothing else. and now--oh, it's dreadful. say, child, for your father's sake leave bell river out of your thoughts, out of your talk. never mention that you think of any secret. as i said, 'forget it.'" her mother's distress, and obvious dread impressed the girl seriously. she nodded her head. "i'll never speak of it, mother," she assured her. "i'll try to forget it. but why--oh, why should he make you endure these years of nightmare? i----" her mother abruptly held up a finger. "hush! there's father josé." there was the sharp rattle of a lifted latch, and the slam-to of the outer storm door. they heard the stamping of feet as the priest freed his overshoes of snow. a moment later the inner door was pushed open. father josé greeted them out of the depths of his fur coat collar. "a bad night, ma'am," he said gravely. "the folks on the trail will feel it--cruel." the little man divested himself of his coat. "the folk on the trail? is there any news?" ailsa mowbray's tone said far more than her mere words. jessie had risen from her chair and crossed to her mother's side. she stood now with a hand resting on the elder woman's shoulder. and the priest, observing them as he advanced to the stove, and held his hands to the comforting warmth, was struck by the twin-like resemblance between them. their beauty was remarkable. the girl's oval cheeks were no more perfect in general outline than her mother's. her sweet gray eyes were no softer, warmer. the youthful lips, so ripe and rich, only possessed the advantage of her years. the priest remembered allan mowbray's wife at her daughter's age, and so he saw even less difference between them than time had imposed. "that's what i've been along up to see alec at the store for. alec's gone out with a dog team to bear a hand--if need be." the white-haired man turned his back on the stove and faced the spacious room. he withdrew a snuffbox from his semi-clerical vest pocket, and thoughtfully tapped it with a forefinger. then he helped himself to a large pinch of snuff. as far as the folks on snake river knew this was the little priest's nearest approach to vice. "alec gone out? you never told us?" ailsa mowbray's eyes searched the sharp profile of the man, whose face was deliberately averted. "tell me," she demanded. "you've had news. bad? is it bad? tell me! tell me quickly!" the man fumbled in an inner pocket and produced a folded paper. he opened it, and gazed at it silently. then he passed it to the wife, whose hands were held out and trembling. "i've had this. it came in by runner. the poor wretch was badly frost-bitten. it's surely a cruel country." but ailsa mowbray was not heeding him. nor was jessie. both women were examining the paper, and its contents. the mother read it aloud. "dear father jose: "we'll make the fort to-morrow night if the weather holds. can you send out dogs and a sled? have things ready for us. "murray." during the reading the priest helped himself to another liberal pinch of snuff. then he produced a great colored handkerchief, and trumpeted violently into it. but he was watching the women closely out of the corners of his hawk-like eyes. ailsa read the brief note a second time, but to herself. then, with hands which had become curiously steady, she refolded it, retaining it in her possession with a strangely detached air. it was almost as if she had forgotten it, and that her thoughts had flown in a direction which had nothing to do with the letter, or the padre, or---but jessie came at the man in a tone sharpened by the intensity of her feelings. "say, father, there's no more than that note? the runner? did he tell you--anything? you--you questioned him?" "yes." suddenly the mother took a step forward. one of her hands closed upon the old priest's arm with a grip that made him wince. "the truth, father," she demanded, in a tone that would not be denied. her eyes were wide and full of a desperate conviction. "quick, the truth! what was there that murray didn't write in that note? allan? what of allan? did he reach him? is--is he dead? why did he want that sled? tell me. tell it all, quick!" she was breathing hard. her desperate fear was heart-breaking. jessie remained silent, but her eyes were lit by a sudden terror no less than her mother's. suddenly the priest faced the stove again. he gazed down at it for a fraction of time. then he turned to the woman he had known in her girlhood, and his eyes were lit with infinite kindness, infinite grief and sympathy. "yes," he said in a low voice. "there was a verbal message for my ears alone. murray feared for you. the shock. so he told me. allan----" "is dead!" ailsa mowbray whispered the words, as one who knows but cannot believe. "is dead." the priest was gazing down at the stove once more. no word broke the silence of the room. the fire continued to roar up the stovepipe. the moaning of the wind outside deplorably emphasized the desolation of the home. for once it harmonized with the note of despair which flooded the hearts of these people. it was jessie who first broke down under the cruel lash of fate. she uttered a faint cry. then a desperate sob choked her. "oh, daddy, daddy!" she cried, like some grief-stricken child. in a moment she was clasped to the warm bosom of the woman who had been robbed of a husband. not a tear fell from the eyes of the mother. she stood still, silent, exerting her last atom of moral strength in support of her child. father josé stirred. his eyes rested for a moment upon the two women. a wonderfully tender, misty light shone in their keen depths. no word of his could help them now, he knew. so with soundless movement he resumed his furs and overshoes, and, in silence, passed out into the night. the wind howled against the ramparts of the fort. it swept in through the open gates, whistling its fierce glee as it buffeted the staunch buildings thus uncovered to its merciless blast. the black night air was alive with a fog of snow, swept up in a sort of stinging, frozen dust. the lights of nature had been extinguished, blotted out by the banking storm-clouds above. it seemed as though this devil's playground had been cleared of every intrusion so that the riot of the northern demons might be left complete. a fur-clad figure stood within the great gateway. the pitiful glimmer of a lantern swung from his mitted hand. his eyes, keen, penetrating, in spite of the blinding snow, searched the direction where the trail flowed down from the fort. he was waiting, still, silent, in the howl of the storm. a sound came up the hill. it was a sound which had nothing to do with the storm. it was the voices of men, urgent, strident. a tiny spark suddenly grew out of the blackness. it was moving, swinging rhythmically. a moment later shadowy figures moved in the darkness. they were vague, uncertain. but they came, following closely upon the spark of light, which was borne in the hand of a man on snowshoes. the fur-clad figure swung his lantern to and fro. he moved himself from post to post of the great gateway. then he stood in his original position. the spark of light came on. it was another lantern, borne in the hand of another fur-clad figure. it passed through the gateway. a string of panting dogs followed close behind, clawing at the ground for foothold, bellies low to the ground as they hauled at the rawhide tugs which harnessed them to their burden behind. one by one they passed the waiting figure. one by one they were swallowed up by the blackness within the fort. five in all were counted. then came a long dark shape, which glided over the snow with a soft, hissing sound. the waiting man made a sign with his mitted hand as the shape passed him. his lips moved in silent prayer. then he turned to the gates. they swung to. the heavy bars lumbered into their places under his guidance. then, as though in the bitterness of disappointment, the howling gale flung itself with redoubled fury against them, till the stout timbers creaked and groaned under the wanton attack. chapter vi john kars seven months of dreadful winter had passed. seven months since the mutilated body of allan mowbray had been packed home by dog-train to its last resting place within the storm-swept fort he had labored so hard to serve. it was the open season again. that joyous season of the annual awakening of the northern world from its nightmare of stress and storm, a nightmare which drives human vitality down to the very limit of its mental and physical endurance. father josé and ailsa mowbray had been absent from the post for the last three months of the winter. their return from leaping horse, the golden heart of the northern wild, had occurred at the moment when the ice-pack had vanished from the rivers, and the mud-sodden trail had begun to harden under the brisk, drying winds of spring. they had made the return journey at the earliest moment, before the summer movements of the glacial fields had converted river and trail into a constant danger for the unwary. allan mowbray had left his affairs in father josé's hands. they were as simple and straight as a simple man could make them. the will had contained no mention of his partner, murray's name, except in the way of thanks. to the little priest he had confided the care of his bereaved family. and it was obvious, from the wording of his will, that the burden thus imposed upon his lifelong friend had been willingly undertaken. his wishes were clear, concise. all his property, all his business interests were for his wife. apart from an expressed desire that alec should be given a salaried appointment in the work of the post during his mother's lifetime, and that at her death the boy should inherit, unconditionally, her share of the business, and the making of a monetary provision for his daughter, jessie, the disposal of his worldly goods was quite unconditional. father josé had known the contents of the will beforehand. in fact, he had helped his old friend in his decisions. nor had alec's position been decided upon without his advice. these two men understood the boy too well to chance helping to spoil his life by an ample, unearned provision. they knew the weak streak in his character, and had decided to give him a chance, by the process of time, to obtain that balance which might befit him for the responsibility of a big commercial enterprise. when murray learned the position of affairs he offered no comment. without demur he concurred in every proposition set before him by father josé. he rendered the little man every assistance in his power in the work which had been so suddenly thrust upon his shoulders. so it was that more than one-half of the winter was passed in delving into the accounts of the enterprise allan and his partner had built up, while the other, the second half, was spent by mrs. mowbray and father josé at leaping horse, where the ponderous legal machinery was set in motion for the final settlement of the estate. for father josé the work was not without its compensations. his grief at allan's dreadful end had been almost overwhelming, and the work in which he found himself involved had come as a help at the moment it was most needed. then there was ailsa, and jessie, and alec. his work helped to keep him from becoming a daily witness of their terrible distress. furthermore, there were surprises for him in the pages of the great ledgers at the fort. surprises of such a nature that he began to wonder if he were still living in the days of miracles, or if he were simply the victim of hallucination. he found that allan was rich, rich beyond his most exaggerated dreams. he found that this obscure fur post carried on a wealth of trade which might have been the envy of a corporation a hundred times its size. he found that for years a stream of wealth had been pouring into the coffers at the post in an ever-growing tide. he found that seven-tenths of it was allan's, and that murray mctavish considered himself an amply prosperous man on the remaining three-tenths. where did it all come from? how did it come about? he expressed no wonder to anybody. he gave no outward sign of his astonishment. there was a secret. there must be a secret. but the books yielded up no secret. only the broad increasing tide of a trade which coincided with the results. but he felt for all their simple, indisputable figures, they concealed in their pages a cleverly hidden secret, a profound secret, which must alone have been shared by the partners, and possibly ailsa mowbray. allan mowbray's fortune, apart from the business, closely approximated half a million dollars. it was incredible. it was so stupendous as to leave the simple little priest quite overwhelmed. however, with due regard for his friendship, he spared himself nothing. nothing was neglected. nothing was left undone in his stewardship. and so, within seven months of allan's disastrous end, he found himself once more free to turn to the simple cares of the living in his administration of the mission on snake river, which was the sum total of his life's ambition and work. his duty to the dead was done. and it seemed to his plain thinking mind that the episode should have been closed forever. but it was not. moreover, he knew it was not. how he knew was by no means clear. somehow he felt that the end was far off, somewhere in the dim future. somehow he felt that he was only at the beginning of things. a secret lay concealed under his friend's great wealth, and the thought of it haunted him. it warned him, too, and left him pondering deeply. however, he did not talk, not even to his friend's widow. the round form of murray mctavish filled the office chair to overflowing. for a man of his energy and capacity, for a man so perfectly equipped, mentally, and in spirit, for the fierce battle of the northern latitudes, it was a grotesque freak of nature that his form, so literally corpulent, should be so inadequate. however, there it was. and nature, seeming to realize the anachronism, had done her best to repair her blunder. if he were laboring under a superfluity of adipose, she had equipped him with muscles of steel and lungs of tremendous expansion, a fierce courage, and nerves of a tempering such as she rarely bestowed. he was smoking a strong cigar and reading a letter in a decided handwriting. it was a man's letter, and it was of a business nature. yet though it entailed profit for its recipient it seemed to inspire no satisfaction. the big eyes were a shade wider than usual. their glowing depths burned more fiercely. he was stirred, and the secret of his feelings lay in the signature at the end of the letter. it was a signature that murray mctavish disliked. "john kars," he muttered aloud. there was no friendliness in his tone. there was no friendliness in the eyes which were raised from the letter and turned on the deep-set window overlooking the open gates beyond. for some silent moments he sat there thinking deeply. he continued to smoke, his gaze abstractedly fixed upon the blue film which floated before it upon the still air. gradually the dislike seemed to pass out of his eyes. the fire in them to die down. something almost like a smile replaced it, a smile for which his face was so perfect a setting. but his smile would have been difficult to describe. perhaps it was one of pleasure. perhaps it was touched with irony. perhaps, even, it was the smile, the dangerous smile of a man who is fiercely resentful. it was a curiosity in murray that his smile could at any time be interpreted into an expression of any one of the emotions. but suddenly there came an interruption. in a moment his abstraction was banished. he sprang alertly from his chair and moved to the door which he held open. he had seen the handsome figure of ailsa mowbray pass his window. now she entered the office in response to his silent invitation. she took the chair which always stood ready before a second desk. it was the desk which had been allan mowbray's, and which now was used by his son. "i've come to talk about alec," the mother said, turning her chair about, and facing the man who was once more at his desk. "sure." the man nodded. his smile had vanished. his look was all concern. he knew, none better than he, that alec must be discussed between them. ailsa mowbray had aged in the seven months since her husband's death. she had aged considerably. her spirit, her courage, were undiminished, but the years had at last levied the toll which a happy wifehood had denied them. nor was murray unobservant of these things. his partner in the fortunes of fort mowbray was an old woman. "there's difficulty," the mother went on, her handsome eyes averting their gaze towards the window. "allan didn't reckon on the boy when he said he should have a position right here." murray shook his head. "no," he said. "guess that desk's been closed down since the season opened. he's brought in half a hundred pelts to his own gun, and guesses he's carrying on his father's work." there was a biting irony in the man's tone. ailsa mowbray sighed. "he doesn't seem to like settling to the work here." it was some moments before murray replied. his big eyes were deeply reflective. the fire in their depths seemed to come and go under varying emotions. his eyes were at all times expressive, but their expressions could rarely be read aright. "he's troubled with youth, ma'am," he said, as though at last arrived at a definite conclusion, "and he needs to get shut of it before he can be of use to himself, or--to us. you'll excuse me if i talk plain. i've got to talk plain, right here and now. maybe it hasn't occurred to either of us before just what it means to our enterprise allan being gone. it means a mighty big heap, so almighty big i can only just see over the top. i take it you'll get me when i say this thing can't be run by a woman. it needs to be run by a man, and, seeing alec don't figger to set around in this store, i've got to do most of it--with your help. y'see, ma'am, there's just two sides to this proposition. either we run it together, or you sell out to me. anyway, i'm not selling. i'll take it you'll say we run it together. good. then it's up to me to do the man's work, while you, i guess, won't have forgotten the work you had to do before i came. if you feel like fixing things that way i guess we can make good till this boy, alec, forgets he's a kid, and we can hand him all allan didn't choose to hand him during his life. get me? meanwhile we're going to help the boy get over his youth by letting him get his nose outside this region, and see a live city where things happen plenty, and money buys a good time. that way we'll bridge over what looks like a pretty awkward time. i take up the work where allan quit it, and you--well, it's all here same as it was before i got around. i want you to feel i figger allan left me with a trust which i'm mighty glad to fulfil. he let me in on the ground floor of this thing, and i don't forget it. i want to do all i know to fix it right for those he left behind him. maybe you'll find me rough sometimes, maybe i don't happen to have a patience like old job. but i'm going to put things through, same as i know allan would have had them." the frankness of the man was completely convincing. ailsa expanded under the warm kindliness of his tone in a manner which surprised even herself. hitherto this man had never appealed to her. she knew her husband's regard for him. she had always seen in him an astute man of business, with a strength of purpose and capacity always to be relied upon. but the sentiments he now expressed were surprising, and came as a welcome display such as she would never have expected. "you are good to us, murray," she said gratefully. "maybe it won't sound gracious, but allan always told me i could rely on you at all times. you've never given me reason to doubt it. but i hadn't thought to hear you talk that way. i'm real glad we had this talk. i'm real glad i came. i don't just know how to thank you." "don't you try, ma'am," was the man's dry response. "guess i've yet got to show you i can make my talk good before you need to think thanks. and, anyway, maybe the thanks'll need to come from me before we're through." he picked up the letter on the desk before him, and glanced at it. then he flung it aside. ailsa mowbray waited for him to go on. but as he gave no further sign she was forced to a question. "i don't understand," she said at last. "how do you mean?" murray laughed. it was the easy, ready laugh the woman was accustomed to. "there's some things that aren't easy to put into words. not even to a mother." his eyes had become serious again. "there's some things that always make a feller feel foolish--when you put 'em into words." the mother's thought darted at once to the only possible interpretation of his preamble. her woman's instinct was alert. she waited. "maybe it's not the time to talk of these things, ma'am. but--but it's mighty difficult to figger such time when it comes along. i've got a letter here makes me want to holler 'help.' it's from a feller we all know, and most of us like well enough. for me, i'm scared of him. scared to death. he's the only man i've ever felt that way towards in my life." his words were accompanied by another laugh so ringing that ailsa mowbray was forced to a smile at his care-free way of stating his fears. "your terror's most alarming," she said comfortably. "will you tell me of it?" "sure." murray picked up the letter again and stared at it. "have you got any feller fixed in your mind you're yearning for your daughter jessie to marry?" the question was abrupt, startling. and somehow to ailsa mowbray it was as though a fierce winter blast had suddenly descended upon her heart. "i--don't think i'd thought about it--seriously," the mother replied after a pause. murray swung about and faced her. his eyes were serious. there could be no mistaking his earnestness. "i can't figger how you're going to take what i've got to say, ma'am. i said the 'thanks' might be all due from me, before we're through. i don't know. anyway, i guess i need to get busy right away in the way it seems to me best." "you want to marry--jessie?" the mother's question came without any enthusiasm. there was even coldness in it. "more than anything in the world, ma'am." the sincerity of the man was in every line of his face. it shone in the burning depths of his eyes. it rang in the vibrant tones of his voice. for a moment the mother glanced about her rather helplessly. then she gathered her faculties with an effort. "have--have you asked her?" "no, ma'am." ailsa mowbray further added a helpless gesture with her hands. it seemed to be the cue the man was awaiting. "no, ma'am," he reiterated. "i'd have spoken months ago, but--for the things that's happened. maybe you won't just get it when i say that with allan around the position was clear as day. it was up to me to leave her folks till i'd asked her. now it's different. jessie has no father behind her. only her mother. and her mother has no husband behind her to help her figger her daughter's future right. now i come to you, ma'am. guess i'm a plain man more ways than one. i'm just thirty-five. i've a goodish stake in this proposition of ours, and can give your daughter all she needs of the world's goods. i love her, and want her bad, ma'am. if she'll marry me, why, i'll just do all i know to make her happy." the appeal was full of simple, straightforward honesty. there could be no denying it. even its crudity was all in its favor. but all this passed ailsa mowbray completely by. "what made you choose this moment?" she questioned, avoiding any direct answer. murray laughed. it was a laugh which hid his real feelings. he held up the letter. "john kars is coming along up." "and so you spoke--before he came." "sure." suddenly murray flung the letter on the desk in a fashion that said more than words. "i'm scared of john kars, ma'am, because i want to marry your daughter. i'm no coward. but i know myself, and i know him. here am i ready to meet john kars, or a dozen of his kind, in any play known to man, except rivalry for a woman. he's got them all where he wants them from the jumping off mark. it's only natural, too. look at him. if he'd stepped out of the picture frame of the greek gods he couldn't have a better window dressing. he's everything a woman ever dreamed of in a man. he's all this country demands in its battles. then take a peek at me. you'll find a feller cussed to death with a figure that's an insult to a prime hog. what's inside don't figger a cent. the woman don't look beyond the face and figure, and the capacity to do. maybe i can do all john kars can do. but when it comes to face and figure, it's not a race. no, ma'am, it's a procession. and i'm taking his dust all the time." "do you think jessie is--likes john kars?" the mother's question came thoughtfully. to murray it was evident the direction in which she was leaning. "she'd need to be a crazy woman if she didn't," he retorted bluntly. then he rose from his seat, and moved over to the window. he stood gazing out of it. ailsa mowbray's eyes followed his movements. they regarded him closely, and she thought of his own description of himself. yes, he was not beautiful. wholesome, strong, capable. but he was fat--so fat. a shortish, tubby man whose figure added ten years to his age. but with his face towards the window, his strong tones came back to her, and held her whole attention. "yes, ma'am. she likes him. but i don't guess it's more than that--yet. maybe it would never become more if you discouraged it. i could even think she'd forget to remember the queer figure i cut in the eyes of a woman--if it suited you to tell her diff'rent. it seems a pretty mean proposition for a feller to have to hand his love interests over to another, even when it's the girl's mother. but whatever i can do in the affairs of the life about us, whatever my ability, ma'am, to put through the business side of our affairs, i guess i'm mighty short winded in the race for a woman's love, and--know it. say, you guessed just now you owed me thanks for the things i figger to do for you. i'd say if you'd feel like helping me to marry jessie i'd owe you more thanks on the balance than i can ever hope to pay off." he abruptly turned back from the window. he stepped quickly towards her, his movements surprising in their vigor. he looked down into the woman's handsome, but now lined, face, and his eyes shone with a burning fire tremendously compelling. ailsa felt the influence he wielded. she read the strength of the man's emotion. she knew that for once she was being permitted a sight of the man behind his mask of smiling serenity. nor were these things without effect. furthermore, her own sense warned her that in the best interests of their affairs, of the girl, herself, murray mctavish was certainly the husband for jessie. but even so there was more than reluctance. there was desperate distaste. the romantic vision of john kars, the wealthiest mine owner in leaping horse, the perfect adventurer of the northern trail, rose before her eyes, and made her hesitate. in the end, however, she thrust it aside and rose from her chair, and held out her hand. "i can promise no result," she said seriously, and she knew it was subterfuge, "i'll do my best. anyway, your cause shan't suffer at my hands. will that do?" murray mctavish took her warm hand in both of his. he held it tightly for a few seconds. "my thanks begin from now, ma'am," he said. "i guess they'll go right on to--the end." chapter vii at snake river landing jessie mowbray left the mission house as the last of the small crowd of copper-hued pappooses bundled pell-mell in the direction of the teepees and cabins of their dusky parents. for a few moments she stood there in the open with pensive eyes following the movements of scurrying, toddling legs, many of them encased in the minutest of buckskin, chap-like pantaloons and the tiniest of beaded moccasins. it was a sight that yielded her a tenderness of emotion that struggled hard to dispel the cloud which her father's death had caused to settle over the joyous spirit of her young life. in a measure it was not without success. the smallness of these indian children, their helplessness, appealed to her woman's heart as possibly nothing else could have done. it mattered nothing to her that the fathers and mothers of these tots belonged to a low type of race without scruple, or honesty, or decency, or any one of the better features of the aboriginal. they were as low, perhaps lower than many of the beasts of the field. but these "pappooses," so quaint and small, so very helpless, were entirely dependent upon the succor of father josé's mission for the hope of their future. the sight of them warmed her spirit out of the cold depths of her own personal grief, and left her yearning. the last of the children vanished within the shelter of the surrounding woods, where the homes of their parents had been set up. then movement in the clearing ceased. all was still in the early evening light. the soft charm, the peace of the mission, which had been the outward and visible sign of her understanding of home all her years, settled once more, and with it fell the bitter, haunting memory of the tragedy of seven months ago. to jessie mowbray the tragedy of the life about her had suddenly become the seriousness of it. in one night she had been robbed of all the buoyant optimism of youth. as yet she had failed to achieve the smile of courage under the buffet, just as she had never yet discovered that the real spirit of life is to achieve hard knocks with the same ready smile which should accompany acts of kindliness. her father had been her hero. and she had been robbed of her hero by the ruthless hands of the very savages whom it was her daily mission to help towards enlightenment. the bitterness of it had sunk deeply into a sensitive heart. she lacked the experiences of life of her mother. she lacked the christian fortitude of father josé. she knew nothing of the iron nerve of murray, or the youthful selfishness of her brother alec. so she shrank under the burden of bereavement, and fostered a loyal resentment against her father's slayers. the chill of the northern evening was already in the air. the sunlight fell athwart the great fringe of foliage which crowned the lank trunks of primordial pine woods. it lit the clearing with a mellow radiance, and left the scene tempered with a shadowed beauty, which in all jessie's girlhood had never failed to appeal to her. now it passed her by. she saw only the crude outline of the great log home, which, for her, had been desolated. about her were the equally crude mission buildings, with father josé's hut a few yards away. then there was the light smoke haze from the indian camp-fires, rising heavily on the still air, and a smell of cooking was painfully evident. here and there a camp dog prowled, great powerful brutes reared to the burden of the trail. the sound of human voice, too, came from the woodlands, chanting the droning song of labor which the squaws love to voice without tune or meaning. jessie moved slowly off in the direction of her home. half-way across the clearing she paused. then, in a moment of inspiration, she turned away and passed down the narrow avenue which led to the landing on the river. there was an hour to supper. the twilight of her home was less attractive now than the music of the river, which had so often borne the burden of allan mowbray's laden canoes. jessie had lost none of her youthful grace of movement. her tall figure, so round with the charms of womanhood, yet so supple, so full of natural, unfettered grace, made her a delight to the eye. her beauty was unquestioned. but the change in her expression was marked. her ripe young lips were firmer, harder even. there was, too, a slight down drooping at the corners of her mouth. then her eyes had lost something of their inclination to smile. they were the grave eyes of one who has passed through an age of suffering. she moved swiftly to the landing and took up a position on one of the timber balks set for mooring. she drew her coat about her. the dying sun lit her ruddy brown hair with its wintry smile, and the song of the flowing waters caught and lulled her spirit. murray mctavish approached her. he came with bristling step and an air of virile energy. he dragged forward an empty crate, and, setting it near her, used it for a seat. she withdrew her gaze from the glacial field beyond the river, and looked into the man's smiling eyes, as he greeted her. "there's just about two things liable to hold a young girl sitting around on the bank of the snake river, with a spring breeze coming down off the glacier. one of them's dreams, the sort of romance that don't belong to these latitudes." "and the other?" "mostly foolishness." there was no offence in the man's manner. jessie was forced to smile. his words were so characteristic. "then i guess it's foolishness with me," she said. "that's how i figgered when i saw you making this way, just as i was leaving the store. say, that coat's mighty thin. where's your fur--if you have to sit around here?" murray's eyes surveyed the long cloth coat doubtfully. the girl shook her head. "i'm not cold." a sharp, splitting crack, followed by a dull, echoing boom drew the eyes of both towards the precipitous bank across the river. the great glacial field had already awakened from its long winter sleep. once more it was the living giant of countless ages stirring and heaving imperceptibly but irresistibly. the sound died out and the evening peace settled once more upon the world. in the years of their life upon this river these people had witnessed thousands, ay, perhaps millions of tons of the discolored ice of the glacier hurled into the summer melting pot. the tremendous voice of the glacial world was powerless to disturb them. murray gave a short laugh. "guess romance has no sort of place in these regions," he said, his thoughts evidently claimed by the voice they had both just listened to. jessie looked round. "romance doesn't belong to regions," she said. "only to the human heart." murray nodded. "that's so--too." his amiable smile beamed into the girl's serious eyes. "those pore darn fools that don't know better than to hunt fish through holes in the polar ice are just as chock full of romance as any school miss. sure. if it depended on conditions i guess we'd need to go hungry for it. facts, and desperate hard facts at that, go to make up life north of 'sixty,' and any one guessing different is li'ble to find all the trouble providence is so generous handing out hereabouts." "i think that way, too--now. i didn't always." the girl sighed. "no." the man seemed to have nothing further to add, and his smile died out. jessie was once more reflectively contemplating the masses of overhanging ice on the opposite bank. the thoughts of both had drifted back over a space of seven months. it was the man who finally broke the spell which seemed to have fallen. he broke it with a movement of impatience. "what's the use?" he said at last. "no--there's no use. nothing can ever bring him back to us." the girl suddenly flung out her hands in a gesture of helpless earnestness and longing. "oh, if he might have been spared to me. my daddy, my brave, brave daddy." again a silence fell between them, and again it was the man who finally broke it. this time there was no impatience. his strange eyes were serious; they were as deeply earnest as the girl's. but the light in them suggested a stirring of deep emotion which had nothing of regret in it. "his day had to come," he said reflectively. "a man can live and prosper on the northern trail, i guess, if he's built right. he can beat it right out, maybe for years. but it's there all the time waiting--waiting. and it's going to get us all--in the end. that is if we don't quit before its jaws close on our heels. he was a big man. he was a strong man. i mean big and strong in spirit. you've lost a great father, and i a--partner. it's seven months and more since--since that time." his voice had dropped to a gentle, persuasive note, his dark eyes gazing urgently at the girl's averted face. "is it good to sit around here in the chill evening dreaming, and thinking, and tearing open afresh a wound time and youths ready to heal up good? say, i don't just know how to hand these things right. i don't even know if they are right. but it kind of seems to me we folk have all got our work to do in a country that don't stand for even natural regrets. it seems to me we all got to shut our teeth and get right on, or we'll pay the penalty this country is only too ready to claim. guess we need all the force in us to make good the life north of 'sixty.' sitting around thinking back's just going to weaken us so we'll need to hand over the first time our bluff is called." jessie's sad eyes came back to his as he finished speaking. she nodded. "yes. you're surely right. it's no use. it's worse. it's playing the enemy's game. mother needs my help. alec. the little kiddies at the mission. you're right, murray." then, in a moment of passion her eyes lit and all that was primitive in her flamed up. "oh, i could curse them, i could crush them in these two hands," she cried, suddenly thrusting out two clenched small fists in impotent threat, "these--these devils who have killed my daddy!" the man's regard never wavered. the girl's beauty in the passion of the moment held him. never had her desirability appeared greater to him. it was on the tip of his tongue to pour out hot words of love. to force her, by the very strength of his passionate determination, to yield him the place in her heart he most desired. but he refrained. he remembered in time that such a course must be backed by a physical attraction which he knew he entirely lacked. that lack must be compensated for by an added caution. he shook his head. "don't talk that way," he said gently. "it's all been awful. but it can't be undone now, and--- say, jessie, you got your mother, and a brother who needs you. guess you're more blessed than i am. i haven't a soul in the world. i'm just a bit of flotsam drifting through life, looking for an anchorage, and never finding one. that's how it is i'm right here now. if i'd had folks i don't guess i'd be north of 'sixty' now. this place is just the nearest thing to an anchorage i've lit on yet, but even so i haven't found a right mooring." "you've no folks--none at all?" jessie's moment of passion had passed. all her sympathy had been suddenly aroused by the man's effort to help her, and his unusual admission of his own loneliness. a shadow of the man's usual smile flickered across his features. "not a soul," he said. "not a father, mother, relative or--or wife. sounds mean, don't it?" quite abruptly he laughed outright. "oh, i could tell you a dandy story of days and nights of lonesomeness. i could tell you of a boyhood spent chasing the streets o' nights looking for a sidewalk to crawl under, or a sheltered corner folks wouldn't drive me out of. i could tell you of hungry days without a prospect of better to come, of moments when i guessed the cold waters of puget sound looked warmer than the night ahead of me. i could tell you of a mighty battle fought out in silence and despair. of a resolve to make good by any means open to man. i could tell you of strivings and failures that 'ud come nigh breaking your heart, and a resolve unbreakable not to yield. gee, i've known it all, all the kicks life can hand a derelict born under an evil influence. say, i don't even know who my parents were." "i never thought--i never knew----" the girl's words were wrung from her by her feelings. in a moment this man had appeared to her in a new light. there was no sign of weakness or self-pity in murray as he went on. he was smiling as usual, that smile that always contained something of a mocking irony. "pshaw! it don't figger anyway--now. nothing figgers now but the determination never to find such days--and nights again. i said i need to find a real mooring. a mooring such as allan found when he found your mother. well, maybe i shall. i'm hoping that way. but even there nature's done all she knows to hand me a blank. i'd like to say look at me, and see the scurvy trick nature's handed out my way. but i won't. gee, no. still i'll find that mooring if i have to buy it with the dollars i mean to wring out of this devil's own country." jessie's feelings had been caught and held through sympathy. sympathy further urged her. this man had failed to appeal before. a feeling of gentle pity stirred her. "don't say that," she cried, all her ideals outraged by the suggestion of purchasing the natural right of every man. "there's a woman's love for every man in the world. that surely is so. guess it's the good god's scheme of things. saint or sinner it doesn't matter a thing. we're as god made us. and he's provided for all our needs. some day you'll wonder what it was ever made you feel this way. some day," she went on, smiling gently into the round face and the glowing eyes regarding her, "when you're old, and rich, and happy in the bosom of your family, in a swell house, maybe in new york city, you'll likely get wondering how it came you sat right here making fool talk to a girl denying the things providence had set out for you." her pretty eyes became grave as she leaned forward earnestly. "say, i can see it all for you now. the picture's standing right out clear. i can see your wife now----" the man smiled at her earnestness as she paused. "can you?" jessie nodded. her gaze was turned upon the far reach of the river. "yes. she's medium height--like you. she's a woman of sort of practical motherly instinct. her eyes are blue, and clear, and fine, revealing the wholesome mind behind. she'll be slim, i guess, and her gown's just swell--real swell. she'll----" the man broke in on an impulse which he was powerless to deny. "she won't be tall?" he demanded, his eyes shining into hers with an intensity which made jessie shrink before them. "she won't move with the grace of--of a juno, straight limbed, erect? she won't have dandy gray eyes that look through and beyond all the time? she won't have lovely brown hair which sort of reflects the old sun every time it shines on it? she won't have a face so beautiful it sets a feller just crazy to look at it? say, if it was like that," he cried, in a voice thrilling with passion, "i'd feel i didn't owe providence the kick i've----" how far his feelings would have carried him it was impossible to say. he had been caught off his guard, and had flung caution to the winds. but he was spared the possible consequences by an interruption which would not be denied. it was an interruption which had claimed them both at the same instant. a sound came out of the distance on the still evening air. it came from the bend of the river where it swung away to the northwest. it was the sound of the dipping of many paddles, a sound which was of paramount importance to these people at all times. the girl was on her feet first. nor was murray a second behind her. both were gazing intently out in the growing dusk. simultaneously an exclamation broke from them. then the girl spoke while the man remained silent. "canoes," she said. "one, two, three, four--five. five canoes. i know whose they are." murray was standing close beside her, the roundness of his ungainly figure aggravated by the contrast. he, too, was gazing hard at the flotilla. he, too, had counted the canoes as they came into view. he, too, had recognized them, just as he had recognized the thrill of delighted anticipation in the girl's voice as she announced her recognition of them. he knew, no one better, all that lay behind the shining gray of the girl's eyes as she beheld the canoes approach. he needed no words to tell him. and he thanked his stars for the interruption which had saved him carrying his moment of folly further. his eyes expressed no anticipation. their glowing fires seemed to have become extinguished. there was no warmth in them. there was little life in their darkly brooding watchfulness. never was a contrast so deeply marked between two watchers of the same object. the man was cold, his expression hard. it was an expression before which even his habitual smile had been forced to flee. jessie was radiant. excitement surged till she wanted to cry out. to call the name that was on her lips. instead, however, she turned swiftly upon the man at her side, who instantly read the truth in the radiant gray eyes gazing into his. "it's--john kars," she said soberly. then in a moment came a repetition. "fancy. john kars!" chapter viii two men of the north north, south, east, west. there was, perhaps, no better known name in the wide northern wilderness than that of john kars. in his buoyant way he claimed for himself, at thirty-two, that he was the "oldest inhabitant" of the northland. nor was he without some justification. for, at the age of thirteen, accompanying his father, he had formed one of the small band of gold seekers who fought their way to the "placers" of forty-mile creek years before the great yukon rush. he was one of those who helped to open the gates of the country. his child's muscles and courage had done their duty beside those of far older men. they had taken their share in forcing the icy portals of a land unknown, and terror-ridden. he had endured the agony of the first great battle against the overwhelming legions of nature. he had survived, all unprepared and without experience. it was a struggle such as none of those who came later were called upon to endure. for all that has been told of the sufferings of the yukon rush they were incomparable with those which john kars had been called upon to endure at an age when the terror of it all might well have overwhelmed him. but he had done more than survive. good fortune and sanity had been his greatest assets. the first seemed to have been his all through. sanity only came to him at the cost of other men's experience. for all his hardihood he was deeply human. the early temptations of leaping horse had appealed to the virile youth in him. he had had his falls. but there was something in the blood of the youth which quickly convinced him of the folly of the life about him. so he, to use his own expression, "quit the poultry ranch" and "hit the bank roll trail," and good fortune followed hard behind him like a faithful spouse. he became rich. his wealth became a byword. and later, when, out of disorder and vice, the city of leaping horse grew to capital importance, he became surfeited with the accumulations of wealth which rolled in upon him from his manifold interests. then it was that the man which the yukon world now knew suddenly developed. he could have retired to the pleasant avenues of civilization. he could have entered public life in any of the great capitals of the world. but these things had no appeal for him. the battle of the trail had left a fever in his blood. he was smitten with the disease of ishmael. then, before all, and above all, he counted the northland his home. so, when everything the world could yield him lay at his feet, the drear, silent north trail only knew him. his interests in the golden world of leaping horse were left behind him, while he satisfied his passion in the far hidden back countries where man is a mere incident in the world's unbroken silences. oh, yes, his quest was gold, frankly gold. but not in relation to values. he sought gold for the joy of search, to provide excuse. he sought gold for the romance of it, he sought it because adventure lay in the track of virgin gold as it lies nowhere else. besides, the battle of it suited the man's hardihood. once, to his philosopher friend, dr. bill brudenell of leaping horse, he said, "life's just a shanty most every feller starts right in to set up for himself. and i guess more than half of 'em couldn't set two bricks right. it seems to me if you're going to make life a reasonable proposition you need to start in from the beginning of things, and act the way you see clearest. it's no use groping around in a fog just because folks reckon it's up to you to act that way. if you can't set two bricks right, then set one. anyway, do the things you can do, and don't kick because you can't do more. the trail i know. gold i know. the yukon i know. then what's the use in quittin' it fer something i don't know, and don't care a cuss for anyway?" this was the man, simple, direct. wealth meant nothing to him. it was there. it sometimes seemed like snowing him under. he couldn't help it. life was all he wanted. the life he loved, the life which gave him room in which to stretch his great body. the life which demanded the play of his muscles of steel. the life which absorbed every mental faculty in its simple preservation. he was, as bill once said: "a primitive, an elemental creature, a man destined for the altar of the gods of the wilderness when the sands of his time ran out." what wonder then that jessie mowbray's eyes should shine with a light such as only one man can inspire. her delight was unrestrained as the flotilla drew near, and she descried the familiar figure of its leader. then came the ringing greeting across the water. nor could the manner of her response be mistaken. murray saw, he heard and understood. and so the fixity of his smiling greeting which completely masked his feelings. john kars' manner owed nothing to convention. but it was governed by a sureness of touch, a perfect tact, and a great understanding of those with whom he came into contact. to him man was simply man. woman was just woman. the latter claimed the last atom of his chivalrous regard at all times. the former possessed only the distinction which his qualities entitled him to. he grasped the warm, soft hand outheld to him as he leaped out of his canoe. the girl's shining eyes looked up into his bronzed, clean-cut features with the confidence of one who understands the big spirit stirring behind them. she listened responsively to the simple greeting which fell so naturally from his firm lips. "say, it's good to see you all again. home?" he glanced swiftly round at the scene about them. "this is home, i guess." then he laughed. "the other," he went on, with a backward jerk of the head to indicate leaping horse, whence he had just come, "why, the other's just a sort of dumping ground for the waste left over--after home's finished with things. bill, here, don't feel that way. he guesses we're on an unholy vacation with home at the other end. you can't get the same sense out of different heads." he turned to murray with a cordiality which was only less by reason of the sex of its object. "and murray, too. well, say, it's worth while. it surely is." the trader's response was all sufficient. but his smile contained no added warmth, and his hand-shake lacked the grip it received. in five minutes john kars had made his explanations. but they were made to jessie. murray was left on the fringe of their talk. he told her in his rapid, easy fashion that he was out for the whole open season. that he'd practically had to kidnap bill from his beloved leaping horse. that his old friend was just recovering from his consequent grouch, and, anyway, folks mustn't expect anything more than common civility from him as yet. he said that he hoped to make fort wrigley on the mackenzie river some time in the summer, and maybe even fort simpson. but that would be the limit. by that time, he guessed bill would have mutinied and probably murdered him. he said he hoped to appease the said doctor with a good bag of game. but even that was problematical, as bill had never been known to hit anything smaller than a haystack in his life. so he talked with the daughter of his old friend allan mowbray, knowing of the man's murder by the indians, but never by word or sign reminding the girl of her loss. meantime bill brudenell deliberately completed the work of superintending the "snugging" of the canoes for the night. he heard his friend's charges, and smiled his retorts with pointed sarcasm. and jessie understood, for she knew these two, and their great friendship. and dr. bill--well, she regarded him as a sort of delightful uncle who never told her of her faults, or recommended his own methods of performing the difficult task of getting through life successfully. when all was ready they moved off the landing towards the mission clearing. ailsa mowbray was preparing supper. the scones were nearly ready in the oven, and she watched them with a skilful eye. she looked still older in her moments of solitude. the change in her wrought by the last seven months must have been heart-breaking to those who had not seen her since that dreadful night of tragedy. but her spirit was unimpaired. there were her two children left, and a merciful providence had bestowed upon her a world of maternal devotion. for all her grief, she had not been entirely robbed of that which made life possible. her husband lived again in the children he had blessed her with. had she so chosen she might have severed herself forever from the life which had so deeply wounded her. her fortune made it possible to seek comfort in the heart of the world's great civilization. but the thought of it never entered her simple head. she was a born housewife. the love of her home, and its care, was part of her. that home which had yielded her her greatest joys and her greatest trial. sometimes the thought would obtrude that jessie deserved something more than the drear life of the northland. but the girl herself dispelled these thoughts. like her mother, she had no desire beyond the home she had always known. when jessie hurried into the spotless kitchen her mother glanced quickly up from her cook-stove. "what is it?" she demanded, at the sight of the eager eyes and parted lips. "you're----" she broke off with a smile. "there, child," she added, "you don't need to tell it. your face does that. john kars has come up the river." the girl flushed scarlet. her eyes were horrified. "why, mother," she cried dismayed, "am i so easy to read? can--can anybody read me like--you can?" the mother's eyes were very tender. "i don't believe john kars can anyway," she said reassuringly. "you see, he's a man. is he coming along over?" jessie's relief was as obvious as her momentary dismay. the flush of shame faded from her pretty cheeks. her eyes were again dancing with delight. "why, sure, mother," she cried. "he's coming right over--after they've fixed things with father josé. i don't think they'll be to supper. dr. bill's with him, of course. and say, aren't they just two dears? to see them together, and hear their fool talk, you'd think them two kids instead of two of the big men of the country. it must be good to keep a heart so young all the time. i think, mother, they must be good men. real good men. i don't mean like father josé. but the sort who do things square because they like square living. i--i wish they lived here all the time. i--i don't know which i like best." "i do." the mother set the scones on the table and glanced over it with approving eyes. the girl's protest came swiftly but playfully. "be quiet, you mother dear," she cried, her ready blushes mounting again. "don't you dare to say--things. i----" the mother only smiled the more deeply. "best go and round alec up. supper's ready." but the girl hesitated. "he's at the barns fixing his outfit with keewin," she said. "he reckons to break trail in a few days. say, murray's gone across to father josé with them. will i get him, too?" then she added thoughtfully, "do you know, mother, i don't think murray's glad to see john kars. he's sort of quiet with him around. i don't know. i don't reckon he likes him. i wonder why?" the mother's eyes searched her daughter's face. her smile must have been full of meaning for any one less simple than the girl before her. "there's no accounting the way men feel for each other," she said at last. "maybe murray guesses john kars is butting into our trade. maybe he's anxious to keep the country to ourselves. you see, these folks aren't traders, and we are." the girl became indignant at once. "but he's no right to feel that way," she cried. "the country's free. it's big enough for us all. besides, if john kars isn't a trader, where's the trouble? i think murray's mean. that's all." the mother shook her head. "best go and call the men-folk," she said, in her direct fashion. "murray can see to his likes and dislikes the same as he can see to most things he's set on." then she smiled. "anyway, i don't suppose it figgers any with you around. john kars isn't likely to suffer from it." just for one instant the girl's eyes answered the mother's gentle challenge. then she went off firing her parting shot over her shoulder as she vanished through the doorway. "i've always thought murray mean--for--for all his fat smile. i--just hate meanness." ailsa mowbray was startled. nothing could have startled her more. in all the years of their association with murray she had never before heard so direct an expression of dislike from either of her children. it troubled her. she had not been blind to alec's feelings. ever since the boy had grown to manhood she had known there had been antagonism between them. she was never likely to forget the scene on the night her husband's appeal for help reached her. but jessie. she was disquieted. she was wondering, too. and, wondering, the memory of her promise to murray rose up threateningly before her. she turned slowly back to the stove for no definite purpose, and, so turning, she shook her head. later, jessie returned, the last sign of her ill-humor completely gone. behind her came the two men of her mother's household. and so the evening meal progressed to its conclusion. later still father josé and his two visitors foregathered in the hospitable living-room, and, for the time at least, ailsa mowbray gave no further thought to her disquiet, or to the appeal murray had made to her. chapter ix murray tells his story for a whole week ailsa mowbray was given no further opportunity of dwelling upon the possibilities of the situation between jessie and murray mctavish. john kars pervaded the mission with a personality too buoyant to allow of lurking shadows. on the mother he had an effect like the voice of hope urging her to a fuller appreciation of the life about her, an even greater desire for the fulfilment of those responsibilities which the passing of her husband had thrust upon her. his great figure, his strong, reliant face, his decision of manner, all combined to sweep any doubt from the path of the simple folk at st. agatha's mission. the only person who escaped his cheering influence, perhaps, was murray mctavish. father josé yielded kars a friendship and liking almost equal to the friendship which had sent him to leaping horse in the depths of winter on behalf of allan mowbray's widow. this man was a rock upon which the old priest, for all his own strength of character, was not ashamed to seek support. to alec he was something of a hero in all those things for which his youthful soul yearned. was he not the master of great wealth? did he not live in leaping horse, where life pulsated with a rush, and no lagging, sluggish stream of existence could find a place? then, too, the instinct of the trail which the youth had inherited from his father, was not john kars endowed with it all? but the week of this man's stay had more meaning for jessie than for any one else. her frank delight in his presence found no denial. every shadow was banished out of her life by it. her days were rendered doubly bright. her nights were illuminated by happy dreams. his kindness to her, his evident delight in her company, were sources of unspeakable happiness. he had brought presents for them all, he had reserved the best and costliest for jessie. yet no word of love passed his lips, no act of his could have been interpreted as an expression of such by the most jealous-minded. nor had the girl any thought but of the delight of the moments spent with him, and of the shadow his going must inevitably leave behind. the mother watched. she understood. and, understanding, she dreaded more than she admitted even to herself. she felt that her child would awaken presently to the reality, and then--what then? would john kars pass on? would he come again, and again pass on? and murray. murray was always in the back of her mind. the last day came. it was a day of labor and preparation at the landing. under the supervision of kars and bill the work went forward to its completion, with a precision and care for detail which means perhaps the difference between safety and disaster on the long trail. nothing was too small for the consideration of these men in their understanding of the fierce wilderness which they had made their own. their spirits were high. it was the care-free spirit which belongs to the real adventurer. that spirit which alone can woo and win the smiles of the wanton gods of the wilderness. the landing was alive with activity. father josé found excuse for his presence there. even ailsa mowbray detached herself from the daily routine of her labors to watch the work going forward. nor was there a moment when a small crowd of the indian converts of the mission were not assembled in the hope that the great white hunter might be disposed to distribute at least a portion of tobacco by way of largesse. murray, too, found his way thither. and his mood seemed to have improved. perhaps it was the knowledge of the going of these people on the morrow which stirred his spirits to match their own. and jessie? jessie found every excuse she desired to add her presence at the bank of the river. the day for her was all too short. for her it was full of the excitement of departure, with the regret at the going looming like a shadow and shutting out her sun. she concealed nothing from herself, while her smile and happy laughter banished every sign of all it really meant. so the day wore on till the last of the evening light found everything ready for the morning's departure. all stores were bestowed under their lashed coverings, and the canoes lay deep in the water. then came the evening festival planned by ailsa in her hospitable home. a homely supper, and a gathering of all the white folk of the post. it was all so simple. but it was just such as these people understood and appreciated. it was the outward sign of the profound bond which held them all in a land that is eternally inhospitable. it was nearly midnight when the party broke up. farewells were said and the men departed. jessie, herself, closed the heavy door upon the last of them. alec bade his mother and sister good-night, and betook himself to his belated rest. mother and daughter were left alone. the mother's knitting needles were still clicking busily as she sat beside the great stove, whose warmth was a necessity in the chill of the spring evenings. jessie came slowly over and stood gazing down at the fierce glow radiating beneath the iron door, where the damper had been withdrawn. no word was spoken for some moments. then a sound broke the quiet of the room. it was the sound of a stifled sob, and the mother looked up anxiously. "why, child!" she cried, and sprang to her feet. the next moment her protecting arms were about the pretty figure of the girl, and she drew her to her bosom, with a world of tender affection. for some moments jessie struggled with her tears. the mother said no word. it was the gentle hand stroking the girl's beautiful hair which spoke for the lips which sympathy had rendered dumb. then came the half-stifled confession which could no longer be denied. "oh, mother, mother!" the girl cried, through her sobs. "i--i can't help it. i--i love him, and--and he's gone." dr. bill had gone on with father josé. to murray's surprise, john kars expressed his intention of accompanying him up to the fort, which was the former's sleeping quarters. murray was astonished. nor was it a companionship he in the least desired. the prospect even robbed him of some of the satisfaction which the departure on the morrow inspired. still he was left with no choice. to refuse him on any pretext would only be to show his hand, and bring into active expression all the bitter feeling which lay smoldering behind his exterior of cordiality. he knew what john kars meant to his hopes with regard to jessie mowbray. he had admitted that he feared him. the past week had only confirmed those fears beyond all question. he realized, surely enough, that, whatever kars' feelings, jessie's were unmistakable. he knew that time and opportunity must inevitably complete the destiny before them. just now it seemed to him that only something in the nature of a miracle could help him. reluctantly enough he led the way up to the grim old fort. the path lay through the woods, which only extended to the lower slopes of the bald knoll upon which it stood. the moonless night made no difference to him. he could have made the journey blindfolded. at the summit murray led the way round to the gateway of the stockade, and passed within. he was still speculating, as he had speculated the whole way up, as to the purpose of this visit. he only saw in one direction, at the moment, and that direction was the girl he desired for wife. if she were to be the subject of their talk, well, he could match any words of this man, whom he knew to be his rival. inside the room, which served him as an office, murray lit an oil lamp on his desk. then he set a chair for his visitor so that he should face the light. kars flung himself into it, while the trader took his place before the desk, and tilted his swivel chair back at a comfortable angle, his round smiling face cordially regarding his companion. kars bulked large in the light of the lamp. the chair under him was completely hidden. he was of very great size and murray could not help but admire the muscular body, without a spare ounce of that burden of fat under which he labored. then the keen eyes under the strongly marked brows. the well-shaped nose, so suggestive of the power expressed in every line of his features. the clean-shaven lips and chin, almost rugged in their suggestion of purpose. and above all the curling dark hair, now bared by the removal of his beaver cap. kars permitted not a moment's delay in announcing the purpose of his visit. "i waited till now to have this talk, murray, because--why, because i don't think i could have helped things for you folks waking memories before. i got to talk about allan mowbray, about the bell river neches. and i take it you're wisest on both subjects." his eyes were grave. nor did murray fail to observe the sternness which gravity gave to the rest of his face. "i've had the story of these things as the trail knows it. an' as the gossips of leaping horse figgered it out. but i don't reckon i need to tell you ananias didn't forget to shed his old wardrobe over the north country gossips when he cashed in. do you feel like saying some?" murray's reply came without hesitation. "why, sure," he replied. "all i know." neither by look, nor tone, did his manner convey his dislike. his smile was amiability itself. yet under it his feelings were bitter. he stooped abruptly and groped in a small cupboard beside his desk. a moment later he set a whisky bottle and two glasses in front of him, and pushed one of the latter towards his visitor. then he reached the water carafe and set it beside them. "it's scotch," he said invitingly. "thanks." kars helped himself and watered it down considerably. "it needs strong water in the stomach of the feller who's got to raise the ghosts of bell river. gee, the thought makes me weaken." murray's smile had vanished. he had by no means exaggerated his feelings. the truth of his words was in his mysterious eyes. it was in the eagerness of his action in raising the glass of spirit to his lips. kars watched him gulp down his drink thirstily. the sight of it prepared him. he felt that he had done more than well in thus delaying all reference to the murder of allan mowbray. if this were its effect on murray, what would it have been on jessie, or her mother? the glasses were set back on the desk in silence. kars had something of the waiting attitude of a great watchful dog. he permitted no word or action of his to urge the man before him. he wanted the story in murray's own way, and his own time. his own reasons for requesting it were--his own. "it's an ugly story," murray announced, his eyes regarding his companion with a stare that passed through, and traveled far beyond him. "i don't just see where to start." he stirred in his chair with a nervous movement. "allan was a pretty big man. i guess his nerve was never really all out, even in this hellish country. it was as strong as chilled steel. it was a nerve that left danger hollerin' help. he didn't know fear--which isn't good in this land. you need to know fear if you're to win out. there's times in this latitude you need to be scared--badly scared--if you're to make good all the time." kars nodded. "i'm scared most all the time." murray's eyes became alert. a shadow of his smile returned to his lips. it was gone again in a second. he replenished his glass and produced cigars. both men helped themselves, and, in a moment, the fragrant smoke clouded about the globe of the oil lamp. "allan was 'mushing' the long trail, same as he'd done years in the open season," murray said, drawing a deep sigh as he opened his story. "i don't rightly know his itinerary. y'see allan had his trade secrets which he didn't hand on to a soul. not even his partner. but," he leaned forward impressively, and kars caught the full glow of his earnest eyes, "bell river wasn't on his schedule. we'd agreed to leave it alone. it's fierce for a white man. it's been so years. the trade there isn't worth the chances. he knew it. i knew it. we'd agreed to cut it out." "but he went there--why?" kars' question was the obvious one, and murray's fleshy shoulders answered it. he sat back in his chair moodily puffing at his cigar. his eyes were on his desk. it was moments before he replied. at last he reached out and seizing his glass drank the contents at a gulp. then he leaned forward. his voice was deep. but his eyes were steady and questioning. "that question'll never find its answer," he said. "anyway he went there. it was from there we got his call for help. it came by a runner. it came to his wife. not to me. he'd sent to me days before, and it hadn't come through. guess that call of his was a farewell to his wife. the game must have been played when he wrote it, and i guess he was wise to it. say"--he sat back in his chair and pushed his fat fingers through his hair--"it makes me sweat thinking of it." kars' silent nod of sympathy was followed by a kindly warning. "take your time." "time?" a mirthless laugh responded to the caution. "it don't need time. anyway time's not calculated to make it easier. it's all right before me now, set out as only the fiend-spawn of bell river can set it out." his tone deepened and he spoke more rapidly. "we got that call in the evening. an hour after i was hot foot down the river with an outfit of thirty neches, armed with an arsenal of weapons." his tone grew. his eyes shone fiercely, and a deep passion seemed to stir him. "say, they reckon i can drive hard on the river. they reckon i've got neither mercy, nor feeling when it comes to putting things through. i proved all they said that trip. i drove those crews as if hades was on our heels. i didn't spare them or myself. we made bell river a day under the time i figgered, and some of the boys were well-nigh dead. say, i guessed the clock hands were runnin' out the life of my big friend, and--well, the life of my fellers didn't weigh an ounce in the balance. but i was late. late by a day." he broke off and dashed more whisky into his glass. he drank it down neat. "do you need more?" his eyes shone, and his voice rose. then came his mirthless laugh again. "yes, best have it all. oh, it's pretty. as pretty as if demons had fixed it. we found him. what was left of him. he was well-nigh hacked to dog meat, and around him were the bodies of some of his boys. oh, he'd put up an elegant scrap. he'd fought 'em at something more than man for man. the bell river dead lay about round that bluff on the river bank in heaps. he'd fought 'em to the last man, and i guess that was allan. he'd fought 'em as allan mowbray only knew how to fight. and he'd died as just he knew how to die. a man." his voice ceased and in the silence john kars drew a deep breath. a great sympathy was stirring him. but he had no words to offer, and presently the other went on. "we gathered him up, and the frost helped us. so we brought him right along home. he's buried here inside this old stockade. his grave's marked. alec made the cross, i set it up. an' jessie--why, jessie wrote some on it. that's all." kars rose to his feet. his cigar was out. "thanks," he said, with curious formality. then he relit his cigar. he stood for a moment as though debating with himself. murray remained in his chair. somehow his fat figure seemed to have become huddled. his gaze, too, seemed to have only his thoughts to dwell upon. at last kars went on. "i didn't ask all this for any sort of curiosity," he said. "i asked it because i need to know. i'm mushing a long trail myself this year, an' i guess my way's likely taking me in the region of bell river, before i git back here next fall. guess i've got that yellow streak a feller needs to make good," he went on, his gravity thawing under a shadowy smile. "and you figger bell river's mighty unhealthy for a white man about now." while the other was talking the last vestige of murray's preoccupation seemed to fall from him. he was alert. he rose from his chair. his decision was full, and strong, and emphatic, when he replied. "unhealthy? it don't say a thing. avoid bell river, or you'll regret it. they're devils let loose. i tell you right here you'll need an outfit of half a hundred to pass safe through that country. they got a taste for white man's outfit now. time was when they fancied only neche scalps. it's not that way now. no, sir. i'm figgering now how long we'll be safe here, in this fort. there's just two hundred and odd miles between us, and--- say, when do you figger you're making that way? fall?" kars nodded. "the time they got allan. don't do it. i warn you solemnly. and i guess i--know." murray's warning was delivered with urgency. there was no mistaking its sincerity. he seemed to have risen above his antipathy for this man. he seemed only concerned to save another from a disaster similar to that which had befallen his partner. kars thanked him and held out one powerful hand. "i'm obliged," he said, in a sober way as they gripped hands. "i've had full warning, and, maybe, it's going to save me trouble. anyway if my way does take me around that region, and i get my medicine, well--i guess it's up to me. good-night, murray. thanks again. i'll be off before you're around to-morrow morning. so long." murray mctavish accompanied his visitor to the door. there was no more to be said. his smile returned as he bade him farewell, and it remained for a few moments as he stood till the night swallowed up the departing figure. then it died out suddenly, completely. chapter x the man with the scar two men moved about slowly, deliberately. they were examining, with the closest scrutiny, every object that might afford a clue to the devastation about them. a third figure, in the distance, was engaged similarly. he was dressed in the buckskin so dear to the indian heart. the others were white men. the scene was complete in horror. it was the incinerated ruins of a recently destroyed indian encampment, set in the shadow of a belt of pine woods which mounted the abrupt slopes of a great hill. the woods on the hillside were burnt out. where had stood a dense stretch of primordial woodland, now only the skeleton arms of the pines reached up towards the heavens as though appealing despairingly for the vengeance due to them. the day was gray. the air was still, so still. it reeked with the taint of burning. it reeked with something else. there were bodies, in varying stages of decomposition, lying about, many of them burned, many of them half eaten by the wild scavengers of the region. all were mutilated in a dreadful manner. and they were mostly the bodies of women and children. not a teepee remained standing. the mud walls of one or two huts still stood up. but all of them that were destructible had been devoured by hungry flames. after half an hour's search the two white men came to the edge of the burnt-out forest. they paused, and john kars' eyes searched amongst the charred poles. presently he shrugged his shoulders. "no use going up this way. we can't learn more than we've read right here. it's the work of the bell river outfit, sure. that's if the things we've heard are true." he turned to his companion. "say, bill, it makes you wonder. what 'bug' is it sets folk yearning to get out and kill, and burn, all the time? think of it. just think if you and me started right in to holler, an' shoot, an' burn. what would you say? we're crazy, sure. yet these folk aren't crazy. they're just the same as they were born, i guess. they weren't born crazy, any more than we were. it gets me beat. beat to death." bill brudenell was overshadowed in stature by his friend. but his wit was as keen. his mental faculties perhaps more mature. he might not have been able to compete with john kars in physical effort, but he possessed a ripe philosophy, and a wonderful knowledge of human nature. "the craziest have motives," he said, with a whimsical smile in his twinkling eyes. "i've often noticed that folk who act queer, and are said to be crazy, and maybe get shut up in the foolish-house, generally have an elegant reason of their own for acting the way they do. maybe other folks can't get it right. i once had to do with a case in which a feller shot up his mother, and was made out 'bug,' and was put away. it worried me some. later i found his ma made his life miserable. he lived in terror of her. she'd broken bottles over his head. she'd soused him with boiling water. she'd raised the devil generally, till--well, till he reached the limit. then i found she acted that way because her dandy boy was sparking around some tow-headed female, and guessed he intended marrying her, and setting her to run the home his mother had always run for him. there's some sort of reason to most crazy acts. guess we'll need to chase up the bell river outfit if we're looking for the reason to this craziness." "yes." bill turned away and picked up a stained and rusted hatchet of obviously indian make. he examined it closely. john kars stared about him with brooding eyes. "what do you think lies back of this?" he inquired presently. his manner was abstracted, and his eyes were watching the movements of the third figure in the distance. bill glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes. it was a swift, speculating glance. then he continued his examination of the hatchet, while he talked. "much of what lies back of most desperate acts," he said. "guess the bell river folk have got something other folk need, and the other folk know it. i allow the bell river folk don't figger to hand over to anybody. maybe it's hunting grounds, maybe it's fishing. can't say. but you see this crowd are traveling indians, or were," he added drily. "we're within twenty miles of bell river. if they were traveling, which the remains of their teepees make them out to have been, then i guess they weren't doing it for health. more than likely it was robbery of some sort. well, i guess they were up against a proposition, and got it--plenty. it's going to snow. what are you figgering?" kars searched the gray skies. "we'll make bell river." "i guessed you would. maybe some folks would say it's you that's crazy. ask peigan." bill laughed. his clever face was always at its best when his twinkling eyes, as it were, bubbled over. the men moved on towards their camp. the threat of the sky added to the gloomy nature of the crudely rugged country. on every hand the hills rose mightily. dark woodlands crowded the lower slopes, but the sharply serrated crests, many of them snow-clad, left a merciless impression upon the mind. the solitude of it all, too, was overpowering. the long summer trail lay behind them, all its chances successfully taken, all its many dangers surmounted. the threat of the sky was real and they had no desire now to fall victims to a careless disregard of ordinary climatic conditions. kars' calculation had been carefully made. his plans were laid so that they should reach the upper stream of the snake river, where his river depot had been established, and his canoes were awaiting them, with at least three weeks to spare before the ice shut down all traffic. the outfit would then have ample time in which to reach the shallows of peel river, whence the final stage of the journey to leaping horse would be made overland on the early winter trail. peigan charley joined them at the camp. the man came up with that curiously silent, almost furtive gait, which no prairie indian, however civilized, ever quite loses. it comes from long years of moccasin use, and an habitual bent knee walk. peigan charley considered himself unusually civilized. but it was for his native abilities that kars employed him. his broad, bronze face and dark eyes were quite without expression, for all he had searched closely and probed deeply into the horrors of that desperate camp. perhaps he had no appreciation of horror. perhaps he saw nothing outrageous in the dreadful destruction. he was carrying a broken modern rifle in his hand, and with a word promptly offered it to his chief. kars took the weapon. he examined it closely while bill looked on. then the white chief's eyes searched the indian's face. "well?" he demanded. the copper-hued expressionless features of the man underwent a change. they became almost animated. but it was with a look of awe, or even apprehension. "him bell river," he stated bluntly. "yes." john kars had learned all he wanted from the scout. his own opinion was corroborated. so he handed the useless weapon back and pointed at it. "allan mowbray's outfit," he said. "bell river neche steal 'em." the scout nodded. the smell of cooking pervaded the camp. for some moments no one spoke. bill was watching his friend, waiting for that decision which he knew had long since been taken. the indian was silent, as was his habit, and kars appeared to be considering deeply. presently he looked up at the sky. "that snow will be--rain," he said. "wind's got south. we'll make big butte to-night. bell river to-morrow. noon." bill was observing the indian. peigan charley's bovine stare changed swiftly as the white chief whom he regarded above all men gave his decision. its stolidity had given way to incredulity, and bill found in it a source of amusement. suddenly charley thrust up one hand. the long, tawny fingers were parted, and he counted off each one. "one, two, tree, four," he enumerated, bending each finger in turn. "him all big fool pack neche. no good. plenty 'fraid. plenty eat. oh, yes, plenty eat. one, two." again he told off his fingers. "good neche. fight plenty. oh, yes. peigan charley." he held up one finger. "heap good feller," he commented solemnly. "big chief, boss. big chief, bill. two." again the inevitable fingers. "shoot plenty much. no good. five hundred bell river devils. mush gun. shoot bad. big chief boss all kill up. boss go bell river. boss crazy--sure." bill was thoroughly enjoying himself. nor did kars resent his smiles. he, too, laughed in spite of the indian's growing concern. "we make bell river to-morrow," he said finally. "see the boys get busy with food. we mush in half an hour." the indian had made his protest. there was nothing further to add. so he went off and the white man watched him go. "guess there'll be something doing around the camp when he gets amongst the boys," kars observed. then he added, after a smiling pause, "that feller thinks me crazy. guess murray mctavish would think that way, too. maybe that's how you're thinking. maybe you're all right, and i'm all wrong. i can't say. and i can't worry it out. y'see, bill, my instinct needs to serve me, like your argument serves you. only you can't argue with instinct. the logic of things don't come handy to me, and euclid's a sort of fool puzzle anyway to a feller raised chasing gold. there's just about three things worrying the back of my head now. they've been worrying it all summer, worse than the skitters. maybe bell river can answer them all. i don't know. why are these bell river neches always shooting up their neighbors, and any one else? how comes it allan mowbray died worth half a million dollars on a fur trade? what was he doing on bell river when he got killed?" it was a wide flat stretch of grass, a miniature table-land, set high up overlooking the broken territory of the bell river forge. it was bleak. a sharp breeze played across it with a chill bitterness which suggested little enough mercy when winter reigned. it was an outlook upon a world quite new to bill. to john kars the scene was by no means familiar. these men gazed out with a profound interest not untouched by awe. their eyes sought in every direction, and no detail in the rugged splendor was lost. for long minutes they stood silently reading the pages of the new book opened to them. it was, in kars' own words, a "fierce" country. it suggested something like desperation in the creator of it all. it seemed as though imagination must have deserted him, and he was left only with the foundations, and the skeleton walls of a vast structure upon his hands. the horizon was approached by tier on tier of alternating glacier and barren hill. what lay hidden in the hollows could only be conjectured. in every direction, except the southeast, whence they had come, the outlook was the same. hills, and more hills. glacial stretch, followed by glacial stretch. doubtless the hollows contained vast primordial woods, and fiercely flooding mountain streams, scoring their paths through wide stretches of miry tundra, quaking and treacherous. this was the distance, than which nothing could have been more desolate. but the nearer view was their chief concern. the gorge yawned almost at their feet. it was tremendous, and its vastness set the mind dizzy. great circling patches of mist rose up from below and added a sense of infinity to its depths. so wide. so deep. the broad river in its bowels was reduced to something like a trickling streamlet. the woodlands crowding the lower slopes, dim, vague in the distance, became merely a deepening of the shadows below. forests of primordial immensity were lost in the overwhelming nature of their setting. the air of sterility, in spite of the woodlands so far down below, in spite of the attenuated grass on which they stood, inspired a profound sense of repugnance. to the mind of bill brudenell, at least, it was a land of hopelessness, a land of starvation and despair. he turned to his companion at last, and his voice rang with deep feeling. "fierce? gee! there's not a word in the whole vocabulary of a white man that gets nearer than ten miles of describing it," he exclaimed. "and the neches, here, figger to scrap to hold it. well, it certainly needs attractions we can't locate from here." kars nodded agreement. "that's how i've felt all through," he said. "now? why, now i'm dead sure. this is where they murdered jessie's father. well, even a railroad corporation couldn't advertise it a pleasure resort. we'd best get right on down to the camp. i reckon to locate those attractions before we're through." leaving the plateau they passed down the seemingly endless slope. bill cursed the foothold, and blasphemed generally. kars remained silent. he was absorbed with the task he had set himself in approaching this murder-haunted gorge. the return to the camp occupied the best part of an hour, and the latter part of the journey was made through a belt of pine wood, the timber of which left the human figure something so infinitesimal that its passage was incapable of disturbing the abiding silence. the scrunch of the springy carpet of needles and pine cones under heavily shod feet was completely lost. the profoundness of the gloom was tremendous. the camp suggested secrecy. it lay in the bowels of a hollow. the hollow was crowded with spruce, a low, sparse-growing scrub, and mosquitoes. its approach was a defile which suggested a rift in the hills at the back. its exit was of a similar nature, except that it followed the rocky bed of a trickling mountain stream. a mile or so further on this gave on to the more gracious banks of the bell river to the west of the gorge. kars had taken up a position upon some rolled blankets. he was smoking, and meditating over the remains of a small fire. bill was stretched full-length upon the ground. his philosophic temperament seemed to render him impervious to the attacking hordes of mosquitoes. beyond the hum of the flying pestilence the place was soundless. near by the indians were slumbering restfully. it is the nature of the laboring indian to slumber at every opportunity--slumber or eat. peigan charley was different from these others of his race. but the scout had long been absent from the camp on work that only the keenest of his kind could accomplish successfully. indian spying upon indian is like hunting the black panther. the difficulty is to decide which is the hunter. bill was drowsily watching a cloud of mosquitoes set into undue commotion by the smoke from his pipe. but for all that his thoughts were busy. "guess charley isn't likely to take fool chances?" he suggested after a while. kars shook his head at the fire. his action possessed all the decision of conviction. "charley's slim. he's a razor edge, i guess. he's got us all beaten to death on his own play. he's got these murdering devils beaten before they start." then he turned, and a smile lit his steady eyes as they encountered the regard of his friend. "it seems queer sending a poor darn indian to take a big chance while we sit around." then he kicked the fire together as he went on. "but we're taking the real chance, i guess," he said, with a short laugh. "if the bell river outfit is all we reckon, then it's no sort of gamble we made this camp without them getting wise." bill sat up. "then we certainly are taking the big chance." kars laughed again. "sure. and i'll be all broken up if we don't hear from 'em," he said. he knocked out his pipe and refilled it. once during the operation he paused and listened. "y'see," he went on, after a while, "we're white folks." "that's how i've always heard. so was--allan mowbray." kars picked up a hot coal from the fire, rolled it in the palm of his hand, and dropped it on the bowl of his pipe. once the pipe was lit he shook it off again. "allan got around here--many times," he said reflectively. "he wasn't murdered on his first visit--nor his second. allan's case isn't ours. not if i figger right." "how d'you figger?" "they'll try and hustle us. if i figger right they don't want folk around--any folk. i don't think that's why they murdered allan. there was more to that. seems to me we'll get a visit from a bunch of 'em. maybe they'll get around with some of the rifles they stole from allan. they'll squat right here on their haunches and tell us the things they fancy, and--- hello!" kars broke off, but made no movement. he did not even turn his head from his contemplative regard of the white ashes of the fire. there was a sound. the sound of some one approaching through the trees. it was the sound of a shod footstep. it was not the tread of moccasins. bill eased himself. in doing so his revolver holster was swung round to a handy position. but kars never stirred a muscle. a moment later he spoke in a tone keyed a shade lower. "a feller wearing boots. it's only one--i wonder." bill had risen to his feet. "my nerves aren't as steady as yours. i'm going to look," he announced. he moved off, and presently his voice came back to the man by the fire. "ho, john! a visitor," he cried. the man at the fire replied cordially. "bring him right along. pleased to see him." but kars had not moved from his seat. as he flung his reply back, he glanced swiftly at the place where his own and bill's rifles stood leaning against the pale green foliage of a bush within reach of his hand. then, with elaborate nonchalance, he spread his hands out over the smoldering ashes of the fire. a moment or two later he was gazing up smilingly into the face of a man who was obviously a half-breed. the man was dressed in a beaded buckskin shirt under a pea-jacket of doubtful age. it was worn and stained, as were the man's moleskin trousers, which were tucked into long knee-boots which had once been black. but the face held the white man's interest. it was of an olive hue, and the eyes which looked out from beneath almost hairless brows were coal black, and fierce, and narrow. a great scar split the skin of his forehead almost completely across it. and beneath the attenuated moustache another scar stretched from the corner of his mouth half-way across his right cheek. then, too, his indian-like black hair was unable to conceal the fact that half an ear was missing. nor did it take kars a second to realize that the latter mutilation was due to chewing by some adversary in a "rough and tumble" fight. the man's greeting came in the white man's tongue. nor was it tinged with the "pigeon" method of the indian. it smacked of the gold city which knows little enough of refinement amongst even its best classes. "say, you boys are takin' all kinds of chances," he said, in a voice that had little pleasantness of intonation. "i had some scare when i see you come over the hills ther'. the darn neches bin out the way you come, burnin', an' massacrin'. how you missed 'em beats me to death. but i guess you did miss 'em?" he added significantly. "and i'm glad." kars was only concerned with the information of the indians' movements. "they're out?" he said. "sure they're out." the man laughed. "they're out most all the time. gee, it's livin' with a cyclone playin' around you on this god-forgotten river. but, say, you boys need to beat it, an' beat it quick, if you want to git out with your hair on. they're crazy for guns an' things. if they git their noses on your trail they'll git you sure as death." the warning received less attention than it seemed to demand. kars looked the half-breed squarely in the eyes. "who are you?" he demanded. abrupt as was the challenge the tone of it had no roughness. "louis creal." "belong here?" kars' steady eyes were compelling. a flush of anger surged in the half-breed's mutilated cheeks. his eyes snapped viciously. "this ain't a catechism, is it?" he cried hotly. then in a moment he moderated his tone. "fellers on the 'inside' don't figger to hand around their pedigrees--usual. howsum, i allow i come right along to pass you a friendly warning, which kind o' makes it reasonable to tell you the things folk don't usually inquire north of 'sixty.' yep. i live around this river, an' hand the neches a bum sort o' trade fer their wares. guess i scratch a livin', if you can call it that way, up here. but it don't figger any. my ma come of this tribe. i guess my paw belonged to yours." "where d'you get your goods for trade?" the sparkle of hasty temper grew again in the black depths of the half-breed's eyes. the man's retort came roughly enough now. "what in----!" he cried. then again he checked his fiery impulse. "say, that ain't no darn bizness of any one but me. get me? it's a fool question anyway. ther's a dozen posts i could haul from. my bizness ain't your bizness. i stand pat fer why i traipsed nigh two miles to reach your darn fool camp. i handed you the trouble waitin' around if you ain't wise. i guess you're wise now, an' if you don't act quick it's up to you. if you've the savvee of a buck louse you'll beat it good an' quick. you'll beat it as if the devil was chasin' you plenty." then it seemed as if urgency overcame his resentment, for he went on with a sort of desperate eagerness. "say, i ain't got your names, i don't know a thing. i ain't no interest if you're alive, or hacked to small chunks. but if you got any value fer your lives, if you've got folks to worry fer you, why, git right out o' this just as fast as the devil'll let you. that's all." "thanks--we will." kars had suddenly abandoned all his previous assurance of manner. he seemed to be laboring under the influence of the warning. "guess we're kind of obliged to you. more than i can say. maybe you won't take amiss the things i asked. you see, finding a white man in this region seemed sort of queer since they murdered allan mowbray. i just had to ask." he turned to bill, who was watching him curiously. "we'll strike camp right away. guess we best get out west if the neches are southeast. seems to me we're in a bad fix anyway." then he turned again to the half-breed. "maybe you'll stop around and take food? we'll eat before we strike." kars' changed attitude seemed to please the half-breed. but he shook his head with a smile that only rendered his expression the more crafty. "nothin' doin' that way," he said decidedly. "gee, no!" then he added confidentially: "i come two miles to give you warnin'. that's straight across as the birds fly. i made nearer five gettin' here. maybe you'll get that when i tell you these devils have eyes everywhere. since they shot up allan mowbray i'm scared. scared to death. i've taken a big chance coming around. i ain't makin' it bigger stoppin' to feed. an' if you'll take white advice you won't neither. jest get to it an' set all the darnation territory you ken find between you an' bell river before to-morrow. i quit. so long. i've handed you warning. it's right up to you." he turned abruptly away and moved off. to the dullest it was obvious he was anxious to escape further interrogation. and these men were not dull. bill followed him a few steps and stood watching his slim, lithe figure vanish amongst the close-growing spruce. kars, too, watched him go. but he had not stirred out of his seat. they waited until the sound of his footsteps had died out. then kars bestirred himself. he passed from the camp to where his indians were sleeping. when he returned bill was standing over the fire. "i've set a boy to trail him to the edge of the woods," he said. then he returned to his seat. bill nodded. "well?" kars laughed. "an elegant outfit," he said with appreciation. "i guess he's more scared of us than the bell river devils. we're not to get the bunch of neches i guessed." "no. he's a crook and--a bad one. when do we pull out?" kars looked up. his eyes were steady and keen. his jaws were set aggressively. "when i've nosed out the secret of this darned layout." "but----" "say, bill," kars' manner became suddenly alive with enthusiasm, "we've chased a thousand miles and more this summer, nosing, and scratching, and worrying to find some of the secrets of this mighty big land. we've sweated and cussed till even the flies and skitters must have been ashamed. i figger we've lit right on top of a big secret here, and--well, i don't fancy being bluffed out of it by any low-down bum of a half-breed. that feller wants to be quit of us. he's bluffing. we've hit the camp with the neches _out_. do you get that? if they'd bin around we wouldn't have seen any louis creal. we'd have had all the lead poisoning the neches could have handed us. wait till charley gets back." peigan charley was squatting on his haunches holding out the palms of his lean hands to the warming blaze of the fire. darkness had shut down upon the gloomy world about them. the air was chill. the fire was more than welcome. kars was sitting adjacent to his faithful servant, and bill was on the other side of him. the indian was talking in a low voice, and in a deliberate fashion. "i mak him," he said, in his quaint, broken way. "neche all out. only squaws, an' pappoose by the camp. old men--yes. him all by river. much squaws by river. charley not come by river. no good. charley him look by camp. him see much teepee, much shack. oh, yes, plenty. one big--plenty big--shack. squaws mak go by shack. him store. charley know. yes, breed man run him store. charley, him see breed woman, too. all much plenty busy. so. charley him come. yes?" kars smoked on for some silent moments. "you didn't risk the river?" he inquired presently. "just where were they working?" "no. charley him all get kill up dead by river. no bush. no nothing." he made a gesture that was unmistakable. then he went on. "charley, him go up dis way." he pointed at the hill directly behind him. "him go up--up. much walk, oh, yes. then charley, him go down. plenty big piece. heap down. so. come by river. much bush. charley, him go on. quiet. oh, yes. quiet--much quiet. then no bush any more. big rock. high. much high. wide. dis way." he spread his arms out to their full extent, indicating the gorge. "water so." he narrowed his hands together. "squaws, him plenty much work by water. so." again the men smoked on in silence. bill made no comment at all. he was looking to kars. this was entirely kars' affair. presently kars looked round. "charley made good--very good," he said. "charley good man." then he looked across at bill. he was smiling, and the light of the fire made his smile queerly grim. "that's all i need, bill," he said. "the rest i'll do myself. i'm going to quit you for the time. maybe i won't join you till nearly morning. i can't say. i want you to strike camp right away. get on the move down to the river bank--above the gorge. then follow it along for a few miles. maybe ten. then wait around, and keep an eye wide. then send charley back to wait for me on the river bank--just above the gorge. get that, charley?" he turned to the indian. "i need you to know just where boss bill is waiting, so you can guide me." "charley git him plenty. charley him wait." "good. you get it, bill?" bill nodded. "right. then i'll be moving." chapter xi the secret of the gorge peigan charley's belief in his white boss's lack of sanity was characteristic of indian regard for the reckless. the reason, the driving power of his chief's character was lost to his primitive mind. the act was all he had power to judge by, and the act of voluntarily visiting the headquarters of the bell river indians said he was "crazy." but kars was by no means "crazy," nor anything like it. he had a definite purpose to fulfil, and, in consequence, all hazard was ignored. the man's simple hardihood was the whole of him. he had been bred in the rough lap of the four winds at his father's side. he would have smothered under the breath of caution. he set out from the camp at the moment he had carefully selected. he set out alone, without a thought for the chances of disaster which the night might have for him. his eyes were alight with satisfaction, with anticipation. invincible determination inspired him as he faced the hill which had served the indian earlier in the day. he moved off with a swing to his great body which said all that his lips had left unspoken of the confidence which at all times supported him in the battle with elemental forces. when he left the camp the blackness of the night had given way to the jewel-studded velvet of a clearing sky. the spectre lights of the north were already dancing their sombre measure. there was no moon. these things all possessed their significance for him. the shadowy night light, however, only served him in the open, in the breaks in the deep woodlands he must thread. for the rest his woodcraft, even his instinct, must serve him. a general line of direction was in his mind. on that alone he must seriously depend. his difficulties were tremendous. they must have been insurmountable for a man of lesser capacity. but the realization of difficulty was a sense he seemed to lack. it was sufficient that a task lay before him for the automatic effort to be forthcoming. he climbed the hill through endless aisles of straight-limbed timber. his gait was rapid. his deep, regular breathing spoke of an effort which cost him little. his muscles were as hard as the tree-trunks with which he frequently collided. and so he came to the barren crest where the fierce night wind bit deeply into the warm flesh. he only paused for his bearings. the stars and the dancing lights yielded him the guidance he needed. he read these signs with the ease of an experienced mariner. then, crushing his soft beaver cap low down over his ears, and buttoning his pea-jacket about his neck, he left the bitter, wind-swept hilltop and plunged down the terrific slope, at the far-off bottom of which lay the river, whose very name had cast a spell of terror over the hearts of the people of the northland. again he was swallowed up by the dark bowels of the woods, whose origin went back to the days before man trod the earth. and curiously enough a sensation of committing an intrusion stirred as the silence closed down about him. a dark wall always seemed to confront him, a wall upon which he was being precipitated. the steep of the decline was at times terrific. there were moments of impact with trees which left him bruised and beaten. there were moments when projecting roots threatened to hurl him headlong to invisible depths. each buffet, each stumble, however, only hardened his resolve. these things were powerless to deter him. his descent of the approach to the gorge was a serious test. he felt thankful at least that his plans called for no reascent of the hill later. twice he was precipitated into the bed of a spring "washout," and, sore and angry, he was forced to a blind scramble from the moist, soft bed. once he only escaped with his life by a margin the breadth of a hair. on this occasion he recovered himself with a laugh of something like real amusement. but death had clutched at him with fierce intent. he had plunged headlong over the edge of a chasm, hewn in the hillside by a subsidence of the foundations some hundreds of feet below. six feet from the brink his great body had been caught in the arms of a bushy tangle, which bent and crushed under his great weight in a perilous, almost hopeless fashion. but he clung to the attenuated branches that supported him and waited desperately for the further plunge below, which the yielding roots seemed to make inevitable. but the waiting saved him. had he struggled while the bush labored under the shock, maybe his anticipations would have been fulfilled. as it was the roots definitely held, and, cautiously, he was able to haul himself up against the weed-grown wall of the precipice, and finally obtain a foot and hand hold in its soil. the rest was a matter of effort and nerve, and at last he clambered back to comparative safety. so the journey went on with varying fortune, his blind groping and stumblings alternating with the starlit patches where the woods broke. but it went on deliberately to the end with an inevitability which revealed the man. at last he stood in the open with the frowning walls of the great gorge far above him, like a giant mouth agape in a desperate yawn. at his feet lay the river, flowing swiftly on to join the great mackenzie in its northward rush to swell the field of polar ice. here, in the bowels of the great pit, he was no longer blinded by the darkness, for, in the three hours of infinite effort he had expended, the moon had risen, and its radiance shone down the length of the gorge like some dull yellow search-light. the wood-lined walls were lit till their conformation was vaguely discernible. the swift stream reflected the yellow rays on the crests of its surging ripples. then, far in, beyond the mouth of the canyon, the long low foreshore stood out almost plainly to his searching eyes. his task was only at its beginning. he waited just sufficiently long to deliberate his next move. then he set off, heading for the heart of the gorge itself. it was a scene of deep interest for eyes backed by understanding. a figure moved slowly about, searching here, probing there. it was a figure suggesting secret investigation without a sign of real secrecy in its movements. the foreshore of the river was wide, far wider than could have been believed from the heights above. it sloped gradually to the water's edge, and the soil was loose, gravelly, with a consistency that was significant to the trained mind. but its greater interest lay in the signs of intense labor that stood out on every hand. operations, crudely scientific, had been carried out to an extent that was almost staggering. here, in the heart of a low class indian territory was the touch of the white man. it was more than a touch. it was the impress of his whole hand. the foreshore was honeycombed with shallow pits, shored, and timbered with rough hewn timber. against the mouth of each pit, and there were dozens of them, a great pile of soil stood up like a giant beehive, some of these were in the process of formation. some were completed, and looked to have stood thus for many months. some were in the process of being demolished, and iron-wheeled trolleys on timbered pathways stood about them, with the tools of the laborers remaining just where they had been flung down when the day's work was finished. each pit, each "dump" was narrowly scrutinized by the silent figure as it moved from point to point. even the examination extended to touch. again and again the soil was handled in an effort to test its quality. but the search extended beyond the "dumps" and pits. it revealed a cutting hewn out of the great wall of the gorge. it was hewn at a point well above the highest water level of the spring freshets. and it was approached by a well timbered roadway of split green logs. the figure moved over to this, and, as it left the beehive "dumps," a second figure replaced it. but whereas the first made no secret of its movements, the second displayed all the furtive movements of the hunter. the cutting further revealed the guidance of the master mind. it was occupied by a mountainous dump of the accumulated "dirt" from the foreshore. it was built up, up, by a system of log pathways, till a rough estimate suggested the accumulation of thousands upon thousands of tons. what was the purpose of this storage? the question was answered by a glance in a fresh direction. adjoining the cutting stood an iron winch. it was a man-power winch, but it worked an elevated cable trolley communicating with a trestle work fifty yards away. moving swiftly on towards the trestle work the man searched its length. he peered up, far up the great hillside in the uncertain moonlight, seeking the limits of its trailing outline in that direction. but its ascent was gradual. it took the hill diagonally, and quickly lost itself round a bend in the narrow roadway which had been hewn out of the primordial forest. the end of this work in the other direction was far down on the foreshore, stopping short of the water's edge by, perhaps, fifty yards. it terminated at what was obviously a great mound of "tailings." the man moved down to this spot. as he paused by the mound, and gazed up, the trestle work stood above him more than twice his own height. furthermore, here the skeleton work gave place to built-out platforms, the purpose of which was obvious. a moment later his powerful hands were gripping the massive stanchions, and he was clambering up to the platforms. it was a simple enough task for a man of activity, and he swarmed up with the rapidity of some great cat. he stood on the topmost platform, and his gaze ran down the length of the structure. "a sluice-box and--conduit," he muttered. then in a tone of deep appreciation: "gee, and it's fixed--good!" he bent down over the sluice-box, and groped with his hands over the bottom of it. there was a trickle of water flowing gently in its depths. he searched with his fingers along the riffles. and that which he found there he carefully and laboriously collected, and drew up out of the water. he placed the collected deposit in a colored handkerchief, and again searched the riffles. he repeated the operation again and again. then, with great care he twisted up the handkerchief and bestowed it in an inner pocket of his pea-jacket. after that he sat himself upon the edge of the sluice-box for some thoughtful minutes, and his mind traveled back over many scenes and incidents. but it dwelt chiefly upon jessie mowbray and her dead father. and it struggled in a great effort to solve the riddle of the man's death. but, in view of his discoveries, just now it was a riddle that suggested far too many answers. furthermore, to his mind, none of them quite seemed to fit. there were two facts that stood out plainly in his mind. here, here was the source of allan's wealth, and this was the enterprise which in some way had contrived to leave jessie mowbray fatherless. he sighed. a wave of intense pity swept over him. nor was his pity for the man who had kept his secret so profoundly all these years. it was for the child, and the widow he had left behind. but more than all it was for the child. it was with something like reluctance that he tore himself away from the magic of the sluice-box. once on the solid ground, however, he again turned his eyes to gaze up at the structure. then he laughed. it was an audible expression of the joy of discovery. "what a 'strike'!" he said aloud. "an' one you ain't gettin' away with!" john kars started. he half turned at the sound of the familiar voice. but his intention remained incompleted. it may have been instinct. it may have been that out of the corner of his eye he saw the white ring of the muzzle of a revolver shining in the moonlight close against his head. on the instant of the last sound of the man's voice he dropped. he dropped like a stone. his movement came only the barest fraction of a second before the crack of the revolver prefixed the whistle of the bullet which spat itself deeply into the woodwork of the trestle. thought and action ran a neck and neck race in kars at all times. now it was never better exampled. his arms flung out as he dropped. and, before a second pressure of the trigger could be accomplished, the man behind the gun was caught, and thrown, and sprawled on the ground with his intended victim uppermost. for kars it was chiefly a struggle for possession of the gun. on his assailant's part it was for the use of it upon his intended victim. kars had felled the man by the weight and suddenness of his attack. he had him by the body, and his own great bulk lay atop of him. but the man's arms were free. there was a moment's desperate pause as they fell, and it was that pause which robbed the gunman of his chance of accomplishing the murder he had designed. kars knew his man on the instant. the voice was the voice of louis creal, the half-breed who had warned him of the danger of bell river. he could have laughed had not the moment been too desperate. on the instant of impact with the ground kars released his hold of the man's body, and with catlike agility hurled himself at the man's throat. with the threat of the revolver over him there remained only one means of defence. he must paralyze all action even if he killed the man under his hands. physically his assailant was no match for him, but the gun leveled things up. his great hands closed on the man's throat like a vice. it was a strangle hold that knew no mercy. he reared his body up and his grip tightened. the breed struggled fiercely. he flung up his gun arm and fired recklessly. the first shot flew high into the air but the scorch of the fire stung the face of the man over him. a second shot came. it cut its way through the thick muscles of kars' neck. he winced under its hot slither, but his grip only further tightened on the man's throat. then came collapse with hideous suddenness. with a choking gurgle the breed's arms dropped nervelessly to the ground and the revolver fell from his relaxed grip. on the instant the white man released his hold. he caught up the gun and flung it wide. he had won out. the cost to him did not matter. he stood up and gazed down at the man on the ground. he was still--quite still. then he searched his own pockets for a handkerchief. the only one he possessed had been set to precious use. he rejected it. so he bent over the prostrate breed and unfastened the colored handkerchief about his neck. this he proceeded to fasten about the flesh wound in his own neck, for the blood flowing from it was saturating his clothes. a moment later the half-breed stirred. it was what the white man had awaited. the sight of the movement brought a sigh of relief. he was glad he had not been forced to become the slayer of the man. five minutes later the dazed half-breed seemed to awaken to realities. he propped himself on his elbow, and, with his other hand, felt about his throat, whilst his dark, evil face and beady eyes stared malevolently up in the moonlight at the man standing over him. "feeling better?" the white, man demanded coldly. as he received no answer he went on. "guess you acted foolish trailing up so close on me. maybe you were scared you'd miss me in the dark? anyway, you gave me a chance no real gunman would have given. guess you weren't more than a rabbit in my hands. say, can you swim? ah, don't feel like talking," he added, as the man still kept to his angry silence. "anyway you'll need to. you've got off mighty light. maybe a bath won't come amiss." he bent down and before the breed was aware of his intention he seized him in his arms and picked him up much as he might have picked up some small child. then the struggle began afresh. but it was hopeless from the outset. louis creal, unarmed, was powerless in the bear-like embrace of john kars. struggling and cursing, the half-breed was borne to the water's edge, held poised for a few seconds, then flung with all the strength of the white man into the rapid waters of the bell river. kars only waited to see him rise to the surface. then, as the man was carried down on the swift tide, swimming strongly, he turned away with a laugh and hurried from the scene. john kars halted abruptly in response to a whistle. the sound came from the thick scrub with which the low bank of the river beyond the gorge was deeply overgrown. it was a whistle he knew. it came low and rose to a piercing crescendo. then it died away to its original note. his answer was verbal. "that you, charley?" he demanded. his demand was answered by the abrupt appearance of the figure of his faithful scout from within the bush. "sure, boss. charley him wait. charley him hear much shoot. boss kill 'em plenty good?" kars laughed. "not kill 'em," he said. "half-breed wash 'em in river." "boss no kill 'em?" the indian's disappointment was pathetic. "no-o." kars passed a hand wearily across his eyes. there was a drag, too, in his negative. it was almost indifferent. but the display of weakness was instantly swept aside by an energy which cost him more than he knew. "it don't matter anyway," he cried. "we need to make camp--we must make it quick." there was irritation in his manner, as well as energy. but then his neglected wound was causing him infinite pain, and the loss of blood aggravated it by a feeling of utter weariness. chapter xii dr. bill dispenses aid and argument the fire spluttered just beyond the door of the tent. its cheerful light supported the efforts of the kerosene lamp within. peigan charley squatted over its friendly warmth, his lean hands outheld to its flickering blaze in truly indian fashion. his position had been taken up with a view to observing his wounded chief, whose condition concerned him more than anything else in the world, except it was, perhaps, his delight in driving the men of his own color under him, and his absolute contempt for his own race. john kars was lying on his blankets, yielding to the skilful attention of dr. bill. his final journey from the gorge to the camp, ten miles distant, had been perhaps the greatest effort of the night. but with charley's help, with the dogged resolve of a spirit that did not understand defeat, it had been finally achieved. his wound was by no means serious. he knew that. charley believed, in his simple mind, that his boss was practically a dead man. hence his watchful regard now. kars' trouble was little more than loss of blood, and though his tremendous physique had helped him, his weakness during the last two miles of the journey had demanded all his resources to overcome. the dressing was complete. the last stitches had been put in the bandages about the wound. bill closed his instrument case, and returned the bottles of antiseptic drugs to the miniature chest he carried. he sat down on the blankets which were spread out for his own use, and smiled genially down at his patient. "that's that," he said cheerfully. "but it was a lucky get out for you, john. say, a shade to the left, and that breed would have handed you a jugular in two parts. just take it easy. you'll travel to-morrow, after a night's sleep. guess you'll be all whole against we make fort mowbray. you best talk now, an' get rid of it all. maybe you'll sleep a deal easier after." "thanks, bill." kars' regard of his friend said far more than his simple words. but then the friendship between these two was of a quality which required little enough of verbal expression. it was the friendship of two men who have shared infinite perils together, of two men whose lives are bound up in loyalty to each other. for some moments the wounded man made no response to the invitation. a pleasant lassitude was at work upon him. it seemed a pity to disturb it by the effort of talk. but it was necessary to talk, and he knew that this was so. there were thoughts and questions in his mind that must have the well-balanced consideration of his friend's calm mind. at last he broke the silence with an expletive which expressed something of the enthusiasm he really felt. "gee, what a strike!" he said, in a voice much weaker than his usual tone. then he added as an afterthought, "the gorge is chock full of color. just git a holt on that handkerchief in my pea-jacket and open it. say, handle it easy." he watched the other search the pockets of the coat lying at the foot of his blankets. a great light shone in his gray eyes as bill produced the handkerchief and began to unfold it. then, with a raging impatience, he waited while the deposit he had collected from the riffles of the sluice-box was examined under the lamplight. at last bill raised his eyes, and kars read there all he wanted to know. "it's mostly color. there's biggish stuff amongst it." "that's how i figgered." kars' tone was full of contentment. "well?" bill carefully refolded the handkerchief, and laid it beside his medicine chest. kars emitted a sound like a chuckle, "oh, it was a bully play," he said. then, after a moment: "listen, i'll tell it from the start." kars talked, with occasional pauses, for nearly half an hour. he detailed the events of the night in the barest outline, and only dealt closely with the fact of the gold workings. these he explained with the technicalities necessary between experts. he dwelt upon his estimate of the quality of the auriferous deposits as he had been able to make it in the darkness, and from his sense of touch. the final story of his encounter with louis creal only seemed to afford him amusement in the telling. "you see, bill," he added, "that feller must have been sick to death. i mean finding himself with just the squaws and the fossils left around when we come along. his play was clear as daylight. he tried to scare us like a brace of rabbits to be quit of us. it was our bull-headed luck to hit the place right when we did. i mean finding the neches out on a trail of murder instead of lying around their teepees." "yes. but we're going to get them on our trail anyway." "sure we are--when he's rounded 'em up." bill produced his timepiece and studied it reflectively. "it's an hour past midnight," he said. "we'll need to be on the move with daylight. we best hand them all the mileage we can make. we've got to act bright." he sat lost in thought for some minutes, his watch still held in the palm of his hand. he was thinking of the immediate rather than of the significance of his friend's discovery. his cheerful face was grave. he was calculating chances with all the care of a clear-thinking, experienced brain. john kars was thinking too. but the direction which absorbed him was quite different. he was regarding his discovery in connection with fort mowbray. at last he stirred restlessly. "i can't get it right!" he exclaimed. "i just can't." "how's that?" bill's plans were complete. for a day or so he knew that his would be the responsibility. kars would have to take things easy. "what can't you get right?" he added. "why, the whole darn play of it. that strike has been worked years, i'd say. we've trailed this country with eyes and ears mighty wide. guess we haven't run into a thing about bell river but what's darn unpleasant. years that's been waiting. shrieking for us to get around and help ourselves. gee, i want to kick something." bill regarded his friend with serious eyes. "you're going to butt in? you're going to play a hand in that--game?" kars' eyes widened in surprise. "sure." then he added, "so are you." he smiled. bill shook his head. "not willingly--me," he said. "why not?" bill stretched himself out on his blankets. he was fully dressed. he intended to pass the night that way. he clasped his hands behind his neck, and his gaze was on the firelight beyond the door. "first, because it's taking a useless chance. you don't need it," he said deliberately. "second, because that was allan mowbray's strike. it was his big secret that he'd worked most of his days for, and, in the end, gave his life for. if we butt in there'll come a rush, and you'll rob a widow and a young girl who've never done you injury. it don't sound to me your way." "you think mrs. mowbray and jessie know of it?" bill glanced round quickly. "mrs. mowbray--sure." "ah--not jessie?" "can't say. maybe not. more than likely--not." "alec?" bill shook his head decidedly. "not that boy." "murray mctavish?" "he knows." kars nodded agreement. "he knew when he was lying to me he didn't understand allan visiting bell river," he said. kars' eyes had become coldly contemplative. and in the brief silence that followed, for all his intimate understanding of his friend, bill brudenell was unable even to guess at the thoughts passing behind the icy reserve which seemed to have settled upon him. but his questions found an answer much sooner than he expected. the silence was broken by a short, hard laugh of something like self-contempt. "you an' me, bill. we're going up there with an outfit that knows all about scrapping, and something about gold. we're going up there, and d'you know why? oh, not to rob a widow and orphan." he laughed again in the same fashion. "not a soul's got to know, or be wise to our play," he went on. "the strike they've worked won't be touched by us. we'll make our own. but for once gold isn't all we need. there's something else. i tell you i can't rest till we find it. there's a gal, bill, on the snake river, with eyes made to smile most all the time. they did--till allan mowbray got done up. well, i got a notion they'll smile again some day, but it won't be till i've located just how her father came by his end, after years of working with the bell river neches. i want to see those eyes smile, bill. i want to see 'em smile bad. maybe you think me some fool man. i allow i'm wiser than you guess. maybe, even, i'm wiser than you, who've never yearned to see a gal's eyes smiling into yours in all your forty-three years. that's why we're going to butt in on that strike, and you're coming right along with me if i have to yank you there by your mighty badly fledged scalp." bill had turned over on his side. his shrewd eyes were smiling. "sounds like fever," he said, in his pleasant way. "i'll need to take the patient's temperature. say, john, you won't have to haul on my scalp for any play like that. i'm in it--right up to my neck. that i've lived to see the day john kars talks of marrying makes me feel i've not lived----" "he's not talking of marriage," came the swift retort with flushed cheeks. "no. but he's thinking it. which, in a man like john kars, comes pretty near meaning the same thing. did you ask her, boy?" just for a moment resentment lit the other's eyes. it was on his tongue to make a sharp retort. but, under the deep, new emotion stirring him, an emotion that made him rather crave for a sympathy which, in all his strong life, he had never felt the necessity before, the desire melted away. in place of it he yielded to a rush of enthusiasm which surprised himself almost as much as it did his old friend. "no, bill." he laughed. "i--hadn't the nerve to. i don't know as i'll ever have the nerve to. but i want that little gal bad. i want her so bad i feel i could get right out an' trail around these darnation hills, an' skitter holes, hollering 'help' like some mangy coyote chasing up her young. oh, i'm going to ask her. i'll have to ask her, if i have to get you to hand me the dope to fix my nerve right. and, say, if she hands me the g. b. for that bladder of taller-fat, murray, why i'll just pack my traps, and hit the trail for bell river, and i'll sit around and kill off every darned neche so she can keep right on handing herself all the gold she needs till she's sitting atop of a mountain of it, which is just about where i'd like to set her with these two dirty hands." his eyes smiled as he held out his hands. but he went on at once. "now you've got it all. and i guess we'll let it go at that. you and me, we're going to set right out on this new play. there isn't going to be a word handed to a soul at the fort, or anywhere else. not a word. there's things behind allan mowbray's death we don't know. but that dirty half-breed knows 'em, if we don't. and the gold on the river has a big stake in the game. that being so, the folk allan left behind him are to be robbed. follow it? it kind of seems to me the folk at the fort are helpless. but--but we aren't. so it's up to me, seeing how i feel about that little gal." kars had propped himself up under the effect of his rising excitement. now, as he finished speaking, he dropped back on his blankets with some display of weariness. bill's eyes were watching him closely. he was wondering how much of this he would have heard had kars been his usual, robust self. he did not think he would have heard so much. he rose from his blankets. "i'm all in, boy, on this enterprise," he said, in his amiable way. "meanwhile i'm dousing this light. you'll sleep then." he blew out the lamp before the other could protest. "i'll just get a peek at the boys on watch. i need to fix things with charley for the start up to-morrow." he passed out of the tent crawling on his hands and knees. nor did he return till he felt sure that his patient was well asleep. even then he did not seek his own blankets. for a moment he studied his friend's breathing with all his professional skill alert. then, once more, he withdrew, and took his place at the camp-fire beside peigan charley. the first sign of dawn saw the camp astir. kars was accommodated with one of the alaskan ponies under pressure from bill, as the doctor. the whole outfit was on the move before daylight had matured. neither the scout, nor the two white men were deceived. each knew that they were not likely to make the headwaters of snake river without molestation. how right they were was abundantly proved on the afternoon of the second day. they were passing through a wide defile, with the hills on either side of them rising to several hundreds of feet of dense forest. it was a shorter route towards their objective, but more dangerous by reason of the wide stretching tundra it was necessary to skirt. half-way through this defile came the first sign. it came with the distant crack of a rifle. then the whistle of a speeding bullet, and the final "spat" of it as it embedded itself in an adjacent tree-trunk. everybody understood. but it took peigan charley to sum up the situation, and the feeling of, at least, the leaders of the outfit. "fool neche!" he exclaimed, with a world of contemptuous regard flung in the direction whence came the sound. "shoot lak devil. much shoot. plenty. oh, yes." chapter xiii the fall trade the fall trade of the post was in full swing, and gave to the river, and the approaches of the fort, an air of activity such as it usually lacked. murray mctavish seemed to blossom under the pressure of the work entailed. his good humor became intensified, and his smile radiated upon the world about him. these times were the opportunity he found for the display of his abounding energies. they were healthy times, healthy for mind and body. to watch his activities was to marvel that he still retained the grossness of figure he so deplored. a number of canoes were moored at the mission landing. others were secured at piles driven into the banks of the river. these were the boats of the indians and half-breeds who came to trade their summer harvest at the old post. a few days later and these same craft would be speeding in the direction of distant homes, under the swift strokes of the paddle, bearing a modicum of winter stores as a result of their owner's traffic. and what a mixed trade it was. furs. rough dried pelts, ranging from bear to fox, from seal to alaskan sable. furs of thirty or forty descriptions, each with its definite market value, poured into the fort. the lucky pelt hunters were the men who brought black-fox, and alaskan sable, or a few odd seals from the uncontrolled hunting grounds within the arctic circle. these men departed with amply laden canoes, with, amongst their more precious trophies, inferior modern rifles and ammunition. but these voyageurs did not make up the full tally of the fall trade which gave murray so much joy. there were the men of the long trail. the long, land trail. men who came with their whole outfit of belongings, women and children as well. they packed on foot, and on ponies, and in weird vehicles of primitive manufacture, accompanied by the dogs which would be needed for haulage should the winter snows overtake them before they completed their return journey. these were of the lesser class trade. it was rare enough to obtain a parcel of the more valuable pelts from these folk. but they not infrequently brought small parcels of gold dust, which experience had taught them the curious mind of the white man set such store by. gold came in shyly, however, in the general trade. indian methods were far too primitive in procuring it. besides which, for all the value of it, traders in these remotenesses were apt to discourage its pursuit. it was difficult to understand the psychology of the trader on the subject. but no doubt he was largely influenced by the fear of a white invasion of his territory, should the news of the gold trade leak out. maybe he argued that the stability of his legitimate trade was preferable to the risks of competition which an influx of white folk would bring. anyway, open trade of this nature was certainly comparatively discouraged. but murray was not alone in the work of the fall trade. ailsa mowbray supported him in a very definite share. she had returned to the work of the store, such as she had undertaken in the days when her husband was alive and murray had not yet made his appearance upon the river. then, too, alec had returned from his summer trail, his first real adventure without the guiding hand of his father to direct him. he had returned disillusioned. he had returned discontented. his summer bag was incomparable with his effort. it was far below that of the average river indians. he went back to the store, to the work he disliked, without any willingness, and only under the pressure of his perturbed mother and sister. furthermore, he quickly began to display signs of rebellion against murray mctavish's administration of affairs. murray was considering this attitude just now. he was standing alone, just within the gates of the fort, and his meditative gaze was turned upon a wonderful sunset which lit the distant heights of the outspread glacial field with a myriad of varying tints. there had been words with alec only a few minutes before. it was on the subject of appraising values. alec, in a careless, haphazard fashion, had baled some inferior pelts with a number of very beautiful foxes. murray had discovered it by chance, and his words to the youth had been sharply admonishing. alec, tall as his father had been, muscular, bull-necked in his youthful physical strength, bull-headed in his passionate impetuosity, had flared up immoderately. "then do it your darn self!" he cried, the hot blood surging to his cheeks, and his handsome eyes aflame. "maybe you think i'm hired man in this layout, an' you can hand me any old dope you fancy. well, i tell you right here, you need to quit it. i don't stand for a thing from you that way. you'll bale your own darn buys, or get the boys to do it." with this parting the work of his day was terminated. he departed for the mission clearing, leaving murray to digest his words at leisure. murray was digesting them now. they were rankling. bitterly rankling in a memory which rarely forgot things. but his round, ample face displayed no definite feeling other than that which its tendency towards a smile suggested. his own work was finished. though he would not have admitted it he was tired, weary of the chaffer of it all. but his weariness was only the result of a day's labor, mental and physical, from sunrise to sunset. the scene before him seemed to hold him. his big eyes never wavered for a moment. there was something of the eagle in the manner in which they stared unflinchingly at the radiant brilliancy of the western sky. he stood thus for a long time. he displayed no sign of wearying of his contemplation. it was only an unusual sound which finally changed the direction of his gaze. it was the soft shuffle of moccasined feet that reached his quick ears. it was coming up from the wooded slopes below him, a direction which came from the river, but not from the landing. his questioning eyes searched closely the sharp cut, where the pine trees gave way to the bald crown on which the fort stood. and presently two figures loomed out of the shadow of the woods, and paused at the edge of them. they were indians in beaded buckskin, and each was laboring under a burden of pelts which seemed unusually heavy for its size. they were armed, too, with long rifles of a comparatively modern type. some moments passed while they surveyed the figure at the gates. then, after the exchange of a few words between themselves, they came steadily on towards the fort. murray waited. the men approached. neither spoke until the men halted in front of the trader and relieved themselves of their burdens. then it was that murray spoke, and he spoke fluently in an indian tongue. the men responded in their brief spasmodic fashion. after which the white man led the way into the store. the incident was one such as might have occurred any time during these days of busy trading. there was certainly nothing peculiar about it in its general outline. and yet there was a subtle suggestion of something peculiar in it. perhaps it was in the weight of the bales of pelts these men carried. perhaps it was that murray had addressed them in a definite indian tongue first, without waiting to ascertain whence they hailed, or to what small tribe they belonged. perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, and the chance that murray should be waiting there after the day's work was completed, when it was his eager custom to seek his evening meal down at ailsa mowbray's home, and spend his brief leisure in company of alec's sister. it was nearly an hour before the two indians reappeared. when they did so the last of the splendid sunset had disappeared behind the distant peaks. they left the fort relieved of their goods, and bearing in their hands certain bundles of trade. they hurried away down the slope and vanished into the woods. and some minutes later the sound of the dipping paddles came faintly up upon the still evening air. murray had not yet reappeared. and it was still some time before his bulky form was visible hurrying down the short cut to the mission clearing. the evening meal at ailsa mowbray's house was more than half over when murray appeared. he bustled into the little family circle, radiating good humor and friendliness. there could be no doubt of his apparent mood. the comfort and homeliness of the atmosphere into which he plunged were beyond words. the large room was well lit with good quality oil lamps, whose warmth of light was mellow, and left sufficient shadow in the remoter corners to rob the scene of any garishness. the stove was roaring under its opened damper. the air smelt warm and good, and the pungent odor of hot coffee was not without pleasure to the hungry man. mrs. mowbray and jessie retained their seats at the amply filled table. but alec rose from his and departed without a word, or even a glance in murray's smiling direction. the rudeness, the petulance of his action! these things left his mother and sister in suspense. but murray took charge of the situation with a promptness and ease that cleared what looked like the further gathering of storm-clouds. "say, ma'am," he cried at once, "i just deserve all you feel like saying, but don't say, anyway. late? why, i guess i'm nearly an hour late. but i got hung up with some freight coming in just as i was quitting. i'm real sorry. maybe jessie here's going to hand me some words. that so, jessie?" his smiling eyes sought the girl's with kindly good nature. but jessie did not respond. her eyes were serious, and her mother came to her rescue. "that doesn't matter a thing, murray," she said, in her straightforward fashion, as she poured out the man's coffee, while he took his seat opposite jessie. then she glanced at the door through which alec had taken himself off. "but what's this with alec? you've had words. he's been telling us, and he seems mad about things, and--you. what's the matter with the boy? what's the matter between you, anyway?" the man shrugged helplessly. nor would his face mold itself into a display of seriousness to match the two pairs of beautiful eyes regarding him. "why, i guess we had a few words," he said easily. "maybe i was hasty. maybe he was. it don't figure anyway. and, seeing it's not alec's way to lie about things, i don't suppose there's need for me to tell you the story of it. y'see, ma'am, i ought to remember alec's just a boy full of high spirits, and that sort of thing, but, in the rush of work, why, it isn't always easy. after supper i figger to get a yarn with him and fix things up." then he laughed with such a ring of genuineness that jessie found herself responding to it, and even her mother's eyes smiled. "i'm not easy when i'm on the jump. i guess nobody is, not even alec." murray turned to jessie. "it's queer folks act the way they do. ever see two cats play? they're the best of friends. they'll play an hour, clawing and biting. then in a second it's dead earnest. the fur you could gather after that would stuff a--down pillow." jessie's smile had vanished. she sighed. "but it's not that way with you two folk. the cats will be playing around again in five minutes. alec's up against you all the time. and you?" murray's smile still remained. "alec's his father's son, i guess. his father was my best friend. his mother and sister i hope and believe are that way, too." then quite suddenly his big eyes became almost painfully serious. the deep glow in them shone out at those he was facing. "say, i'm going to tell you folks just how i feel about this thing. it kind of seems this is the moment to talk clear out. alec's trouble is the life here. i can see it most every way. he's a good boy. he's got points i'd like to know i possess. he's his father over again, without his father's experience. say, he's a blood colt that needs the horse-breaker of life, and, unless he gets it, all the fine points in him are going to get blunted and useless, and there's things in him going to grow up and queer him for life. he needs to think right, and we folks here can't teach him that way. not even father josé. there's jest one thing to teach him, and that's life itself--on his own. if i figger right he'll flounder around. he'll hit snags. he'll get bumped, and, maybe, have some nasty falls. but it's the only way for a boy of his spirit, and--weakness." "weakness?" jessie's echo came sharply. she resented the charge with all a sister's loyalty. but her mother took up her challenge. "i'm afraid murray's right--in a way," she admitted, with a sigh. she hated the admission, but she and her dead husband had long since arrived at the same conclusion. "it worries me to think of," she went on. "and it worries me to think of him out on the world--alone. i wish i knew what's best. i've talked to father josé, and he agrees with you, murray. but----" for some moments jessie had been thinking hard. she was angry with murray. she was almost angry with her mother. now she looked over at the man, and her pretty eyes had a challenge in them. "i'll go and ask alec to come right along here," she said. "you can talk to him here and now, murray. let him decide things for himself, and you, mother, abide by them. you both guess he's a boy. he's not. he's a man. and he's going to be a good man. there never was any good in women trying to think for men, any more than men-folk can think for women. and there's no use in murray handing us these things when alec's not here." she started up from her seat. her mother protested. "it'll make trouble, jessie," she said sharply. "the boy's in no mood for talk--with murray," she added warningly. but murray, himself, became the deciding factor. "jessie's right, ma'am," he said quickly. and in those words he came nearer to the good-will he sought in the girl than he had ever been before. "you'll talk to him as you've--said to us?" the mother demanded. murray's smile was warmly affirmative. "i'll do all i know." ailsa mowbray was left without further protest. but she offered no approval. just for one second jessie glanced in her mother's direction. it was the girl in her seeking its final counsel from the source towards which it always looked. but as none was forthcoming she was left to the fact of murray's acceptance of her challenge. she turned from the table and passed out of the room. ailsa mowbray raised a pair of handsome, troubled eyes to the factor's face. her confidence in this man was second only to the confidence she had always had in her husband's judgment. "do you think it wise?" she demurred. "it's the only thing, ma'am," murray replied seriously. "jessie's dead right." he held up one fleshy hand and clenched it tightly. "trouble needs to be crushed like that--firmly. there's a whole heap of trouble lying around in this thing. i've got to do the best for the folks allan left behind, ma'am, and in this i guess jessie's shown me the way. do you feel you best step around while i talk to alec? there's liable to be awkward moments." the mother understood. she had no desire to pry into the methods of men in their dealings with each other. she rose from the table and passed into her kitchen beyond. chapter xiv arrivals in the night murray mctavish was standing before the glowing wood stove when alec entered the room. the factor was gazing down at the iron box of it with his fat, strong hands outspread to the warmth. he was not cold. he had no desire for the warmth. he was thinking. he was not a prepossessing figure. his clothing bulged in almost every direction. in age this loses its ugliness. in a young man there is no more painful disadvantage. his dark hair was smoothly brushed, almost to sleekness. his clothing was good, and by no means characteristic of the country. he was the epitome of a business man of civilization, given, perhaps, to indulgence in the luxuries of the table. nature had acted unkindly by him. he knew it, and resented it with passionate bitterness. alec mowbray displayed no hesitation. he entered the room quickly, and in a truculent way, and closed the door with some sharpness behind him. the action displayed his mood. and something of his character, too. murray took him in from head to foot without appearing to observe him. nor was his regard untinged with envy. the youngster was over six feet in height. in his way he was as handsome as his mother had been. there was much of his dead father about him, too. but his eyes had none of the steadiness of either of his parents. his mouth was soft, and his chin was too pointed, and without the thrust of power. but for all these things his looks were beyond question. his fair, crisply curling hair, his handsome eyes, must have given him an appeal to almost any woman. murray felt that this was so. he envied him and---he looked definitely in the boy's direction in response to a rough challenge. "well--what is it?" murray's shining eyes gazed steadily at him. the smile so usual to him had been carefully set aside. it left his face almost expressionless as he replied. "i want to tell you i'm sorry for--this afternoon. darn sorry. i was on the jump with work, and didn't pause to think. i hadn't the right to act the way i did. and--well, i guess i'm real sorry. will you shake?" the boy was all impulse, and his impulses were untainted by anything more serious than hot-headed resentment and momentary intolerance. much of his dislike of murray was irresponsible instinct. he knew, in his calmer moments, he had neither desire nor reason to dislike murray. somehow the dislike had grown up with him, as sometimes a boy's dislike of some one in authority over him grows up--without reason or understanding. but murray's amends were too deliberate and definite to fail to appeal to all that was most generous and impulsive in alec. it was impossible for him to listen to a man like murray, generously apologizing to him, without going more than half-way to meet him. his face cleared of its shadow. his hot eyes smiled, as many times murray had seen his mother smile. he came towards the stove with outstretched hand. a hand that could crush like a vice. "why, you just don't need to say another word, murray," he exclaimed. "and, anyway, i guess you were right. i'd slacked on those pelts and knew it, and--and that's what made me mad--you lighting on it." the two men shook hands, and alec, as he withdrew his, passed it across his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. "but say, murray," he went on, in a tone of friendliness that rarely existed between them. "i'm sick. sick to death with it all--and that's about the whole of the trouble. it's no sort of good. i can't even keep my mind on the work, let alone do it right. i hate the old store. guess i must get out. i need to feel i can breathe. i need to live. say, i feel like some darn cabbage setting around in the middle of a patch. jess doesn't understand. mother doesn't. sometimes i kind of fancy father josé understands. but you know. you've lived in the world. you've seen it all, and know it. well, say, am i to be kept around this forgotten land till my whiskers freeze into sloppy icicles? i just can't do it. i've tried. maybe you'll never know how i've tried--because of mother, and jess, and the old dad. well, i've quit now. i've got to get out a while, or--or things are going to bust. do you know how i feel? do you get me? i'll be crazy with six months more of this fort, and these rotten neches. gee! when i think how john kars has lived, and where he's lived, it gets me beat seeing him hunting the long trail in these back lands." murray's smile had returned. but it was encouraging and friendly, and lacked all fixity. "maybe the other life set him crazy, same as this is fixing you," he said, with perfect amiability. the boy laughed incredulously. he flung himself into his mother's chair, and looked up at murray's face above the stove. "i don't believe that life could set folk crazy. there's too much to it," he laughed. he went on a moment later with a warmth of enthusiasm that must have been heart-breaking to those of greater experience. "think of a city," he cried, almost ecstatically. "a big, live city. all lights at night, and all rushing in daylight. men eager and striving in competition. meeting, and doing, and living. women, beautiful, and dressed like pictures, with never a thought but the joy of life, and the luxury of it all. and these folk without a smell of the dollars we possess. folk without a difference from us. think of the houses, the shows, the railroads. the street cars. the sleighs. the automobiles. the hotels. the dance halls. the--the--oh, gee, it makes me sick to think of all i've missed and you've seen. i can't--i just can't stand for it much longer." murray nodded. "guess i--understand." then, in a moment, his eyes became serious, as though some feeling stirred them that prompted a warning he was powerless to withhold. "it's an elegant picture, the way you see it. but it's not the only picture. the other picture comes later in life, and if i tried to paint it for you i don't reckon you'd be able to see it--till later in life. anyway, a man needs to make his own experience. guess the world's all you see in it, sure. but there's a whole heap in it you don't see--now. say, and those things you don't see are darn ugly. so ugly the time'll come you can't stand for 'em any more than you can stand for the dozy life around here now. those folk you see in your dandy picture are wage slaves worshiping the gods of this darned wilderness just as we are right here. just as are all the folks who come around this country, and i'd say there's many folks hating all the things you fancy, as bad as you hate the life you've been raised to right here. still, i guess it's up to you." "i'd give a heap to have mother think that way," alec responded with a shade of moodiness. "she does think that way." the youngster sprang from his chair. his eyes were shining, and a joyous flush mounted to his handsome brow. there was no mistaking the reckless youth in him. "she does? then--say, it's you who've persuaded her. there hasn't been a day she hasn't tried to keep me right here, like--like some darn kid. she figgers it's up to me to choose what i'll do?" he cried incredulously. murray nodded. his eyes were studying the youth closely. "then i'll tell her right away." alec laughed a whole-hearted, care-free laugh. "i'll ask her for a stake, and then for leaping horse. maybe seattle, and 'frisco--new york! murray, if you've done this for me, i'm your slave for life. say, i'd come near washing your clothes for you, and i can't think of a thing lower. you'll back me when i put it to her?" "there's no need. she'll do just as you say." murray's moment of serious regard had passed. he was smiling his inscrutable smile again. "when? when?" the eagerness of it. it was almost tragic. "best go down with me," murray said. "i'm making leaping horse early this fall on the winter trail. i'm needing stocks. i'm needing arms and stuff. how'd that fix you?" "bully!" then the boy laughed out of the joy of his heart. "but fix it early. fix it good and early." the exclamation came in such a tone that pity seemed the only emotion for it to inspire. but murray had finished. whatever he felt there was no display of any emotion in him. and pity the least of all. he crossed to the door which opened into the kitchen. he opened it. in response to his call ailsa mowbray appeared, followed by jessie. murray indicated alec with a nod. "we're good friends again," he said. "we've acted like two school kids, eh, alec?" he added. "and now we've made it up. alec figgers he'd like to go down with me this fall to leaping horse, seattle, 'frisco, and maybe even new york. i told him i guessed you'd stake him." the widowed mother did not reply at once. the aging face was turned in the direction of the son who meant so much to her. her eyes, so handsome and steady, were wistful. they gazed into the joy-lit face of her boy. she could not deny him. "sure, alec, dear. just ask me what you need--if you must go." jessie gazed from one to the other of the three people her life seemed bound up with. alec she loved but feared for, in her girlish wisdom. murray she did not understand. her mother she loved with a devotion redoubled since her father's murder. moreover, she regarded her with perfect trust in her wisdom. the change wrought by murray in a few minutes, however, was too startling for her. their destinies almost seemed to be swayed by him. it seemed to her alarming, and not without a vague suggestion of terror. father josé was lounging over his own wood stove in the comfort of a pair of felt slippers, his feet propped up on the seat of another chair. he was a quaint little figure in his black, unclerical suit, and the warm cloth cap of a like hue drawn carefully over a wide expanse of baldness which nature had imposed upon him. his alert face, with its eyes whose keenness was remarkable and whose color nearly matched the fringe of gray hair still left to him, gave him an interest which gained nothing from his surroundings in the simple life he lived. it was a face of intellect, and gentle-heartedness. it was a face of purpose, too. the purpose which urges the humbler devotee to a charity which takes the form of human rather than mere spiritual help. father josé loved humanity because it was humanity. creed and race made no difference to him. it was his way to stand beside the stile of life ready to help any, and everybody, over it who needed his help. he saw little beyond that. he concerned himself with no doctrine in the process. help--physical, moral. that was his creed. and every day of his life he lived up to it. the habits of the white folk at st. agatha mission varied little enough from day to day. it was the custom to foregather at mrs. mowbray's home in the evening. after which, with unfailing regularity, murray mctavish was wont to join the little priest in his mission house for a few minutes before retiring for the night to his sleeping quarters up at the fort. it was eleven o'clock, and the two men were together now in the shanty which served the priest as a home. it was a pathetic parody of all that home usually conveys. the comfort of it was only the comfort radiating from the contentment of the owner in it. its structure was powerful to resist storm. its furnishing was that which the priest had been able to manufacture himself. but the stove had been a present from allan mowbray. the walls were whitened with a lime wash which disguised the primitive plaster filling in between the lateral logs. there were some photographs pinned up to help disguise other defects. there were odds and ends of bookshelves hung about, all laden to the limit of their capacity with a library which had been laboriously collected during the long life of mission work. four rough chairs formed the seating accommodation. a table, made with a great expenditure of labor, and covered with an old blanket, served as a desk. then, at the far end of the room, under a cotton ceiling, to save them from the dust from the thatch above, stood four trestle beds, each with ample blankets spread over it. three of these were for wayfarers, and the fourth, in emergency, for the same purpose. otherwise the fourth was father josé's own bed. behind this building, and opening out of it, was a kitchen. this was the entire habitation of a man who had dedicated his life to the service of others. murray was sitting at the other side of the stove and his bulky figure was only partly visible to the priest from behind the stovepipe. both men were smoking their final pipe before retiring. the priest was listening to the trader in that watchful manner of one deeply interested. they were talking of alec, and the prospects of the new decision. murray's thoughts were finding harsh expression. "say, we're all between the devil and the deep sea," he said, with a hard laugh. "the boy's only fit to be tied to a woman's strings. that's how i see it. just as i see the other side of it. he's got to be allowed to make his own gait. if he doesn't, why--things are just going to break some way." the priest nodded. he was troubled, and his trouble looked out of his keen eyes. "yes," he agreed. "and the devil's mostly in the deep waters, too. it's devil all around." "sure it is." murray bent down to the stove and lit a twist of paper for his pipe. "do you know the thing that's going to happen? when we get clear away from here, and that boy's pocket is filled with the bills his ma has handed him, i'll have as much hold on him as he's going to have on those dollars. if i butt in he'll send me to hell quick. and if i don't feel like taking his dope lying down there'll be something like murder done. if i'm any judge of boys, or men, that kid's going to find every muck hole in leaping horse--and there's some--and he's going to wallow in 'em till some one comes along and hauls him clear of the filth. what he's going to be like after--why, the thought makes me sweat! and allan--allan was my friend." "but--you advised his mother?" the priest's eyes were searching. murray crushed his paper tight in his hand. "how'd you have done?" he demanded shortly. the priest weighed his words before replying. "the same as you," he said at last. "life's full up of pot holes. we can't learn to navigate right if we don't fall into some of them. i've taught that boy from his first days. he's the makings of anything, in a way. he can't be kept here. he's got to get out, and work off his youthful insanity. whatever comes of it, it won't be so bad as if he stopped around. i think you've done the best." he sighed. "we must hope, and watch, and--be ready to help when the signal comes. god grant he comes to no----" he broke off and turned towards the heavy closed door of the shanty, in response to a sharp knocking. in a moment he was on his feet as the door was thrust open, and two familiar figures pushed their way in. "why, john kars, this is the best sight i've had in weeks," cried the priest, with cordiality in every tone of his voice, and every feature of his honest face. "and, dr. bill, too? this is fine. come right in." the padre's cordiality found full reflection in his visitors' faces as they wrung his hand. "it's been some hustle getting here," said kars. "there wasn't a chance sending on word. we made the landing, and came right along up. ha, murray. say, we're in luck." both men shook hands with the factor, while the priest drew up the other chairs to the stove, which he replenished with a fresh supply of logs from the corner of the room. "but i guess we're birds of bad omen," kars went on, addressing murray in particular. "the neches are out on bell river, and they sniped us right along down to within twenty miles of the fort." "the bell river neches within twenty miles of the fort?" it was the priest who answered him. his question was full of alarm. he was thinking of the women of the mission, white as well as colored. murray remained silent while kars and bill dropped wearily into the chairs set for them. then, as the great bulk of the man he disliked settled itself, and he held out his chilled hands to the comforting stove, his voice broke the silence which followed on the priest's expression of alarm. "best tell us it right away. we'll need to act quick," he said, his eyes shining under the emotion stirring him. kars looked across at the gross figure which suggested so little of the man's real energy. his steady eyes were unreadable. his thoughts were his own, masked as emphatically as any indian chief's at a council. "they handed me this," he said, with a hard laugh, indicating the bandage which still surrounded his neck, although his wound had almost completely healed under the skilful treatment of dr. bill. "we hit their trail nearly two days from bell river. they'd massacred an outfit of traveling indians, and burnt their camp out. however, we kept ahead of them, and made the headwaters of the river. but we didn't shake 'em. not by a sight. they hung on our trail, i guess, for nearly three weeks. we lost 'em twenty miles back. that's all." bill and the priest sat with eyes on murray. the responsibility of the post was his. kars, too, seemed to be looking to the factor. murray gave no outward sign for some moments. his dark eyes were burning with the deep fires which belonged to them. he sat still. quite still. then he spoke, and something of the force of the man rang in his words. "we got the arms for an outfit. but i don't guess we got enough for defence of the post. it can't come to that. we daren't let it. i'm getting a big outfit up this fall. meanwhile, we'll need to get busy." he pulled out his timepiece and studied it deliberately. then he closed its case with a snap and stood up. he looked down into kars' watchful eyes. "they're on the river? twenty miles back?" his questions came sharply, and kars nodded. "they're in big force?" again kars made a sign, but this time in the negative. "i don't think it," he said. "right. i'll be on the trail in an hour." the factor turned to the padre. "say, just rouse out the boys while i get other things fixed. there isn't a minute to waste." he waited for no reply, but turned at once to kars and bill. "maybe you fellers'll keep your outfit right here. there's the women-folk. it's in case of--accident?" "i'll join you, and leave bill, here, with the padre and the outfit." kars' suggestion came on the instant. but murray vetoed it promptly. he shook his head. "it's up to me," he said curtly. then he became more expansive. "you've had yours. i'm looking for mine. i'm getting out for the sake of the women-folk. that's why i'm asking you to stop right here. you can't tell. maybe they'll need all the help we can hand them. i've always figgered on this play. best act my way." there was something like a flicker of the eyelid as kars acquiesced with a nod. except for that his rugged face was deadly serious. he filled his pipe with a leisureliness which seemed incompatible with the conditions of the moment. bill seemed to be engrossed in the study of the stove. murray had turned to the padre. "not a word to the women. we don't need to scare them. this thing's got to be fixed sudden and sharp." a moment later he was gone. the padre was climbing into a heavy overcoat. the night was chill enough, and the little missionary had more warmth in his heart than he had in his blood channels. he moved across to the door to do his part of the work, when kars' voice arrested him. "say, padre," he cried, "don't feel worried too much. murray'll fix things." his eyes were smiling as the priest turned and looked into them. bill was smiling, too. "they _are_ twenty miles back--on the river?" the priest's demand was significant. the smiles of these men had raised a doubt in his mind. "sure." "then--the position's bad." bill brudenell spoke for the first time. "the post and mission's safe--anyway. murray'll see to that." chapter xv father jose probes it was a startled community that awoke next morning at fort mowbray. the news was abroad at the earliest hour, and it reached jessie mowbray in the kitchen, as she made her appearance to superintend the preparation of breakfast. the indian wench told her, with picturesque embellishments, such as are reserved for the native tongue. jessie listened to the story of the descent of the bell river indians to the region of the fort with feelings no less disturbed than those of the colored woman. they were no longer mistress and servant. they were just two women confronting a common danger. but the news of the arrival of john kars, wounded, swiftly overwhelmed all other considerations in jessie's mind. breakfast was left in the hands of the squaw while the girl hastened to her mother's room. ailsa mowbray listened to the girl's story with no outward signs of fear. she had passed through the worst fires that could assail her a year ago. nothing the warlike indians could threaten now could reproduce the terror of that time. the story of it came in a rush. but it was not until jessie told of john kars, and his wounded condition, that the real emotions of the moment were revealed. she implored her mother to permit her to go at once and minister to him, to learn the truth about his condition, to hear, first hand, of the catastrophe that had happened. nor did she passively yield to her mother's kindly admonishment. "why, child," she said, in her steady smiling way, "this country's surely got right into your veins. you're like an unbroken colt. you're as wild as any of those kiddies you figger to teach over at the mission. it's not for a child of mine to wait around on any man living. not even john kars. guess he's got dr. bill and father josé, anyway. maybe they'll get along over later." the girl flushed scarlet. "oh, mother," she cried in distress, "don't--just don't think that way of me. i--love him, and wouldn't help it if i could. but he's sick. maybe he's sick to death. men--men can't fix sick folk. they can't--sure." the mother looked into the girl's eyes with gentle tolerance, and a certain amusement. "not even dr. bill, who's had sick folk on his hands most all his life?" she demanded. "not even josé, who's nursed half the kiddies at the mission one time or another?" she shook her head. "besides, you only know the things susan's handed you out of her fool head. and when susan talks, truth isn't a circumstance. i wouldn't say but what john kars hasn't got shot up at all--till i see him." for all her easy manner she was troubled. and when jessie had taken herself back to the kitchen the ominous lines, which had gathered in her face since her husband's murder, deepened. distress looked out of the eyes which gazed back at her out of her mirror as she stood before it dressing her hair in the simple fashion of her life. bell river! she had learned to hate and fear its very name. her whole destiny, the destiny of all belonging to her seemed to be bound up in that fateful secret which had been her husband's, and to which she had been only partially admitted. somehow she felt that the day must come when she would have to assert her position to murray, and once and for all break from under the evil spell of bell river, which seemed to hang over her life. but the shadow of it all lifted when later in the day john kars and dr. bill presented themselves. kars' wound was almost completely healed, and jessie's delight knew no bounds. the mother reflected her daughter's happiness, and she found herself able to listen to the story of the adventures of these men without anything of the unease which had at first assailed her. their story was substantially that which had been told to murray, and it was told with a matter-of-fact indifference, and made light of, in the strong tones of john kars, on whom danger seemed to have so little effect. as mrs. mowbray listened she realized something of the strength of this man. the purpose in him. the absolute reliance with which he dealt with events as they confronted him. and so her thoughts passed on to the girl who loved him, and she wondered, and more than ever saw the hopelessness of murray's aspirations. the men took their departure, and, at kars' invitation, jessie went with them to inspect their outfit. the mother was left gazing after them from the open doorway. for all the aging since her husband's death, she was still a handsome woman in her simple morning gown of a bygone fashion. she watched the three as they moved away in the direction of the woodland avenue, which, years ago, she had helped to clear. her eyes and thoughts were on the man, and the girl at his side. bill had far less place in them. she was thinking, and wondering, and hoping, as, perhaps, only a mother can hope. and so engrossed was she that she did not observe the approach of father josé, who came from the indian camp amongst the straight-limbed pine woods. it was only when the little man spoke that she bestirred herself. "a swell pair, ma'am," he said, pausing beside the doorway, his keen face smiling as his eyes followed the rapid gait of the girl striving to keep pace with her companion's long strides. "you mean the men?" there was no self-consciousness in ailsa mowbray. the priest shook his head. "jessie and kars." the woman's steady eyes regarded the priest for a moment. "i--wonder what you're--guessing." the priest's smile deepened. "that you'd sooner it was he than--murray mctavish." the woman watched the departing figures as they passed out of view, vanishing behind the cutting where the trees stopped short. "is it to be--either of them?" "sure." the man's reply came definitely. "but murray hasn't a chance. she'll marry kars, or no one around this mission." the woman sighed. "i promised murray to--that his cause shouldn't suffer at my hands. murray's a straight man. his interests are ours. maybe--it would be a good thing." "then he asked you?" the little priest's question came on the instant. and the glance accompanying it was anxious. "yes." for some moments no word passed between them. the woman was looking back with regret at the time when murray had appealed to her. father josé was searching his heart to fortify his purpose. finally he shook his white head. "ma'am," he said seriously, "it's not good for older folks to seek to fix these things for the young people who belong to them. not even mothers." then his manner changed, and a sly, upward, smiling glance was turned upon the woman's face above him. "i haven't a thing against murray. nor have you. but i'd hate to see him marry jessie. so would you. i--i wonder why." the mother's reply came at once. it came with that curious brusqueness which so many women use when forced to a reluctant admission. "that's so," she said. "i should hate it, too. i didn't want to say it. i didn't want to admit it--even to myself. you've made me do both, and--you've no right to. murray was allan's trusted friend and partner. he's been our friend--my friend--right along. why should i hate the thought of him for jessie? can you tell me?" she shook her head impatiently. "how could you? i couldn't tell myself." the shadow had deepened in ailsa mowbray's eyes. she knew she was unjust. she knew she was going back on her given word. she despised the thought. it was treachery. yet she knew that both had become definite in her mind from the moment when jessie had involuntarily confided her secret to her. father josé shook his head. "no. i can't tell you those things, ma'am," he said. "but i'm glad of them. very glad." he drew a deep breath as his gaze, abstracted, far off, was turned in the direction where his mission stood in all its pristine, makeshift simplicity. the mother turned on him sharply as his quiet reply reached her. "why?" she demanded. "why are you glad?" her eyes were searching his clean-cut profile. she knew she was seeking this man's considered judgment. she knew she was seeking to probe the feeling and thought which prompted his approval, because of her faith in him. "because jessie's worth a--better man." "better?" "surely." for all his prompt reply father josé remained searching the confines of the woodland clearing in his curiously abstracted fashion. "you see, ma'am," he went on presently, helping himself to a pinch of snuff, and shutting the box with a sharp slam, "goodness is just a matter of degree. that's goodness as we folk of the earth understand it. we see results. we don't see the motive. it's motive that counts in all goodness. the man who lives straight, who acts straight when temptation offers, may be no better than--than the man who falls for evil. i once knew a _saint_ who was hanged by the neck because he murdered a man. he gave his life, and intended to give it, for a poor weak fellow creature who was being tortured out of her senses by a man who was no better than a hound of hell. that man was made of the same stuff as john kars, if i know him. i can't see murray mctavish acting that way. yet i could see him act like the other feller--if it suited him. murray's good. sure he's good. but john kars is--better." the mother sighed. "i feel that way, too." then in a moment her eyes lit with a subtle apprehension, as though the man's words had planted a poison in her heart that was rapidly spreading through her veins. "but there's nothing wrong with murray? i mean like--like you said." the little priest's smile was good to see. "not a thing, ma'am," he said earnestly. "murray's gold, so far as we see. it's only that we see just what he wants us to see. kars is gold, too, but--you can see clear through kars. that's all." the woman's apprehensions were allayed. but she knew that, where jessie was concerned, the little padre had only put into words those unspoken, almost unrealized feelings which had been hers all along. she moved out of the doorway. "alec's up at the fort. maybe he's fretting i'm not up there to help." she smiled. "say, the boy's changed since--since he's to get his vacation. he hasn't a word against murray--now. and i'm glad. so glad." the padre had turned to go. he paused. "i'd be gladder if it was john kars he was making the trail with," he said, in his direct fashion. then he smiled. "and at this moment maybe murray's risking his life for us." "yes." the mother sighed. the disloyalty of their feelings seemed deplorable, and it was the priest who came to her rescue. "but it can't be. that's all." "no. it would affront murray." father josé nodded. "murray mustn't be affronted--with so much depending on him." "no." ailsa mowbray's eyes lit with a shadow of a smile as she went on. "i feel like--like a plotter. it's terrible." for answer father josé nodded. he had no word to offer to dispel the woman's unease, so he hurried away without further spoken word between them. ailsa mowbray turned toward the path through the woods at the foot of the hill. as she made her way up towards the fort her thoughts were painfully busy. what, she asked herself, again and again, was the thing that lay at the back of the little priest's mind? what--what was the curious, nebulous instinct that was busy at the back of her own? chapter xvi a man and a maid it was the second day after the arrival of john kars and his outfit. the noon meal at ailsa mowbray's house had been shared by the visitors. the river was busy with the life of the post, mother and son had returned to the fort to continue their long day's work, and the woodland paths approaching it were alive with a procession of those who had wares to trade. it was a busy scene. and one which gave no hint of any fear of the marauders whom murray had gone to deal with. besides john kars' outfit at the landing a number of canoes were moored along the river bank under the shadow of the gracious, dipping willows, which had survived years of the break up of the spring ice and the accompanying freshet. indians and half-breeds lounged and smoked, squatting around regardless of the hours which had small enough meaning for them at any time. just now contentment reigned in their savage hearts. each hour of their lives contained only its own troubles. it was the most pleasant time of the northern year. the spring dangers on the river were past. the chill nights had long since sealed up the summer wounds in the great glacier. as yet the summer heat of the earth still shed its beneficent influence on the temperature of the air. and, greatest blessing of all, the flies and mosquitoes were rapidly abating their attacks, and the gaps in their ranks were increasing with every frosty night that passed. the fall tints in the woods were ablaze on every hand. the dark green of the pine woods kept the character of the northland weird. the vegetation of deciduous habit had assumed its clothing of russet and brown, whilst the scarlet of the dying maple lit up the darkening background with its splendid flare, so like the blaze of a setting sun. only the northland man can really appreciate the last weeks before the merciless northern winter shuts him in. the hope inspired by the turbulent spring speaks to him but of the delight of the season to come. far too often do the summer storms weight down his spirit to make the height of the open season his time of festival. those are the days of labor. fierce labor, in preparation for the dark hours of winter. the days of early fall are the days in which he can look on labor accomplished, and forward, with confidence, to security under stress, and even a certain comfort. dr. bill had been left at the landing with the canoes, and peigan charley, and the pack indians. the girl and the man were wandering along the woodland bank, talking the talk of those whose years, for the greater part, lay still before them, and finding joy in the simple fact of the life which moved about them. no threat of the indians which murray had gone to encounter on their behalf could cast a shadow over their mood. they were full to the brim of strong young life, when the world is gold tinted, a reflection of their own virile youth. they had come to a broad ditch which contained in its depths the narrow trickle of a miniature cascade, pouring down from some spring on the hillside, whereon the old fort stood. it was absurdly wide for the trifling watercourse it now disgorged upon the river. but then, in spring the whole character of it was changed. in spring it was a rushing torrent, fed by the melting snows, and tearing out its banks in a wild, rebellious effort against all restraint. just now its marshy bed was beyond jessie's powers to negotiate. they stood looking across it at the inviting shades of an avenue of heavy red willows, with its winding alley of tawny grass fringing the stately pine woods, whose depths suggested the chastened aisles of some mediaeval cathedral. to the disappointed girl all further progress in that direction seemed hopeless, and kars stood watching the play of her feelings in the expression of the mobile features he had learned to dream about on the long trail. his steady eyes were smiling happily. even the roughnesses of his rugged face seemed to have softened under the influence of his new feelings. his heavy, thrusting jaw had lost something of the grim setting it wore upon the trail. his brows had lost their hard depression, and the smile in his eyes lit up the whole of his face with a transparent frankness and delight. just now he was a perfect illustration of the man father josé beheld in him. he pointed across the waterway. "kind of seems a pity," he said, with a tantalizing suggestion in his smiling eyes. "git a peek under those shady willows. the grass, too. we don't get a heap of grass north of 'sixty.' then the sun's getting in amongst those branches. an' we need to turn right around back. seems a pity." the girl withdrew her gaze from the scene. her eyes smiled up into his. they were so softly gray. so full of trusting delight. "what can we do?" she asked, a woman looking for guidance from the one man. "do?" kars laughed. he flung out a hand. he was not thinking of what he purposed. the magic of jessie's personality held him. her tall gracious figure. its exquisite modeling. the full rounded shoulders, their contours unconcealed by the light jacket she was wearing. her neck, soft with the gentle fulness of youth. the masses of ruddy brown hair coiled on her bare head without any of the artificiality of the women he encountered in leaping horse. the delicate complexion of her oval cheeks, untouched by the fierce climate in which she lived. to him she had become a perfect picture of womanhood. the girl laid her small hand in his with all the confidence of a child. the warm pressure, as his fingers closed over it, thrilled her. without a word of protest she submitted to his lead. they clambered down to the water's edge. in a moment she was lifted off her feet. she felt herself borne high above the little gurgling cascade. then she became aware of the splashing feet under her. then of a sinking sensation, as the man waded almost knee-deep in mud. there were moments of alarmed suspense. then she found herself standing on the opposite bank, with the man dripping at her side. of the two courses open to her she chose the better. she laughed happily. perhaps the choice was forced on her, for john kars' eyes were so full of laughter that the infection became overwhelming. "you--you should have told me," she exclaimed censoriously. but the man shook his head. "guess you'd have--refused." "i certainly should." but the girl's eyes denied her words. "then we'd have gone around back, and you'd have been disappointed. i couldn't stand for your being disappointed. say----" the man paused. his eyes were searching the sunlit avenue ahead, where the drooping willow branches hung like floral stalactites in a cavern of ripe foliage. "it's queer how folks'll cut out the things they're yearning for because other folks are yearning to hand 'em on to them." "no girl likes to be picked up, and--and thrown around like some ball game, because a man's got the muscles of a giant," jessie declared with spirit. "no. it's kind of making out he's superior to her, when he isn't. say, you don't figger i meant that way?" there was anxiety in the final question for all the accompanying smile. in a moment jessie was all regret. "i didn't have time to think," she said, "and anyway i wouldn't have figgered that way. and--and i'd hate a man who couldn't do things when it was up to him. you'd stand no sort of chance on the northern trail if you couldn't do things. you'd have been feeding the coyotes years back, else." "yes, and i'd hate to be feeding the coyotes on any trail." they were moving down the winding woodland alley. they brushed their way through the delicate overhanging foliage. the dank scent of the place was seductive. it was intoxicating with an atmosphere such as lovers are powerless to resist. the murmur of the river came to them on the one hand, and the silence of the pine woods, on the other, lent a slumberous atmosphere to the whole place. jessie laughed. to her the thought seemed ridiculous. "if the stories are true i guess it would be a mighty brave coyote would come near you--dead," she said. then of a sudden the happy light died out of her eyes. "but--but--you nearly did--pass over. the bell river neches nearly had your scalp." it was the man's turn to laugh. he shook his head, "don't worry a thing that way," he said. but the girl's smile did not so readily return. she eyed the ominous bandage which was still about his neck, and there was plain anxiety in her pretty eyes. "how was it?" she demanded. "a--a chance shot?" "a chance shot." the man's reply came with a brevity that left jessie wondering. it left her feeling that he had no desire to talk of his injury. and so it left her silent. they wandered on, and finally it was kars who broke the silence. "say, i guess you feel i ought to hand you the story of it," he said. "i don't mean you're asking out of curiosity. but we folks of the north feel we need to hold up no secrets which could help others to steer a safe course in a land of danger. but this thing don't need talking about--yet. i got this getting too near around bell river. well, i'm going to get nearer still." he smiled. "guess i've been hit on one cheek, and i'm going to turn 'em the other. it'll be a dandy play seeing 'em try to hit that." "you're--you're going to bell river--deliberately?" the girl's tone was full of real alarm. "sure. next year." "but--oh, it's mad--it's craziness." the terror of bell river was deep in jessie's heart. hers was the terror of the helpless who have heard in the far distance but seen the results. kars understood. he laughed easily. "sure it's--crazy. but," his smiling eyes were gazing down into the anxious depths the girl had turned up to him, "every feller who makes the northern trail needs to be crazy some way. guess i'm no saner than the others. it's a craziness that sets me chasing down nature's secrets till i locate 'em right. sometimes they aren't just nature's secrets. anyway it don't figger a heap. just now i'm curious to know why some feller, who hadn't a thing to do with nature beyond his shape, fancied handing it me plumb in the neck. maybe it'll take me all next summer finding it out. but i'm going to find it out--sure." the easy confidence of the man robbed his intention of half its terror for the girl. her anxiety melted, and she smiled at his manner of stating his case. "i wonder how it comes you men-folk so love the trail," she said. "i don't suppose it's all for profit--anyway not with you. is it adventure? no. it's not all adventure either. it's just dead hardship half the time. yes--it's a sort of craziness. say, how does it feel to be crazy that way?" "feel? that's some proposition." kars' face lit with amusement as he pondered the question. "say, ever skip out of school at the mission, and make a camp in the woods?" the girl shook her head. "ah, then that won't help us any," kars demurred, his eyes dwelling on the ruddy brown of the girl's chestnut hair. "what about a swell party after three days of chores in the house, when a blizzard's blowing?" "that doesn't seem like any craziness," the girl protested. "no, i guess not." kars searched again for a fresh simile. "say, how'd you feel if you'd never seen a flower, or green grass, or woods, and rivers, and mountains?" he suddenly demanded. "how'd you feel if you'd lived in a prison most all your life, and never felt your lungs take in a big dose of god's pure air, or stretched the strong elastic of the muscles your parents gave you? how'd you feel if you'd read and read all about the wonderful things of nature, and never seen them, and then, all of a sudden, you found yourself out in a world full of trees, and flowers, and mountains, and woods, and skitters, and neches, and air--god's pure air, and with muscles so strong you could take a ten foot jump, and all the wonderful things you'd read about going on around you, such as fighting, murdering, and bugs and things, and folks who figger they're every sort of fellers, and aren't, and--and all that? say, wouldn't you feel crazy? wouldn't you feel you wanted to take it all in your arms, and, and just love it to death?" "maybe--for a while." the girl's eyes were smiling provocatively. she loved to hear him talk. the strong rich tones of his voice in the quiet of the woodland gave her a sense of possession of him. she went on. "after, i guess i'd be yearning for the big wood stove, and a rocker, with elegant cushions, and the sort of food you can't cook over a camp-fire." kars shook his head. "maybe you'd fancy feeling those things were behind you on the day your joints began aching, and your breath gets as short as a locomotive on an up grade. when the blood's running hot there's things on the trail get right into it. maybe it's because of the things they set into a man when he first stubbed his toes kicking against this old earth; when they told him he'd need to git busy fixing himself a stone club a size bigger than the other feller's; and that if he didn't use it quicker, and harder, he'd likely get his head dinged so his brain box wouldn't work right and he wouldn't be able to rec'nize the coyotes when they came along to pick his bones clean. you can't explain a thing of the craziness in men's blood when they come up with the nature they belong to. it's the thing that sets lambs skipping foolish on legs that don't ever look like getting sense. it's the same sets a kiddie dancing along a sidewalk coming out of the schoolhouse, and falling into dumps and getting its bow-tie mussed. it's the same sets a boy actin' foolish when a gal's sorrel top turns his way, even when she's all legs and sass. it's the same sets folks crazy to risk their lives on hilltops that a chamois 'ud hate to inspect. guess it's a sort o' thanks offerin' to providence it didn't see fit setting us crawling around without feet or hands, same as slugs and things that worry folks' cabbige patches. i allow i can't figger it else." "you needn't to," jessie declared, with a happy laugh. "guess i know it all--now." then her eyes sobered. "but i--i wish you'd cut bell river right out." "just don't you worry a thing, little jessie," kars said, with prompt earnestness. he had no wish to distress her. "bell river can't hand me anything i don't know. anyway i'd need to thank it if it could. and when i get back maybe you won't need to lie awake o' nights guessing a coyote's howl is the whoop of a neche yearning for your scalp. hello!" their wanderings had brought them to a break in the willows where the broad flow of the river came into full view, and the overhang of glacial ice thrust out on the top of the precipitous bank beyond. but it was none of this that had elicited the man's ejaculation, or had caused his abrupt halt, and sobered the smile in his keen eyes. it was a pair of canoes moored close in to the bank. two powerful canoes, which were larger and better built than those of trading indians. then there were two neches squatting on the bank crouching over a small fire smoking their red clay pipes in silent contemplation. jessie recognized the neches at a glance. "why, murray must be back or----" kars turned abruptly. "they're murray's? say----" he glanced up at the hill which stood over them. a well-beaten path led up through the pine woods. jessie understood the drift of his thought. "that's a short way to the fort," she said. "i wonder why he landed here. he doesn't generally." but the man had no speculation to offer. "we best get his news," he said indicating the path. the moments of jessie's delight had been swallowed up in the significance of murray's return. she agreed eagerly. and her eagerness displayed the nearness to her heart of the terror of the marauding indians. john kars led the way up the woodland path. it was the same path over which the two trading indians had reached the fort on the night of his arrival from bell river. as he went he pondered the reason of the trader's avoidance of the usual landing. jessie watched his vigorous movements and found difficulty in keeping pace with him. she saw in his hurry the interest he had in the affairs of bell river. she read in him something like confirmation of her own fears. so she labored on in his wake without protest. later, when they broke from the cover of the woods, she drew abreast of him. she was breathing hard, and kars became aware of the pace at which he had come. in a moment he was all contrition. "say, little jessie," he cried, in his kindly fashion, "i'm real sorry." then he smiled as he slackened his gait. "it's my fool legs; they're worse than some tongues for getting away with me. we'll take it easy." but the girl refused to become a hindrance, and urged him on. her own desire was no less than his. the frowning palisade of the old fort was above them. it stood out staunch against the sky, yet not without some suggestion of the sinister. and for the first time in her years of association with it jessie became aware of the impression. the old blackened walls frowned down severely. they looked like the prison walls enclosing ages of secret doings which were never permitted the clear light of day. they suggested something of the picture conjured by the many fantastic folk stories which she had read in father josé's library. the ogres and giants. the decoy of beautiful girls luring their lovers to destruction within the walls of some dreadful monster's castle. they passed in through the great gateway, with its massive doors flung wide to the trade of the river. and they sought murray's office. there they found mrs. mowbray and alec. murray, too, was at his desk. on their entrance they were greeted at once by the mother. her eyes were smiling and full of confidence. she looked into john kars' face, and he read her news even before she spoke. "the country's clear of them," she cried, and her relief and delight rang in every tone. jessie went at once to her side. but kars turned to the squat figure which filled its chair to overflowing. his steady eyes regarded the smiling features of the trader. "did it come to a scrap?" he inquired easily. murray shook his head. his dark eyes were no less direct than the other's. "guess there were too many in my outfit," he said with a shrug. "it was a bunch of neches i'd have thought your outfit could have--eaten. a poor lot--sure." he finished up with a deliberate laugh, and his intention was obvious. kars understood, and did not display the least resentment. "i'm glad," he said seriously. "real glad." then he added: "i didn't guess you'd have a heap of trouble." he turned to the women. and his attitude left the trader's purpose mean and small. "murray's got us all beaten anyhow," he said easily. "we think we're wise. we think we know it all. but we don't. anyway i'm glad the danger's fixed. i guess it'll leave me free to quit for the outside right away." then he turned to murray, and their eyes met, and held, and only the two men knew, and understood, the challenge which lay behind. "guess i can make leaping horse before the rivers freeze. but i'm getting back here with the thaw. i allow next year i'm taking no sort of chance. this hole in my neck," he went on, indicating the bandage about his throat, "has taught me a lot i didn't know before. the outfit i get around with next year will be big enough to eat up any proposition bell river can hand me." chapter xvii a night in leaping horse leaping horse was a beacon which reflected its ruddy light upon the night sky, a sign, a lure to the yearning hearts at distant points, toiling for the wage with which to pay for sharing in its wild excesses. it was the gorgon of the northland, alluring, destructive, irresistible. it was a temple dedicated to the worship of the gods of the wilderness. light, luxury and vice. such was the summing up of dr. bill, and the few who paused in the mad riot for a moment's sober thought. furthermore dr. bill's estimate of the blatant gold city was by no means a self-righteous belief. he had known the place from its birth. he had treated its every ailment at the height of its burning youth. now, in its maturity, it fell to him to learn much of the inner secrets of its accruing mental disease. he hated it and loved it, almost one and the same emotion. he cried aloud its shame to listening ears. in secret he wept over its iniquities, with all the pity of a warm-hearted man gazing upon a wanton. but leaping horse was indifferent. it spread its shabby tendrils over hundreds of acres of territory, feeding its wanton heart upon the squalor which gathered about its fringe as well as upon the substance of those upon whom it had showered its fortune. at night its one main street radiated a light and life such as could be found in no city in the world. the wide, unpaved thoroughfare, with its shabby sidewalks buried to a depth of many feet of snow in winter, and mud in the early open season, gave no indication of the tide of wealth which flowed in this main artery. only at night, when a merciful dark strove to conceal, did the glittering tide light up. then indeed the hideous blatancy of the city's life flared out in all its painful vulgarity. in the heart of the main street the elysian fields hotel, and theatre, and dance hall stood out a glittering star of the first magnitude, dimming the lesser constellations with which it was surrounded. a hundred arc lamps flung out their challenge to all roysterers and vice-seeking souls. thousands of small globular lights, like ropes of luminous pearls, outlined its angles, its windows, its cornices, its copings. all its white and gold shoddy was rendered almost magnificent in the night. only in the light of day was its true worth made apparent. but who, in leaping horse, wanted the day? no one. leaping horse was the northern mecca of the night pleasure seeker. the buildings adjacent basked in its radiance. their own eyes were almost blinded. their mixed forms were painfully revealed. frame hutches, split log cabins rubbed shoulders with buildings of steel frame and stone fronts. thousand dollar apartments gazed disdainfully down upon hovels scarcely fit to shelter swine. their noses were proudly lifted high above the fetid atmosphere which rose from the offal-laden causeway below. they had no heed for that breeding ground of the germs of every disease known to the human body. then the roystering throng. the elysian fields. it was the beach about which the tide ebbed and flowed. it was a rough rock-bound beach upon which the waters of life beat themselves into a fury of excess. its lights were the beacons of the wreckers set up for the destruction of the human soul. chief amongst the wreckers was pap shaunbaum, a hebrew of doubtful nationality, and without scruple. he prided himself that he was a caterer for the needs of the people. his thesis was that the northland battle needed alleviation in the narrow lap of luxury where vice ruled supreme. he had spent his life in searching the best means of personal profit out of the broad field of human weakness, and discovered the elysian fields. he had labored with care and infinite thought. he had built on a credit from the vast bank of experience, and owned in the elysian fields the finest machine in the world for wrecking the soul and pocket of the human race. every attraction lay to hand. the dance hall was aglitter, the floor perfect, and the stage equipped to foster all that appealed to the senses. the hotel with its splendid accommodation, its bars, its gaming rooms, its dining hall, its supper rooms, its bustle of elaborate service. there was nothing forgotten that ingenuity could devise to loosen the bank rolls of its clientele, and direct the flow of gold into the proprietor's coffers--not even women. as dr. bill declared in one of his infrequent outbursts of passionate protest: "the place is one darnation public brothel; a scandal to the northland, a shame on humanity." it was here, gazing down on the crowded dance hall, from one of the curtained boxes adjacent to the stage, on which a vaudeville programme was being performed, that two men sat screened from the chance glance of the throng below them. a table stood between them, and an uncorked bottle of wine and two glasses were placed to their hand. but the wine stood untouched, and was rapidly becoming flat. it had been ordered as a custom of the place. but neither had the least desire for its artificial stimulation. they had been talking in a desultory fashion. talking in the pleasant intimate fashion of men who know each other through and through. of men who look upon life with a vision adjusted to a single focus. they were watching the comings and goings of familiar faces in the glittering overdressed throng below. the women, splendid creatures in gowns whose cost ran into hundreds of dollars, and bejeweled almost at any price. beautiful faces, many of them already displaying the ravages of a life that moved at the swiftest gait. others again bloated and aging long before the years asserted their claims, and still others, fresh with all the beauty of extreme youth and a life only at the beginning of the downward course. the men, too, were no less interesting to the student of psychology. here was every type from the illiterate human mechanism whose muscles dominated his whole process of life, to the cultured son of civilization who had never known before the meaning of life beyond the portals of the temples of refinement. here they were all on the same highway of pleasure. here they were all full to the brim of a wonderful joy of life. care was for the daylight, when the secrets of their bank roll would be revealed, and the draft on the exchequer of health would have to be met. there was displayed no element of the soil from which these people drew their wealth, except for the talk. they had long since risen from the moleskin and top-boot stage in leaping horse. the elysian fields demanded outward signs of respectability in the habiliments of its customers, and the garish display of the women was there to enforce it. broadcloth alone was the mode, and conformity with this rule drew forth many delights for the observing eye. but the people thus disguised remained the same. every type was gathered, from the sound, reasonable accumulator of wealth to the "hold-up," the gambler, the fugitive from the law. it was said of leaping horse that it only required the "dust" to buy any crime known to the penal code. and here, here at the elysian fields, on any night in the week, could be found the man or woman to perpetrate it at a moment's notice. dr. bill laughed without mirth. "gee, it leaves the bell river outfit saints beside them," he said. kars' contemplative eyes were following the movements of a handsome blond woman with red-gold hair, which was aglitter with a half circle band of jewels supporting an aigrette, which must have cost five thousand dollars. she was obviously young, extremely young. to his mind she could not have been more than twenty--if that. her eyes were deep blue, with unusually large pupils. her lips were ripe with a freshness which owed nothing to any salve. her nose was almost patrician, and her cheeks were tinted with the bloom of exquisite fruit. her gown was extremely décolleté, revealing shoulders and arms of perfect ivory beauty. she was dancing a waltz with a man in elaborate evening dress, who had discarded orthodox sobriety for crude embellishments. the string band in the orchestra was playing with seductive skill. "who's that dame with the guy who guesses he's a parakeet?" he demanded, without reply to the other's statement. "you mean the feller with the sky blue lapels to his swallow-tails?" "sure. that's the guy." "maude. chesapeake maude. she's pap shaunbaum's piece. quite a girl. she's only been along since we quit here last spring. pap's crazy on her. folks say he dopes out thousands a week on her. he brought her from the east on a specially chartered vessel he had fitted up to suit her fancy. they figger he's raised his pool here by fifty per cent since she came." "she plays the old game for him right here?" "sure." both men were absorbed in the girl's perfect grace of movement, as she and her partner glided in and out through the dancing crowd. her attraction was immense even to these men, who were only onlookers of the leaping horse riot. bill touched his friend's arm. he indicated the bar at the far end of the hall. "there's pap. he's watching her. gee, he's watching her." a slim iron gray man, with a dark, keen face was standing beside one of the pillars which supported the gallery above. he was dressed in evening clothes of perfect cut, which displayed a clean-cut figure. he was a handsome man of perhaps forty, without a sign of the dissipation about his dark face that was to be seen in dozens of younger men about him. as dr. bill once said of him, "one of hell's gentle-folk." a better description of him could not have been found. under a well-nigh perfect exterior he concealed a depth of infamy beyond description. a confidential police report to the authorities in the east once contained this paragraph: "pap shaunbaum has set up a big hotel in leaping horse. it will be necessary to keep a 'special' at work watching him. we should like authority to develop this further from time to time. his record both here, and confidential from the states, leaves him more than undesirable. half the toughs in leaping horse are in his pay." that was written five years before. since then the "special" had been developed till a large staff was employed in the observation of the elysian fields. and still under all this espionage "pap," as he was familiarly dubbed, moved about without any apparent concern, carrying on his underground schemes with every outward aspect of inoffensive honesty. all leaping horse knew him as a crook, but accepted him as he posed. he was on intimate terms with all the gold magnates, and never failed to keep on good terms with the struggling element of the community. but he was a "gunman." he had been a "gunman" all his life, and made small secret of it. the only change in him now was that his gun was loaded with a different charge. "you figger he's dopey on her?" "crazy. god help the feller that monkeys around that hen roost." "yet he uses her for this play?" "with reserve." "how?" dr. bill again gave a short hard laugh. "you won't see her around with folk, except on that floor. say, get a peek at the boxes across the way, with the curtains half drawn. they're all--occupied. you won't see maude in those boxes, unless it's with pap. she's down on that floor because she loves dancing, and for pap's business. she's there for loot, sure, and she gets it plenty. she's there with her dandy smile to see the rest of the women get busy. playing that feller's dirty game for all it's worth. and she's just a gal full to the brim of life. he's bought her body and soul, and i guess it's just for folks like us to sit around and watch for what's coming. if i've got horse sense there's coming a big shriek one day, and you'll see pap clear through to his soul--if he's got one. he's fallen for that dame bad. but i guess he's done the falling. i don't guess any feller can gamble on a woman till she's in love, then i'd say the gamble is she'll act foolish." kars had no comment to offer. he was no longer watching maude. the dancing had ceased, and the floor had cleared. the orchestra had already commenced the prelude to a vaudeville turn, and the drop curtain had revealed the stage. his interest was centred on pap shaunbaum. the man was moving about amongst his customers, exchanging a word here and there, his dark, saturnine face smiling his carefully amiable business smile. to the elemental man of the trail there was something very fascinating in the way this one brain was pitting itself to plunder through the senses of the rest of his world. but dr. bill knew it all with an intimacy that robbed it of any charm. he had only repulsion, but repulsion that failed to deny a certain attraction. his hot words broke through the noisy strumming of vaudeville accompaniment. "for god's sake," he said, "why do we stop around this sink? you! why do you? the long trail? and at the end of it you got to come back to this--every trip. i hate the place, i loathe it like a hobo hates water. but i'm bound to it. it's up to me to help mend the poor darn fools who haven't sense but to squander the good life providence handed them. but you--you with your great pile, pap, here, would love to dip his claws into, there's no call for you acting like some gold-crazed lunatic. get out, man. get right out and breathe the wholesome air providence meant for you. oh, i guess you'll say it's all on the long trail in the northland. there isn't a thing to keep you here." "isn't there?" kars leaned back in his chair. he stretched his great arms above his head, and clasped his hands behind his muscular neck. "there's so much to keep me here that life's not long enough to see it through. time was, bill, when i guessed it was the north that had got into my bones. but i didn't know. the long trail. the search. it was gold--gold--gold. same as it is with any of the other fools that get around here. but i didn't just understand. that gold. no. i've been searching, and the search for new ground has been one long dream of life. but the gold i've been chasing wasn't the gold i thought it. it wasn't the yellow stuff these folks here are ready to sell their souls--and bodies--for. it was different. you guessed i had all the gold i needed. but i hadn't, not of the gold i've been chasing. i hadn't any of it. i--didn't even know its color when i saw it. i do now. and it's the color i've seen looking out of a pair of wonderful--wonderful gray eyes. say, i don't quit the northland till i can take it all with me. all there is of that gold i've found on the long trail." "jessie?" "sure." "then why not take her?" the vaudeville turn was in full swing and the folks below were standing around talking and drinking, and gazing with only partial interest at the feats of a woman acrobatic dancer. bill was looking at her, too. but his thoughts were on the girl at fort mowbray and this man who was his friend. "why not take her?" he urged. "take her away from this storm-haunted land, and set her on the golden throne you'd set up for her, where there's warmth and beauty. where there's no other care for her than to yield you the wifely companionship you're yearning for. i guess she's the one gal can hand you those things. if you don't do it, and do it quick, you'll find the fruit in the pouch of another. say, the harvest comes along in its season, and it's got to be reaped. if the right feller don't get busy--well, i guess some other feller will. there's not a thing waits around in this world." the braying of the band deadened the sound of laughter, and the rattle of glasses, and the talk going on below. kars was still gazing down upon the throng of pleasure seekers, basking in the brilliant glare of light which searched the pallid and unhealthy, and enhanced the beauty where artificiality concealed the real. his mood was intense. his thoughts were hundreds of miles away. quite suddenly he turned his strong face to his friend. there was a deep light in his steady eyes, and a grim setting to his lips. "i'm going to collect that harvest," he said, with a deliberate emphasis. "if you don't know it you should. but i'm collecting it my way. i'm going to marry jessie, if your old friend prov don't butt in. but i'm going to cut the ground under the feet of the other feller my own way, first. i've got to do that. i've a notion. it's come to me slow. not the way notions come to you, bill. i'm different. i can act like lightning when it's up to me, but i can't see into a brick wall half as far as you--nor so quick. i've bin looking into a brick wall ever since we hit bell river, and i've seen quite a piece into it. i'm not going to hand you what i've seen--yet. i've got to see more. i won't see the real till i make bell river again. if what i guess i'm going to see is right, after that i'm going to marry jessie right away, and she, and her _mother_, and me--well, we're going to quit the north. there won't be a long trail in this country can drag me an inch from the terminals of civilization after that." a deep satisfaction shone in the doctor's smiling eyes as he gazed at the serious face of his friend. but there was question, too. "you've laid a plain case but i don't see the whole drift," he said. "still you've fixed to marry jessie, and quit this darnation country. for me it goes at that--till you fancy opening out. but you're still bent on the bell river play. i've got all you said to me on the trail down. you figger those folks are to be robbed by--some one. do you need to wait for that? why not marry that gal and get right out taking her folks with her? let all the pirates do as they darn please with bell river. i don't get any other view of this thing right." "no. but i do." there was a curious, obstinate thrust to this big man's jaw. "by heaven, bill! the feller responsible for the murder of my little gal's father, a father she just loved to death, don't git away with his play if i know it. the feller that hands her an hour's suffering needs to answer to me for it, and i'm ready to hand over my life in seeing he gets his physic. there's no one going to get away with the boodle allan gave his life for--not if i can hold him up. that's just as fixed in my mind as i'm going to marry jessie. get that good. and i hold you to your word on the trail. you're with me in it. i've got things fixed, and i've set 'em working. i'm quitting for seattle in the morning. you'll just sit around lying low, and doping out your physic to every blamed sinner who needs it. then, with the spring, you'll stand by ready to quit for the last long trail with me. maybe, come that time, i'll hand you a big talk of all the fool things i've got in my head. how?" the other drew a deep sigh. but he nodded. "sure. if you're set that way--why, count me in." "the man that can 'ante' blind maybe is a fool. but he's good grit anyway. thanks, bill. i--what's doing?" the sharpness of kars' inquiry was the result of a startled movement in his companion. dr. bill was leaning forward. but he was leaning so that he was screened by the heavy curtain of the box. he was craning. in his eyes was a profound look of wonder, almost of incredulity. the vaudeville act had come to an end with a brazen flourish from the orchestra, and a waltz had been started on the instant. the eyes of the man were staring down at the floor below, where, already, several couples were gliding over its polished surface. "look," he said, in a suppressed tone of voice. "keep back so he don't see you. get a look at chesapeake maude." kars searched the room for the beautiful red-gold head. he looked amongst the crowd. then his gaze came to the few dancers, their numbers already augmenting. the flash of jewels caught his gaze. the wonderful smiling face with its halo of red-gold. an exclamation broke from him. "alec mowbray!" but it was left to bill to find expression for the realization that was borne in on them both. "and he's half soused. the crazy kid!" maude seemed to float over the gleaming floor. alec mowbray, for all the signs of drink he displayed, was no mean partner. his handsome face, head and shoulders above the tall woman he was dancing with, gazed out over the sea of dancers in all the freshness of his youthful joy, and triumph. he danced well, something he had contrived to learn in the joyless country from which he hailed. but there was no reflection of his joy in the faces of the two men gazing down from the shelter of the curtained box. there were only concern and a grievous regret. bill rose with a sigh. "i quit," he said. kars rose, too. "yes." the two men stood for a moment before passing out of the box. "it looks like that shriek's coming," bill said. "god help that poor darn fool if pap and maude get a hold on him." "he came down with murray," kars said pondering. "yes. he ought to have come around with his mam." kars nodded. "get a hold on him, bill, when i'm gone. for god's sake get a hold on him. it's up to you." chapter xviii on the northern seas the mists hung drearily on snow-crowned, distant hilltops. the deadly gray of the sky suggested laden clouds bearing every threat known to the elements. they were traveling fast, treading each other's heels, and overwhelming each other till the gloom banked deeper and deeper. it was the mockery of an early spring day. it had all the appearance of the worst depths of winter, except that the intense cold had given place to a fierce wind of higher temperature. the seas were running high, and the laden vessel labored heavily as it passed the sharp teeth of the jaws of the wide sound which marked the approach to the northern land. there was no sheltering bar here. the only obstruction to the fierce onslaught of the north pacific waters was the almost submerged legion of cruel rocks which confined the deep water channel. it was a deadly approach which took years of a ship's captain's life to learn. and when he had learned it, so far as it was humanly possible, it quickly taught him how little he knew. not a season passed but some unfortunate found for himself a new, uncharted rock. the land rose up to overwhelming heights on either side, and these vast barriers narrowed the wind channel till the force of the gale was trebled. it swept in from the broad ocean with a roar and a boom, bearing the steamer along, floundering through the racing waters, with a crushing following sea. there were twelve hours of this yet ahead of him, and john dunne paced his bridge with every faculty alert. he watched the skies. he watched the breaking waters. he watched the shores on either side of him, as he might watch the movements of a remorseless adversary about to attack him. he had navigated this channel for upwards of fifteen years, and understood to-day how small was his understanding of its virtues, and how real and complete his fears of its vices. but it was his work to face it at all times and all seasons, and he accepted the responsibility with a cheerful optimism and an equal skill. once or twice he howled a confidence to his chief officer, who occupied the bridge with him. there were moments when his lips were at the speaking tubes, and his hand on the telegraph. there were moments when he stood with his arms folded over the breast of his thick pea-jacket, and his half-closed eyes searched the barren shores while he leaned against the shaking rail. he had been on the bridge the whole night, and still his bodily vigor seemed quite unimpaired. his stocky body concealed a power of endurance which his life had hardened him to. he rarely talked of the dangers through which he had journeyed on the northern seas. he feared them too well to desire to recall them. he was wont to say he lived only in the present. to look ahead would rob him of his nerve. to gaze back over the manifold emergencies through which he had passed would only undermine his will. the benefit of his philosophy was displayed in his habitual success. in consequence he was the commodore of his company's fleet. he passed down from his bridge at last. and it was almost with reluctance. it was breakfast time, and he had been summoned already three times by an impatient steward. at the door of his cabin he was met by john kars who was to be his guest at the meal. these men were old friends, bound by the common ties of the northland life. they had made so many journeys together over these turbulent waters. to kars it would have been unthinkable to travel under any other sea captain. "still watching for those jaws to snap?" said kars, as he passed into the little room ahead of his host, and sniffed hungrily at the fragrant odor of coffee. "why, yes," he said. "jaws that's always snapping generally need watching, i guess. a feller needs the eyes of a spider to get to windward of the things lying around blackrock sound. say, i guess it wouldn't come amiss to dump this patch into the devil's dugout fer fool skippers, who lost their ships through 'souse,' to navigate around in. it has you guessin' most of the time. and you're generally wrong, anyway." the men sat down at the table, and the steward served the coffee. for a few moments they were busy helping themselves to the grilled kidneys and bacon. presently the steward withdrew. "it's been a better trip than usual this time of year," kars said. "it's a pity running into this squall just now." the seaman raised a pair of twinkling eyes in his guest's direction. "it's mostly my experience. providence generally figgers to hand you things at--inconvenient times. this darn sound's tricky when there ain't breeze enough to clear your smoke away. it's fierce when it's blowing. guess you'll be glad to see your outfit ashore." "ye-es." "up country again this year?" kars laughed. "sure." the seaman regarded him enviously. "guess it must be great only having the weather to beat. a piece of hard soil under your feet must be bully to work on. that ain't been mine since i was fourteen. that's over forty years ago." "there's something to it--sure." kars sipped his coffee. "but there's other things," he added, as he set his cup down. the seaman smiled. "wouldn't be life if there weren't." "no." "you're shipping arms," john dunne went on significantly. "guns an' things don't signify all smiles an' sunshine. no, i guess we sea folks got our troubles. it's only they're diff'rent from other folks. you ain't the only feller shipping arms. we got cases else. an' a big outfit of cartridges. i was looking into the lading schedule yesterday. say, the yukon ain't makin' war with alaska?" the man's curiosity was evident, but he disguised it with a broad smile. kars' steady eyes regarded him thoughtfully. then he, too, smiled. "i don't reckon the yukon's worrying to scrap. but folks inside--i mean right inside beyond leaping horse where the p'lice are--need arms. there's a lot of low type indians running loose. they aren't to be despised, except for their manners. guess the stuff you speak of is for one of the trading posts?" "can't say. it's billed to a guy named murray mctavish at blackrock flat. there's a thousand rifles an' nigh two million rounds of cartridges. guess he must be carryin' on a war of his own with them injuns. know the name?" kars appeared to think profoundly. "seems to me i know the name. can't just place it for--- say--i've got it. he's the partner of the feller the neches murdered up at fort mowbray, on the snake river. sure, that explains it. oh, yes. the folks up that way are up against it. the neches are pretty darn bad." he laughed. "guess he's out for a war of extermination with such an outfit as that." "seems like it." the skipper went on eating for some moments in silence. his curiosity was satisfied. nor did kars attempt to break the silence. he was thinking--thinking hard. "it beats me," dunne went on presently, "you folk who don't need to live north of 'sixty.' what is it that keeps you chasing around in a cold that 'ud freeze the vitals of a tin statue?" kars shook his head. "you can search me," he said, with a shrug. "guess it sort of gets in the blood, though. there's times when i cuss it like you cuss the waters that hand you your life. then there's times when i love it like--like a pup loves offal. you can't figger it out any more than you can figger out why the sun and moon act foolish chasing each other around an earth that don't know better than to spend its time buzzing around on a pivot that don't exist. you can't explain these things any more than you can explain the reason why no two folks can think the same about things, except it is their own way of thinking it's the right way. nor why it is you mostly get rain when you're needin' sun, and wind when you're needin' calm, and anyway it's coming from the wrong quarter. if you guess you're looking for gold, it's a thousand dollars to a dime you find coal, or drown yourself in a 'gush' of oil. if you're married, an' you're looking for a son, it's a sure gamble you get a gal. most everything in life's just about as crazy as they'll allow outside a foolish house, and as for life itself, well, it's a darn nuisance anyway, but one you're mighty glad keeps busy your way." at that moment, the speaking tube from the bridge emitted a sharp whistle, and the skipper, with a broad smile on his weather-beaten face, went to answer it. the clatter of the winches ceased. the creaking of straining hawsers lessened. the voices of men only continued their hoarse-throated shoutings. the gangways had been secured in place, and while the crew were feverishly opening the vessel's hatches the few passengers who had made the journey under john dunne's watchful care hustled down the high-angled gangway to the quay, glad enough to set foot on the slush-laden land. the days of the wild rush of gold-mad incompetents were long since past. the human freight of john dunne's vessel, with the exception of john kars, was commercial. they were mostly men whose whole work was this new great trade with the north. kars was one of the first to land, and he swiftly searched the faces of the crowd of longshoremen. it was a desolate quay-side of a disreputable town. but though all picturesqueness was given over to utility, there was a sense of homeliness to the traveler after the stormy passage of the north pacific. blackrock crouched under the frowning ramparts of hills which barred the progress of the waters. it was dwarfed, and rendered even more desolate, by the sterile snow-laden crags with which it was crowded. but these first impressions were quickly lost in the life that strove on every hand. in the familiar clang of the locomotive bell, and the movement of railroad wagons which were engaged in haulage for leaping horse. kars' search ended in a smile of greeting, as a tall, lean american detached himself from the crowd and came towards him. he greeted the arrival with the easy casualness of the northlander. "glad to see you, chief," he said, shaking hands. "stuff aboard? good," as the other nodded. "guess the gang'll ship it right away jest as soon as they haul it out o' the guts of the old tub. you goin' on up with the mail? she's due to get busy in two hours, if she don't get colic or some other fool trouble." abe dodds refused to respond to his friend and chief's smile of greeting. he rarely shed smiles on anything or any one. he was a mining engineer of unusual gifts, in a country where mining engineers and flies vied with each other for preponderance. he was a man who bristled with a steady energy which never seemed to tire, and he had been in the service of john kars from the very early days. kars indicated the snub-nosed vessel he had just left. "the stuff's all there," he said. "nearly fifty tons of it. you need to hustle it up to leaping horse, and on to the camp right away. guess we break camp in two weeks." the man nodded. "sure. that's all fixed. anything else?" his final inquiry was his method of dismissing his employer. but kars did not respond. his keen eyes had been searching the crowd. now they came back to the plain face of abe, whose jaws were working busily on the wreck of the end of a cigar. he lowered his voice to a confidential tone. "there's a big outfit of stuff aboard for murray mctavish, of fort mowbray. has he an outfit here to haul it? is he still around leaping horse?" abe's eyes widened. he was quite unconcerned at the change of tone. "why, yes," he replied promptly. "sure he's an outfit here. he's shipping it up to leaping horse by the yukon transport--express. he quit the city last november, an' come along down again a week ago. guess he's in the city right now. he's stopping around adler's hotel." kars' eyes were on the "hauls" of the cargo boat which were already busy. "you boys kept to instructions?" he demanded sharply. "no one's wise to your camp?" "not a thing." "there's not a word of me going around the city?" "not a word." "the outfit's complete?" "sure. to the last boy. you can break camp the day after this stuff's hauled and we've packed it." "good." kars sighed as if in relief. "well, i'll get on. hustle all you know. and, say, get a tally of mctavish's outfit. get their time schedule. i'll need it. so long." kars followed his personal baggage which a quayside porter had taken on to the grandiosely named mail train. john kars was standing at the curtained window of dr. bill's apartment in the hoffman apartment house. his back was turned on the luxuriously furnished room. for some time the silence had been broken only by the level tones of the owner of the apartment who was lounging in the depths of a big rocker adjacent to a table laden with surgical instruments. he had been telling the detailed story of the preparations made at the camp some ten miles distant from the city, and the supervision of whose affairs kars had left in his hands. as he ceased speaking kars turned from his contemplation of the tawdry white and gold of the elysian fields which stood out in full view from the window of the apartment. "now tell me of that boy--alec," he demanded. the directness of the challenge had its effect. bill brudenell stirred uneasily in his chair. his shrewd eyes widened with a shade of trouble. nor did he answer readily. "things are wrong?" kars' steady eyes searched his friend's face. "well--they're not--good." "ah. tell me." kars moved from the window. it almost seemed that all that had passed was incomparable in interest with his present subject. he seated himself on the corner of the table which held the surgical instruments. "no. it's not good. it's--it's darned bad." bill rose abruptly from his chair and began to pace the room, his trim shoulders hunched as though he were suddenly driven to a desire for aggression. "look here, john," he cried almost vehemently. "if you or i had had that boy set in our charge, seeing what we saw that first night, and knowing what i've heard since, could we have quit this lousy city for months and left him to his fool play over at pap's? not on your life. but it's what murray's done. gee, i could almost think he did it purposely." kars pointed at the rocker. there was a curious light in his gray eyes. it was a half smile. also it possessed a subtle stirring of fierceness. "sit down, bill," he said calmly. "but start right in from--the start." the man of healing obeyed mechanically, but he chafed at the restraint. his usual ease had undergone a serious disturbance. there was nothing calculated to upset him like the disregard of moral obligation. crime he understood, folly he accepted as something belonging to human nature. but the moral "stunt," as he was wont to characterize it, hurt him badly. just now he was regarding murray mctavish with no very friendly eyes, and he deplored beyond words the doings of the boy who was jessie mowbray's brother. "the start!" he exploded. "where _can_ i start? if the start were as i see it, it 'ud be to tell you that murray's a callous skunk who don't care a whoop for the obligations allan's murder left on his fat shoulders. but i guess that's not the start as you see it. that boy!" he sprang from his seat again and kars made no further attempt to restrain him. "he's on the road to the devil faster than an express locomotive could carry him. he's in the hands of 'chesapeake' maude, who's got him by both feet and neck. and he's handing his bank roll over to pap, and his gang, with a shovel. he's half soused any old time after eleven in the morning. and his back teeth are awash by midnight 'most every day. you can see him muling around the dance floor till you get sick of the sight of his darn fool smile, and you wish all the diamonds maude wears were lost in the deepest smudge fires of hell. start? there is no start. but there's a sure finish." "you mean if he don't quit he'll go right down and out?" bill came to a halt directly in front of his friend. his keen eyes gazed straight into the strong face confronting him. "no, i don't mean that. it's worse," he said, with a gravity quite changed from his recent agitated manner. "worse?" kars' question came sharply. "go on." "oh, i did all you said that night. i got a holt on him next day at the gridiron, where he's stopping. he told me to go to a certain hot place and mind my own business, which was doping out drugs. i went to murray, and he served me little better. he grinned. he always grins. he threw hot air about a youngster and wild oats. he guessed the kid would sober up after a fling. they'd figgered on this play. his mother, and josé, and him. they guessed it was best. then he was going to get around back and act the man his father was on the trail. that was his talk. and he grinned--only grinned when i guessed he was five sorts of darned fool." bill paused. it might almost have been that he paused for breath after the speed at which his words came. kars waited with deliberate patience, but his jaws were set hard. "but now--now?" the doctor passed a hand across his broad forehead and smoothed his iron gray hair. he turned his eyes thoughtfully upon the window through which they beheld the white and gold of the elysian fields. "the worst thing's happened. it's in the mouth of every one in leaping horse. it's the scream of every faro joint and 'draw' table. the fellers on the sidewalk have got the laugh of it. maude's got dopey on him. she's plumb stuck on him. the dame pap's spilt thousands on has gone back on him for a fool boy she was there to roll. things are seething under the surface, and it's the sort of atmosphere pap mostly lives in. he's crazy mad. and when pap's crazy, things are going to happen. there's just one end coming. only one end. that boy's going to get done up, and pap's to be all in at the doing. oh, he'll take no chances. there'll be no shriek. that kid'll peter right out sudden. and it'll be pap who knows how." "murray's in the city. have you seen him?" kars spoke coldly. "i saw him yesterday noon. i went to adler's at lunch time to be sure getting him." "what did he say?" "i scared him. plumb scared him. but it was the same grin. gee, how that feller grins." "what did he say?" kars persisted. "he'd do all he knew to get the kid away. but he guessed he'd be up against it. he guessed alec had mighty little use for him, and you can't blame the kid when you think of that grin. but he figgered to do his best anyway. he cursed the kid for a sucker, and talked of a mother's broken heart if things happened. but i don't reckon he cares a cuss anyway. that feller's got one thing in life if i got any sane notion. it's trade. he hasn't the scruples of a jew money-lender for anything else." kars nodded. "i'm feeling that way--too." "you couldn't feel otherwise." "i wasn't thinking of your yarn, bill," kars said quickly. "it's something else. that feller's shipped in a thousand rifles, and a big lot of ammunition. i lit on it through john dunne. what's he want 'em for? i've been asking myself that ever since. he don't need a thousand rifles for trade." it was bill's turn for inquiry. it came with a promptness that suggested his estimation of the importance of the news. "what is it?" he demanded. "is he going to wipe out the bell river outfit?" kars' eyes regarded his friend steadily. for some moments no further word was spoken. each was contemplating the ruthless purpose of a man who contemplated wiping out a tribe of savages to suit his own sordid ends. it was almost unbelievable. yet a thousand rifles for a small trading post. it was the number which inspired the doubt. it was kars who finally broke the silence. he left his seat on the table and stood again at the window with his back turned. "guess we best leave it at that," he said. "yes. what are you going to do?" "look in at the gridiron, and pass the time of day with young alec." kars laughed shortly. then he turned, and his purpose was shining in his eyes. "alec's jessie's brother--and i've got to save that kid from himself." chapter xix at the gridiron kars was early abroad. he left his apartment on the first floor of the same apartment house which furnished bill brudenell with his less palatial quarters, and sauntered down the main street in the direction of the gridiron. his mood was by no means a happy one. he realized only too surely that a man bent upon an errand such as he was stood at something more than a disadvantage. his life was made up of the study of the life about him. his understanding was of the cruder side of things. but now, when action, when simple force of character were his chief assets, he was called upon, or he had called upon himself, to undertake the difficult task of making a youth, big, strong, hot-headed, mad with the newly tasted joy of living, detach himself from his new life. nor was he without qualms when he passed the portals of the hotel, which ranked second only in ill-fame to pap shaunbaum's. if the gridiron possessed less ill-fame than its contemporary it was not because its proprietor was any less a "hold-up" than pap. it was simply that his methods were governed by a certain circumspection. he cloaked his misdoings under a display of earnest endeavor in the better direction. for instance, every room displayed a printed set of regulations against anything and everything calculated to offend the customer of moral scruples--if such an one could be discovered in leaping horse. dan mccrae enforced just as many of these regulations as suited him. and, somehow, for all he had drawn them up himself, none of them ever seemed to suit him. but they had their effect on his business. it became the fashion of the men of greater substance to make it a headquarters. and it was his boast that more wealth passed in and out of his doors than those of any house in leaping horse, except the bank. dan only desired such custom. he possessed a hundred and one pleasant wiles for the loosening of the bank rolls of such custom. no man ever left his establishment after a brief stay without considerably less bulging pockets. when dan espied the entrance of john kars from behind the glass partition, which divided his office from the elaborate entrance hall, he lost no time in offering a personal welcome. kars was his greatest failure in leaping horse, just as pap had had to admit defeat. that these two men had failed to attract to their carefully baited traps the richest man in the country, a man unmarried, too, a man whose home possessed no other attraction than that of a well-furnished apartment, was a disaster too great for outward lamentation. but neither despaired, even after years of failure. nor did they ever lose an opportunity. it was an opportunity at this moment. "glad to see you back, mr. kars." the small, smiling, dangerous dan was the picture of frank delight. "leaping horse misses her big men. had a pleasant vacation?" kars had no illusions. "can't call a business trip a vacation," he said with a smile. "i don't reckon the north pacific in winter comes under that heading either. say, there's a boy stopping around here. alexander mowbray. is he in the hotel?" dan cocked a sharp eye. "i'll send a boy along," he said, pressing a bell. a sharp word to the youth who answered it and he turned again to the visitor. "guess you know most of these up-country folk," he said. "there's things moving inside. we're getting spenders in, quite a little. the city's asking questions. mr. mowbray's been here all winter, and he seems to think dollars don't cut ice beside a good time. i figger there's going to be a fifty per cent raise in the number of outfits making inside this season. there's a big talk of things. well, it mostly finds its way into this city, so we can't kick any." "no, you folks haven't any kick coming," kars said amiably. this man's inquiries made no impression on him. it was the sort of thing he was accustomed to wherever he went in leaping horse. at that moment a bell rang in the office, and kars heard his name repeated by the 'phone operator. "ah, mr. mowbray's in," observed dan, turning back to the office. "mr. mowbray will be glad if you'll step right up, mr. kars." the 'phone clerk had emerged from his retreat. "thanks. what number?" "three hundred and one. third floor, mr. kars," replied the clerk, with that love of the personal peculiar to his class. then followed a hectoring command, "elevator! lively!" kars stepped into the elevator and was "expressed" to the third floor. a few moments later he was looking into the depressed eyes of a youth he had only known as the buoyant, headstrong, north-bred son of allan mowbray. the change wrought in one brief winter was greater than kars had feared. dissipation was in every line of the half-dressed youth's handsome face, and, as kars looked into it, a great indignation mingled with his pity. but his indignation was against the trader who had left the youth to his own foolish devices in a city whose morals might well have shamed an aboriginal. nor was his pity alone for the boy. his memory had gone back to the splendid dead. it had also flown to the two loving women whose eyes must have rained heart-breaking tears at the picture he was gazing upon. the boy thing out a hand, and a smile lit his tired features for a moment as he welcomed the man who had always been something of a hero to him. he had hastily slipped on his trousers and thrust his feet into shoes. his pajama jacket was open, revealing the naked flesh underneath. nor could kars help but admire the physique now being so rapidly prostituted. "it's bully of you looking me up," alec said, with as much cordiality as an aching head would permit. then he laughed shamefacedly. "guess i'm dopey this morning. i sat in at 'draw' last night, and collected quite a bunch of money. i didn't feel like quitting early." kars took up a position on the tumbled bed. his quick eyes were busy with the elaborate room. he priced it heavily in his mind. nor did he miss the cocktail tray at the bedside, and the litter of clothes, clothes which must have been bought in leaping horse, scattered carelessly about. "it don't do quitting when luck's running," he said, without a shade of censure. "a feller needs to call the limit--till it turns. 'draw's' quite a game." alec had had doubts when john kars' name had come up to him. he had only been partially aware of them. it had been the working of a consciousness of the life he was living, and of the clean living nature of his visitor. but the big man's words dispelled the last shadow of doubt, and he went on freely. "say," he cried, enthusiasm suddenly stirring him, "i'm only just getting wise to the things i missed all these years. it gets me beat to death how a feller like you, who could come near buying the whole blamed city, can trail around the country half your time and the other dope around on a rough sea with the wind blowing clear through your vitals." "it's cleaner air--both ways." the boy flung himself on the bed with his back against the foot-rail. he reached out and pressed the bell. "have a cocktail?" he said. "no?" as kars shook his head. "well, i got to, anyway. that's the only kick i got coming to the mornings. gee, a feller gets a thirst. but who'd give a whoop for clean air? i've had so much all my life," he went on, with a laugh. "i'm lookin' for something with snap to it." "sure." kars' steady eyes never changed their smiling expression. "things with snap are good for--a while." "'a while'? i want 'em all the time. guess i owe murray a big lot. it was him who fixed mother so she'd stake me, and let me git around. i didn't always figger murray had use for me. but he's acted fine, and i guess i--say, i ran short of money a while back, and when he came along down he handed me a bunch out of his own dip, and stood good for a few odd debts! murray! get a line on it. can you beat it? and murray figgers more on dollars than any feller i know." "you never know your friends till you get a gun-hole in your stomach," kars laughed. "murray's more of a sport than you guessed. he certainly don't unroll easy." the boy's face was alight with good feeling. he sat up eagerly. "that's just how i thought," he cried. "i----" a knock at the door was followed by the entrance of a bell-boy with the cocktail. alec seized it, and drank thirstily. kars looked on. he gave no sign. "that feller knows his job," he said, as the boy withdrew. alec laughed. he was feeling in better case already. "sure he does. a single push on that bell means one cocktail. he generally makes the trip twice in the morning. but say, talking of murray, one of these days i'm going to make a big talk with him and just tell him what i feel 'bout things. i've got to tell him i've just bin a blamed young fool and didn't understand the sort of man he was." "then you've had trouble with him--again?" kars' question had a sudden sharpening in it. he was thinking of what bill had told him. "not a thing. say, we haven't had a crooked word since we quit the old fort. he's a diff'rent guy when he gets away from his--store. no, sir, murray's wise. he guesses i need to see and do things. and he's helped me all he knows. and he showed me around some dandy places before i got wise." he laughed boisterously, and his laugh drove straight to the heart of the man who heard it. kars was no moralist, but he knew danger when he saw it, moral or physical. the terrible danger into which this youth, this foolish brother of jessie, had been plunged by murray mctavish stirred him as he had not been stirred for years. women, gaming, drink. this simple, weak, splendid youth. leaping horse, the cesspool of the earth. a mental shudder passed through him. but the acutest thought of the moment was of the actions of murray mctavish. why had he shown this boy "places"? why had he financed him privately, and not left it to ailsa mowbray? why, why, had he lied to bill on the subject of a quarrel with alec? but these things, these thoughts found no outward expression. he had his purpose to achieve. he nodded reflectively. "murray's got his ways," he said. "guess we most have. murray's ways mayn't always be our ways. they mayn't ever be. but that don't say a thing against 'em." he smiled. it was the patient smile of a man who is entirely master of himself. "then murray's got a kick coming to him, too. he's a queer figger, and he knows it and hates it. a thing like that's calculated to sour a feller some. i mean his ways." alec's agreement came with a smiling nod. he became expansive. "sure," he said. "you know murray's got no women-folk around him. and i guess a feller's not alive till he's got women-folk around him." he drew a deep breath. "gee," he cried, in a sort of ecstasy. "i know those things--now." "yes." kars was watching the play of emotion in the boy's eyes. he was following every thought passing behind them, measuring those things which might militate against his object. "i can tell you a thing now i'd have hated to remember a while back," alec went on. "say, it used to set me plumb crazy thinking of it. there were times i could have shot murray down in his tracks for it. it was jessie. he was just crazy to marry her. i know," he nodded sapiently. "he never said a word. jess knew, too, and she never said a word. she hates him. she hates him--that way--worse than she hates the bell river neches. i was glad then. but it ain't that way now. we were both wrong. maybe i'll make a talk with her one day. i owe murray more than the dollars he handed me." "yes." not by the movement of an eyelid did kars betray his feelings. but a fierce passion was tingling in every nerve as the youth went on talking. "it's queer how folks get narrowed down living in a bum layout like the fort." he smiled in a self-satisfied way. "i used to think josé a wise guy one time. there's heaps of things you can't see right in a layout like that. i reckon jessie ought to know murray better. it's up to me. don't you guess that way, too?" kars smilingly shook his head. "it doesn't do butting in," he said. "y'see folks know best how they need to act. you're feeling that way--now. no feller can think right for others. guess folks' eyes don't see the same. maybe it's to do with the color," he smiled. "when a man and a woman get thinking things, there's no room for other folks." kars' manner had a profound effect. he was talking as though dealing with a man of wide worldly knowledge, and the youth was more than flattered. he accepted the situation and the suggestion. "maybe you're right," he said at once. "i felt i'd like to hand him a turn--that's all." kars shrugged. "it doesn't matter a thing," he said, with calculated purpose. "it's just my notion." then he laughed. "but i didn't get around to worry with murray mctavish. it's better than that." he rose abruptly from the bed and moved across to the window. alec was in the act of lighting a cigarette. the match burned itself out in his fingers, and the cigarette remained unlighted. his eyes were on his visitor with sudden expectation. finally he broke into an uneasy laugh. "murray isn't the only ice on the river," he said weakly. kars turned about. "nor is he the only gold you'll maybe locate around. do you feel like handling--other? are you looking to make a big bunch of dollars? do you need a stake that's going to hand you all the things you've dreamed about? you guess i'm a rich man. folks figger i'm the richest man north of 'sixty.' maybe i am. well, if you guess you'd like to be the same way, it's up to you." alec was sitting up. the effects of his overnight debauch had been completely flung aside. his eyes, so like his father's, were wide, and his handsome face was alive with a sudden excitement. he flung his cigarette aside. "say, you're--fooling," he breathed incredulously. kars shook his head. "i quit that years," he said. "i--i don't get you," alec went on at last, in a sort of desperate helplessness. kars dropped on to the bed again and laughed in his pleasant fashion. "sure you don't. but do you feel like it? are you ready to take a chance--with me?" "by gee--yes! if there's a stake at the end of it." "the stake's there, sure. but--but it means quitting leaping horse right away. it means hitting the old trail you curse. it means staking your life for all it's worth. it means using all that that big man, your father, handed you in life. it means getting out on god's earth, and telling the world right here you're a man, and a mighty big man, too. it means all that, and," he added with a smile that was unreadable, "a whole heap more." something of the excitement had died out of alec's face. a shade of disappointment clouded his eyes. he reached out for another cigarette. kars watched the signs. "well?" he questioned sharply. "there's millions of dollars in this for you. i'll stake my word on it it's a cinch--or death. i've handled the strike, and i know it's all i figger. i came along to hand you this proposition. and it's one i wouldn't hand to another soul living. i'm handing it to you because you're your father's son, because i need a feller whose whole training leaves him with the north trail beaten. it's up to you right here--and now." the youngster smoked on in silence. kars watched the battle going on behind his averted eyes. he knew what he was up against. he was struggling to save this boy against the overwhelming forces of extreme youth and weakness. the whole of his effort was supported by the barest thread. would that thread hold? again came that nervous movement as alec flung away his half-smoked cigarette. "when should we need to start?" he demanded almost brusquely. "two weeks from now." the egoism of the boy left him almost unappreciative of what this man was offering him. kars had subtly flattered his vanity. he had done it purposely. he had left the youngster with the feeling that he was being asked a favor. there was relief in the tone of the reply. and complaint followed it up. "that's not so bad. you said 'right away.'" kars' eyes were regarding him steadily. "i call that right away. well? i'm not handing you any more of it till you--accept," he added. alec suddenly sprang from the bed. he paced the room with long nervous strides. he felt that never in his life had he faced such a crisis. kars simply looked on. at last the boy spoke something of his thought aloud. "by gee! i can't refuse it. it's--it's too big. two weeks. she'll be crazy about it. she'll--by gad, i must do it. i can----" he broke off abruptly. he came to the foot-rail of the bed. he stood with his great hands clenching it firmly, as though for support. "i'll go, kars," he cried. "i'll go! and it's just great of you. i--i--it was kind of hard. there's things----" kars nodded. "sure," he said, with a smile. "but--she'll wait for you--if she's the woman you guess. it's only a year. but say, you'll need to sign a bond. a bond of secrecy, and--good faith. there's no quitting--once it's signed." the big man's eyes shone squarely into the boy's. and something of the dead father looked back at him. "curse it, i'll sign," alec cried with sudden force. "i'll sign anything. millions of dollars! i'll sign right away, and i'll--play as you'd have me." the boy passed a hand through his hair. his decision had cost him dearly. but he had taken it. "good." kars rose from the bed. "get dressed, alec," he said kindly. "you'll sign that bond before you eat. after that i'll hand you all the talk you need. call round at my apartment when you're fixed." as john kars passed out of the gridiron one thought alone occupied him. murray mctavish had lied. he had lied deliberately to bill brudenell. he had made no attempt to save the boy from the mire into which he had helped to fling him. on the contrary, he had thrust him deeper and deeper into it. why? what--what was the meaning of it all? where were things heading? what purpose lay behind the man's doings? chapter xx the "onlookers" again the prompt action of john kars looked as if it would achieve the desired result. his plan had been without any depth of subtlety. it was characteristic of the man, in whom energy and action served him in all crises. alec had to be saved. the boy was standing at the brink of a pit of moral destruction. he must be dragged back. but physical force would be useless, for, in that direction, there was little if any advantage on the side of the man who designed to save him. kars had won through the opportunities that were his. and he sat pondering his success, and dreaming of the sweet gray eyes which had inspired his effort, when alec reached his apartment in fulfilment of his promise. it was a happy interview. it was far happier than alec could have believed possible, in view of his passionate regret at abandoning leaping horse, and the woman, whose tremendous attractions had caught his unsophisticated heart in her silken toils, for something approaching a year. but then kars was using all the strength of a powerful, infectious personality in his effort. he listened to the boy's story of his love and regret with sympathy and apparent understanding. he encouraged him wherever he sought encouragement. he had a pleasantry of happy expression wherever it was needed. in a word he played to the last degree upon a nature as weak as it was simply honest. the net result was the final departure of alec in almost buoyant mood at the prospects opening out before him, and bearing in his pocket the signed agreement, whereby, at the price of absolute secrecy, and a year's supreme effort, he was to achieve everything he needed to lay at the feet of a woman he believed to be the most perfect creature on god's beautiful earth. kars watched him go not without some misgivings, and his fears were tritely expressed to bill brudenell, who joined him a few minutes later. "there's only one thing to unfix the things i've stuck together," he said. "it's the--woman." and bill's agreement added to his fears of the moment. "sure. but you haven't figgered on--pap." "pap?" bill nodded. "there's fourteen days. pap's crazy mad about maude and the boy. the boy won't figger to quit things for fourteen days. if i'm wise he'll boost all he needs into them. well--there's pap." bill was looking on with both eyes wide open, as was his way. he had put into a few words all he saw. and kars beheld in perfect nakedness the dangers to his plans. "we must get busy," was all he said, but there was a look of doubt in his usually confident eyes. maude lived in an elaborate house farther down the main street, and alec mowbray was on his way thither. he had kept from kars the fact that his midday meal was to be taken with the woman who had now frankly abandoned herself to an absorbing passion for the handsome youth from the wilderness "inside." it was no unusual episode in the career of a woman of her class. on the contrary, it was perhaps the commonest exhibition of her peculiar disposition. hundreds of such women, thousands, have flung aside everything they have schemed and striven for, and finally achieved as the price of all a woman holds sacred, for the sake of a sudden, unbridled passion she is powerless to control. perhaps "chesapeake" maude understood her risks in a city of lawlessness, and in flinging aside the protection of such a man as pap shaunbaum. perhaps she did not. but those who looked on, and they were a whole people of a city, waited breathless and pulsating for the ensuing acts of what they regarded as a human _comedy_. alec, his slim, powerful young body clad in the orthodox garb of this northern city, swung along down the slush-laden street, his thoughts busy preparing his argument for the persuading of the woman who had become the sun and centre of his life. he knew his difficulties, he knew his own regrets. but the advantages both to her, and to him, which kars had cleverly pointed out, outweighed both. his mind was set on persuading her. nor did he question for a moment that for her, as for him, the bond between them was an enduring love that would always be theirs, and would adapt itself to their mutual advantage. the northern wilderness was deeply bred in him. his way took him past adler's hotel, and, in a lucid moment, he remembered that murray was stopping there. an impulse made him pause and look at his watch. it yet wanted half an hour to his appointment. yes, he would see if murray were in. he must tell him of his purpose to leave the city a while. it would be necessary to send word to his mother, too. murray was in. he was just contemplating food when he received alec's message. he sent down word for him to come up to his room, and waited. murray mctavish was very much the same man of methodical business here in leaping horse as the fort knew him. the attractions of the city left him quite untouched. his method of life seemed to undergo no variation. a single purpose dominated him at all times. but that purpose, whatever it might be, was his own. his room was by no means extravagant, such as was the room alec occupied at the gridiron. adler's hotel boasted nothing of the extravagance of either of the two leading hotels. but it was ample for murray's requirements. the usual bedroom furnishing was augmented by a capacious writing desk, which was more or less usual throughout the hotel. he was at his desk now, and his bulk filled the armchair to the limits of its capacity. he pushed aside the work he had been engaged upon, turned away from the desk, and awaited the arrival of his visitor. there was no smile in his eyes now, nor, which was more unusual, was there any smile upon his gross features. his whole pose was contemplative, and his dark, burning eyes shone deeply. but it was a different man who greeted the youth as the door was thrust open. the smiling face was beaming welcome, and murray gripped the outstretched hand with a cordiality that was not intended to be mistaken. "sit right down, boy," he said. "you're around in time to eat with me. but i'll chase up a cocktail." but alec stayed him. "i just can't stay, murray," he said hastily. "and i'm not needing a cocktail just now. i was passing, and i thought i'd hand you the thing i got in my mind, and get you to pass word on to my mother and jessie." he took the proffered chair facing the window. murray had resumed his seat at the desk, which left him in the shadow. "why, just anything you say," murray returned heartily. "the plans?" the contrast between them left the trader overwhelmed. alec, so tall, so clean-cut and athletic of build. his handsome face so classically molded. his fair hair the sort that any woman might rave over. murray, insignificant, except in bulk. but for his curious dark eyes he must inevitably have been passed over without a second thought. alec drew up his long legs in a movement that suggested unease. "why, i can't tell you a thing worth hearing," he said, remembering his bond. "it's just i'm quitting leaping horse in two weeks. i'm quitting it a year, maybe." then he added with a smile of greater confidence, "i've hit a big play. maybe it's going to hand me a pile. guess i'm looking for a big pile." then he added with a cordial, happy laugh, "same as you." murray's smile deepened if anything. "why, boy, that's great," he exclaimed. "that's the greatest news ever. guess you couldn't have handed me anything i like better. as for your mother, she'll be jumping. she wasn't easy to fix, letting you get around here. you're going to make good. i'll hand her that right away. i'm quitting. i'm getting back to the fort in a few days. that's bully news. say, you're quitting in two weeks?" "yep. two weeks." alec felt at ease again. he further appreciated murray in that he did not press any inquisition. they talked on for a few minutes on the messages alec wished to convey to his mother, and finally the boy rose to go. it was then that murray changed from his attitude of delight to one of deep gravity, which did not succeed in entirely obliterating his smile. "i was going to look you up if you hadn't happened along," he said seriously. "i was talking to wiseman last night. you know wiseman, of the low grade hills mine, out west? he's pretty tough. josh wiseman's a feller i haven't a heap of use for, but he's worth a big roll, and he's in with all the 'smarts' of elysian fields. say, don't jump, or get hot at what i'm going to say. i just want to put you wise." "get right ahead," alec said easily. he felt that his new relations with murray left him free to listen to anything he had to say. "why, it's about pap," murray went on, deliberately. "and your news about quitting's made me glad. wiseman was half soused, but he made a point of rounding me up. he wanted to hand me a notion he'd got in his half-baked head. he said two 'gun-men' had come into the city, and they'd come from 'frisco because pap had sent for them. he saw them yesterday and recognized them both. josh hails from 'frisco, you see. he handed his yarn to me to hand on to you. get me? i don't know how much there is to it. i can't figger if you need to worry any. but josh is a wise guy, as well as tough. anyway, i'm glad you're quitting." he held out a hand in warm cordiality, and alec wrung it without a shadow of concern. he laughed. "why say, that's fine," he cried, his eyes shining recklessly. "if it wasn't for that darn pile i'd stop right around here. if pap gets busy, why, there's going to be some play. i don't give a whoop for all the paps in creation. nor for his 'gunmen' either." he was gone, and murray was standing at his window gazing upon surroundings of squalid shacks, the tattered fringe of the main street. but he was not looking at these things. his thought was upon others that had nothing to do with the mire of civilization in which he stood. but he gave no sign, except that all his smile was swallowed up by the fierce fires burning deep down in his dark eyes. the dance hall revel at the elysian fields was in full swing. the garish brilliancy of the scene was in fierce contrast with the night which strove to hide the meanness prevailing beyond pap shaunbaum's painted portals. the filthy street, the depth of slush, melting under a driving rain, which was at times a partial sleet. the bleak, biting wind, and the heavy pall of racing clouds. then the huddled figures moving to and fro. nor were they by any means all seeking the pleasures their money could buy. the "down-and-outs" shuffled through the uncharitable city day and night, in rain, or sunshine, or snow. but at night they resembled nothing so much as the hungry coyotes of the open, seeking for that wherewith to fill their empty bellies. the knowledge of these things only made the scenes of wanton luxury and vice under the glare of light the more offensive. it was the third night of alec mowbray's last two weeks in leaping horse. how he had fared in his settlement of affairs with the woman who had taken possession of his moral being was not much concern of any one but himself. neither kars nor bill brudenell had heard of any contemplated change in his plans. they had not heard from him at all. nor was this a matter for their great concern. their concern was pap shaunbaum and the passing of the days of waiting while their outfit was being prepared at the camp ten miles distant from the city, for their invasion of bell river. they were watching out for the shadow of possible disaster before the youth could be got away. kars had verified the last detail of the situation in so far as the proprietor of the elysian fields was concerned. nor was he left with any illusions. pap had no intention of sitting down under this terrible public and private hurt a boy from the "inside" had inflicted upon him. the stories abroad were lurid in detail. it was said that the storm which had raged in the final scene between pap and his mistress, when she quit the shelter he had provided for her for good, had been terrible indeed. it was said he had threatened her life in a moment of passion. it was said she had dared him to his face. it was also said that he, the great "gunman," pap, had groveled at her feet like any callow school-youth. these things were open gossip, and each repetition of the tales in circulation gained in elaboration of detail, till all sorts of wild extravagances were accepted as facts. but kars and bill accepted these things at a calm valuation. the side of the affair that they did not treat lightly was the certainty that pap would not sit down under the injury. they knew him. they knew his record too well. whatever jeopardy the woman stood in they were certain of the danger to young alec. of this the stories going about were precise and illuminating. jack beal, the managing director of the yukon amalgam corporation, and a great friend of john kars, had spoken with a certainty which carried deep conviction, coining from a man who was one of the most important commercial magnates of the city. "pap'll kill him sure," he said, in a manner of absolute conviction. "maybe he won't hand him the dose himself. that's not his way these days. but the boy'll get his physic, and his folks best get busy on his epitaph right away." the position was more than difficult. it was well-nigh impossible. none knew better than kars how little there was to be done. they could wait and watch. that seemed to be about all. warning would be useless. it would be worse. the probable result of warning would be to drive the hothead to some dire act of foolishness. even to an open challenge of the inscrutable pap. kars and bill were agreed they dared risk no such calamity. there were the police in leaping horse. but the mounted police were equally powerless, until some breach was actually committed. the interim of waiting was long. to kars, those remaining days before he could get alec away were perhaps the longest and most anxious of his life. for all the sweet eyes of jessie were urging him on behalf of her foolish brother, he felt utterly helpless. but neither he nor bill remained idle. their watch, their secret watch over their charge, was prosecuted indefatigably. every night saw them onlookers of the scene on the dance-floor of the elysian fields. and their vantage ground was the remote interior of one of the boxes. their purpose was simple. it was a certainty in their minds that pap would seek a public vengeance. nor could he take it better than in his own dance hall where maude and alec flouted him every night. thus, if their expectations were fulfilled, they would be on the spot to succor. a watchful eye might even avert disaster. it was the third night of their watch. nor was their vigil without interest beyond its object. bill, who knew by sight every frequenter of the place, spent his time searching for newcomers. but newcomers were scarce at this season of the year. the arrivals had not yet begun from seattle, and the "inside" was already claiming those who belonged to it. kars devoted himself to a distant watch on pap shaunbaum. however the man's vengeance was to come, he felt that he must discover some sign in him of its imminence. pap was at his post amongst the crowd at the bar. his dark face hid every emotion behind a perfect mask. he talked and smiled with his customers, while his quick eyes kept sharp watch on the dancers. but never once did he display any undue interest in the tall couple whose very presence in his hall must have maddened him to a murderous pitch. the clatter of the bar was lost under the joyous strains of the orchestra. its pleasant quality drew forth frequent applause from the light-hearted crowd. many were there who had no thought at all for that which they regarded as a _comedy_. others again, like the men in the box, watched every move, every shade of expression which passed across the face of the jewish proprietor. none knew for certain. but all guessed. and the guess of everybody was of a dénouement which would serve the city with a topic of interest for at least a year. "it's thinner to-night." bill spoke from the shadow of his curtain. "the gang?" kars did not withdraw his gaze. "sure. there's just one guy i don't know. but he don't look like cutting any ice. he's half soused anyhow, with four bottles of wine on the table between him and his dame. when he's through i don't think he'll know the elysian fields from a steam thresher. that blond dame of his looks like rolling him for his 'poke' without a worry. he'll hit the trail for his claim to-morrow without the color of a dime." "which is he?" kars demanded, with a certain interest. "why, right there by that table under the balcony. see that dude with the greased head, and the five dollar nosegay in his coat. there, that one with sadie long and the 'princess.' get the princess with the cream bow and her hair trailing same as it did when she was a child forty years ago. next that outfit." there was deep disgust in the doctor's tones, but there was something like pity in his half-humorous eyes. "he hasn't even cleaned himself," he went on. "looks like he's just quit the drift bottom of a hundred foot shaft, and come right in full of pay dirt all over him. get his outfit. if you ran his pants through a sluice-box you'd get an elegant 'color.' guess even pap won't stand for him if he gets his eyes around his way." kars offered no comment, but he was studying the half-drunken miner closely. at that moment the orchestra struck up again. it was a two step, and for once alec and the beautiful maude failed to make an appearance. "where's the--kid?" said kars sharply. "sitting around, i guess." bill craned carefully. then he sat back. "see him?" demanded kars. "sure. they're together. a bottle of wine's keeping them busy." a look of impatience flashed into the eyes of kars. his rugged face darkened. "it's swinish!" he cried. "it's near getting my patience all out. wine. wine and women. what devil threw his spell over the boy's mother letting him quit her apron strings----" "murray, i guess," interjected bill. "murray! yes!" kars relapsed into silence again. nor did either of them speak again till the music ceased. a vaudeville turn followed. a disgustingly clad, bewigged soubrette murdered a rag time ditty in a rasping soprano, displaying enough gold in her teeth to "salt" a barren claim. no one gave her heed. the lilt of the orchestra elicited a fragmentary chorus from the audience. for the rest the people pursued the prescribed purpose of these intervals in the dance. bill was regarding the stranger from the "inside." "he's not getting noisy drunk," he said. "seems dopey. guess she'll hustle him off in a while." "you guess he's soused?" kars' question startled his companion. "what d'you make it then?" "he hasn't taken a drink since you pointed him out. nor has his dame." both men continued to watch the mud-stained creature. nor was he particularly prepossessing, apart from his general uncleanness. his shock of uncombed, dark hair grew low on his forehead. his dark eyes were narrow. there was something artificial in his lounging attitude, and the manner in which he was pawing the woman with him. "you guess he's acting drunk?" there was concern in bill's voice. "can't say for sure." the orchestra had started a waltz, and the new dance seemed to claim all the dancers. alec and maude were one of the first couples to appear. but the onlookers were watching the stranger. he had roused up, and was talking to his woman. a few moments later they emerged from their table to join the dancers. "going to dance," bill commented. "he sure looks soused." the man was swaying about as he moved. kars' searching gaze missed nothing. the couple began to dance. and for all the man's unsteadiness it was clear he was a good, if reckless, dancer. the sober gait of the other dancers, however, seemed unsuited to his taste, and he began to sweep through the crowd with long racing strides which his woman could scarcely keep pace with. kars stood up. "he'll get thrown out," said bill. "pap won't stand for that play. he'll tear up the floor with his nailed boots." the man had swept round the hall, and he and his partner were lost under the balcony beneath the box in which the "onlookers" were sitting. in a moment a cry came up from beneath them in a woman's voice. another second and a chorus of men's angry voices almost drowned the music. the men in the orchestra were craning, and broad smiles lit some of their faces. other dancers had come to a halt. they, too, were gazing with varying expressions of inquiry and curiosity, but none with any display of alarm. "he's boosted into some one," said bill. a babel of voices came up from below. they were deep with fierce protest. the trouble was gaining in seriousness. kars leaned out of the box. he could see nothing of what was going on. he abruptly drew back, and turned to his companion. "say----" but his words remained unuttered. he was interrupted by a violent shout from below. "you son-of-a----!" bill's hand clutched at kars' muscular arm. "that's the kid! quick! come on!" they started for the door of the box. but, even as the doctor gripped and turned the handle, the sequel to such an epithet in a place like leaping horse came. two shots rang out. then two more followed on the instant. in a moment every light in the place was put out and pandemonium reigned. chapter xxi dr. bill investigates all that had been feared by the two men in the box had come to pass. it had come with a swiftness, a sureness incomparable. it had come with a mercilessness which those who knew him regarded as only to be expected in a man of pap shaunbaum's record. accustomed to an atmosphere very little removed from the lawless, the panic and pandemonium that reigned in the dark was hardly to have been expected on the part of the frequenters of the elysian fields. but it was the sudden blacking out of the scene which had wrought on the nerves. it was the doubt, the fear of where the next shots might come, which sent men and women, shrieking and shouting, stampeding for the doors which led to the hotel. never had the dance hall at the elysian fields so quickly cleared of its revelers. the crush was terrible. women fell and were trampled under foot. it was only their men who managed to save them from serious disaster. fortunately the light in the hotel beyond the doors became a beacon, and, in minutes only, the human tide, bedraggled and bruised, poured out from the darkness of disaster to the glad light which helped to restore confidence and a burning curiosity. but curiosity had to remain unsatisfied for that night at least. the doors were slammed in the faces of those who sought to return, and the locks were turned, and the bolts were shot upon them. the excited crowd was left to melt away as it chose, or stimulate its shaking nerves at the various bars open to it. meanwhile john kars and bill brudenell fumbled their way to the floor below. the uncertainty, the possible danger, concerned them in nowise. alec was in the shooting. they might yet be in time to save him. this thought sent them plunging through the darkness regardless of everything but their objective. as they reached the floor they heard the sharp tones of pap echoing through the darkened hall. "fasten every darn door," he cried. "don't let any of those guys get back in. guess the p'lice'll be along right away. turn up the lights." the promptness with which his orders were obeyed displayed something of the man. it displayed something more to the two hurrying men. it suggested to both their minds that the whole thing had been prepared for. perhaps even the employees of this man were concerned in their chief's plot. as the full light blazed out again it revealed the bartenders still behind the bar. it showed two men at the main doors, and another at each of the other entrances. furthermore, it revealed the drop curtain lowered on the stage, and the orchestra men peering questioningly, and not without fearful glances, over the rail which barred them from the polished dance floor. besides these things pap shaunbaum was hurrying across the hall. his mask-like face displayed no sign of emotion. not even concern. he was approaching two huddled figures lying amidst a lurid splash of their own blood. they were barely a yard from each other, and their position was directly beneath the floor of the box which the "onlookers" had occupied. the three men converged at the same moment. it was the sight of john kars and dr. bill that brought the first sign of emotion to pap's face. "say, this is hell!" he cried. then, as the doctor knelt beside the body of alec mowbray, the back of whose head, with its tangled mass of blood-soaked hair, was a great gaping cavity: "he's out. that pore darn kid's out--sure. say, i wouldn't have had it happen for ten thousand dollars." "no." it was kars who replied. dr. bill was examining the body of the man whose clothing was stained with the auriferous soil of his claim. two guns were lying on the floor beside the bodies. pap moved as though to pick one up. kars' hand fell on his outstretched arm. "don't touch those," he said. "guess they're for the police." pap straightened up on the instant. his dark eyes shot a swift glance into the face of the man he had for years desired to come into closer contact with. it was hardly a friendly look. it was questioning, too. "they'll be around right away. i 'phoned 'em." kars nodded. "good." bill looked up. "out. right out. both of them. guess we best wait for the police." "can't they be removed?" pap's eyes were on the doctor. kars took it upon himself to reply. "not till the p'lice get around." but pap would not accept the dictation. "that so, doc?" he inquired, ignoring kars. "that's so," said bill, with an almost stern brevity. then, in a moment, the jew's face flushed under his dark skin. "the darn suckers!" he cried. "this'll cost me thousands of dollars. it'll drive trade into the gridiron fer weeks. if i'd been wise to that bum being soused he'd have gone out, if he broke his lousy neck." "i'm not dead sure he was soused," said kars. the cold tone of his voice again brought pap's eyes to his face. "what d'you guess?" he demanded roughly. "he wasn't a miner, and he wasn't soused. i guess he was a 'gunman.'" "what d'you mean?" "just what i said. i'd been watching him a while from the box above us. i've seen enough to figger this thing's for the p'lice. we're going to put this thing through for what it's worth, and my bank roll's going to talk plenty." bill had risen from his knees. he was standing beyond the two bodies. his shrewd eyes were steadily regarding pap, who, in turn, was gazing squarely into the cold eyes of john kars. just for a moment it looked as though he were about to fling back hot words at the unquestioned challenge in them. but the light suddenly died out of his eyes. his thin lips compressed, and he shrugged his shoulders. "guess that's up to you," he said, and moved away towards the bar. kars gazed down at the dead form of alec mowbray. all the coldness had gone out of his eyes. it had been replaced with a world of pity, for which no words of his could have found expression. the spectacle was terrible, and the sight of it filled him with an emotion which no sight of death had ever before stirred. he was thinking of the widowed mother. he was thinking of the girl whose gray eyes had taught him so much. he was wondering how he must carry the news to these two living souls, and fling them once more to the depths of despair such as they had endured through the murder of a husband and father. he was aroused from his grievous meditations by a sharp hammering on the main doors. it was the police. kars turned at once. "open that door!" he said sharply to the waiter standing beside it. the man hesitated and looked at pap. kars would not be denied. "open that door," he ordered again, and moved towards it. the man obeyed on the instant. it was two days before the investigation into the tragedy at the elysian fields released dr. bill. being on the spot, and being one of the most skilful medical men in leaping horse, the mounted police had claimed him, a more than willing helper. in two issues the leaping horse _courier_ had dared greatly, castigating the morality of the city, and the elysian fields in particular, under "scare" headlines. for two days the public found no other topic of conversation, and the "shooting" looked like serving them indefinitely. they had been waiting for this thing to happen. they had been given all they desired to the full. a hundred witnesses placed themselves at the disposal of the mounted police, and at least seventy-five per cent of them were more than willing to incriminate pap shaunbaum if opportunity served. nor was john kars idle during that time. his attorneys saw a good deal of him, and, as a result, a campaign to track down the instigator of this shooting was inaugurated. and that instigator was, without a shadow of doubt,--pap shaunbaum. kars saw nothing of bill during those two days of his preoccupation. but the second morning provided him with food for serious reflection. it was a brief note which reached him at noon. it was an urgent demand that he should take no definite action through his legal advisers, should take no action at all, in fact, until he, bill, had seen him, and conveyed to him the results of the investigation. he would endeavor to see him that night. kars studied the position carefully. but he committed himself to no change of plans. he simply left the position as it stood for the moment, and reserved judgment. it was late at night when bill made his appearance. kars was waiting in his apartment with what patience he could. he had spent a busy day on his own mining affairs, which usually had the effect of wearying him. for the last two or three years the commercial aspect of his mining interests came very nearly boring him. it was only the sheer necessity of the thing which drove him to the offices of the various corporations he controlled. but the sight of his friend banished every other consideration from his mind. the shooting of alec mowbray dominated him, just as, for the present, it dominated the little world of leaping horse. he thrust a deep chair forward in eager welcome, and looked on with grave, searching eyes while the doctor flung himself into it with a deep, unaffected sigh of weariness. "guess i haven't had a minute, john," he said. "those police fellers are drivers. say, we always reckon they're a bright crowd. you need to see 'em at work to get a right notion. they've got most things beat before they start." "this one?" kars settled himself in a chair opposite his visitor. his manner was that of a man prepared to listen rather than talk. he stretched his long legs comfortably. "i said 'most.' no-o, not this one. that's the trouble. that's why i wrote you. the police are asking a question. and they've got to find an answer. who fired the shots that shut out that boy's lights?" kars' brows were raised. an incredulous look searched the other's face. "why, that 'gunman'--surely." bill shook his head. he had been probing a vest pocket. now he produced a small object, and handed it across to the other with a keen demand. "what's that?" his eyes were twinkling alertly. kars took the object and examined it closely under the electric light. after a prolonged scrutiny he handed it back. "the bullet of a 'thirty-two' automatic," he said. "sure. dead right. the latest invention for toughs to hand out murder with. the police don't figger there's six of them in leaping horse." "i brought one with me this trip. they're quick an' handy. but--that?" "that?" bill held the bullet poised, gazing at it while he spoke. "i dug that out of that boy's lung. there's another of 'em, i guess. the police have that. they dug theirs out of the woodwork right behind where young alec was standing. it was that opened his head out. those two shots handed him his dose. and the other feller--why, the other feller was _armed with a forty-five colt_." there was nothing dramatic in the manner of the statement. bill spoke with all his usual calm. he was merely stating the facts which had been revealed at the investigation. kars' only outward sign was a stirring of his great body. the significance had penetrated deeply. he realized the necessity of his friend's note. bill went on. "if we'd only seen it all," he regretted. "if we'd seen the shots fired, we'd have been a deal wiser. i'm figgering if we hadn't quit our seats we'd have been wise--much wiser. but we quit them, and it's no use figgering that way. the police have been reconstructing. they're reconstructing right now. there's a thing or two stands right out," he went on reflectively. "and they're mostly illuminating. first alec was quicker with his gun than the other feller. he did that 'gunman' up like a streak of lightning. he didn't take a chance. where he learned his play i can't think. there was a dash of his father in what he did. and he'd have got away with it if--it hadn't been for the automatic from somewhere else. the 'gunman' drew on him first. that's clear. a dozen folk saw it. he'd boosted alec and his dame in the dance, and stretched maude on the floor. and he did it because he meant to. it was clumsy--which i guess was meant, too. i don't reckon it looked like anything but a dance hall scrap. that's where we see pap in it. the 'gunman' got his dose in the pit of his bowels, and a hole in his heart, while his own shots went wide, and spoiled some of the gold paint in the decorations. the police tracked out both bullets that came from his gun. but the automatic?" he drew a deep breath pregnant with regret. "it came from a distant point," he went on, after a pause. "there's folks reckon it came from one of the boxes opposite where we were sitting. how it didn't get some of the crowd standing around keeps me guessing. the feller at the end of that gun was an--artist. he was a jewel at the game. and it wasn't pap. that's as sure as death. pap was standing yarning to a crowd at the bar when all the shots were fired. and the story's on the word of folks who hate him to death. we can't locate a soul who saw any other gun pulled. i'd say pap's got satan licked a mile. "say, john," he went on, after another pause, "it makes this thing look like a sink without any bottom for the dollars you reckon to hand out chasing it up. the boy's out. and pap's tracks--why, they just don't exist. that's all. it looks like we've got to stand for this play the same as we have to stand for most things pap and his gang fancy doing. i'm beat to death, and--sore. looks like we're sitting around like two sucking kids, and we can't do a thing--not a thing." "but there's talk of two 'gunmen.'" kars was sitting up. his attitude displayed the urgency of his thought. "the folks all got it. i've had it all down the sidewalk." his emotions were deeply stirred. they were displayed in the mounting flush under his weather-stained cheeks. in the hot contentiousness of his eyes. he was leaning forward with his feet tucked beneath his chair. "sure you have. so have i. so have the police." bill's reply came after a moment's deliberation. "josh wiseman handed that out. josh reckons he's seen them, and recognized them. but josh is a big souse. he's seeing things 'most all the time. he figgers the feller young alec shot up was one of them--by name peter hara, of 'frisco. the other, we haven't seen, he reckons is 'hand-out' lal. another 'frisco bum. but the police have had the wires going, and they can't track fellers of that name in 'frisco, or anywhere else. still, it's a trail they're hanging to amongst others. and i guess they're not quitting it till they figger josh is right for the bughouse. no," he added with a trouble that would no longer be denied, "the whole thing is, pap's clear. there's not a thing points his way. it's the result of a dance hall brawl, and we--why, we've just got to hand on the whole pitiful racket to two lone women at the fort." for moments the two men looked into each other's eyes. then kars started up. he began to pace the soft carpet with uneven strides. suddenly he paused. his emotions seemed to be again under control. "it seems that way," he said, "unless murray starts out before us." "murray's quit," bill shook his head. "he'd quit the city before this thing happened. the morning of the same day. his whole outfit pulled out with him. he doesn't know a thing of this." "i didn't know he'd quit." kars stood beside the centre table gazing down at the other. "the police looked him up. they wanted to hold up the news from the boy's folks till they'd investigated. he'd been gone twenty-four hours." "i hadn't a notion," kars declared blankly. "i figgered to run him down at adler's." then in a moment his feelings overcame his restraint. "then it's up to--me," he cried desperately. "it's up to me, and it--scares me to death. say--that poor child. that poor little gal." again he was pacing the room. "it's fierce, bill! oh, god, it's fierce!" bill's gravely sympathetic eyes watched the rapid movements of the man as he paced restlessly up and down. he waited for that calmness which he knew was sure to follow in due course. when he spoke his tones had gathered a careful moderation. "sure it's fierce," he said. then he added: "murray drives hard on the trail. this story isn't even going to hit against his heels. say, john, you best let me hand this story on. y'see my calling makes it more in my line. a doctor's not always healing. there's times when he's got to open up wounds. but he knows how to open 'em." "not on your life, bill!" kars' denial came on the instant. "i'm not shirking a thing. i just love that child to death. it's up to me. some day i'm hoping it's coming my way handing her some sort of happiness. that being so i kind of feel she's got to get the other side of things through me. god knows it's going to be tough for her, poor little kid, but well, it's up to me to help her through." there was something tremendously gentle in the man's outburst. he was so big. there was so much force in his manner. and yet the infinite tenderness of his regard for the girl was apparent in every shadow of expression that escaped him. bill understood. but for once the position was reversed. the doctor's kindly, twinkling eyes seemed to have absorbed all that which usually looked out of the other's. they were calm, even hard. there was bitter anger in them. his mellow philosophy had broken down before the human feelings so deeply stirred. he had passed the lover's feelings over for a reversion to the tragedy at the elysian fields. it was the demoniac character of the detested pap shaunbaum. it was the hideous uselessness of it all. it was the terrible viciousness of this leper city which had brought the whole thing about. but was it? his mind went further back. there was another tragedy, equally wanton, equally ferocious. the father as well as the son, and he marveled, and wondered at the purpose of providence in permitting such a cruel devastation of the lives of two helpless, simple women. his sharp tones broke the silence. "yes," he exclaimed, "this thing needs to be hunted down, john. it needs to be hunted down till the 'pound's' paid. those two lone women are my best friends. guess they're something more to you. i can't see daylight. i can't see where it's coming from, anyway. but some one's got to get it. and we need a hand in passing it to him, whoever it is. i feel just now there wouldn't be a thing in the world more comic to me than to see pap shaunbaum kicking daylight with his vulture neck tied up. and i'd ask no better of providence than to make it so i could laugh till my sides split. it's going to mean dollars an' dollars, and time, and a big work. but if we don't do it, why, pap gets away with his play. we can't stand for that. my bank roll's open." "it doesn't need to be." all the gentleness had passed from kars' eyes, from his whole manner. it had become abrupt again. "guess money can't repay those poor folks' losses. but it can do a deal to boost justice along. it's my money that's going to talk. i'm going to wipe out the score those lone women can never hope to. i'm going to pay it. by god, i'm going to pay it!" chapter xxii in the springtime so the day came when the outfit of john kars "pulled out." there had been no change in his plans as the result of alec mowbray's murder. there could be no change in them, so long as hundreds of miles divided this man from the girl who had come to mean for him all that life contained. the old passion for the trail still stirred him. the ishmaelite in him refused to change his nature. but since his manhood had responded to natural claims, since the twin gray stars had risen upon his horizon, a magnetic power held him to a definite course which he had neither power nor inclination to deny. the days before the departure had been busy indeed. they had been rendered doubly busy by the affairs surrounding alec mowbray's death. but all these things had been dealt with, with an energy that left a course of perfect smoothness behind as well as ahead. everything, humanly possible, would be done to hunt down the instigator and perpetrator of the crime, and a small fortune was placed at the disposal of kars' trusted attorneys for that purpose. for the rest he would be personally responsible. in bill brudenell he had a willing and sagacious lieutenant. in abe dodds, and in the hard-living expert prospector, joe saunders, he had a staff for his enterprise on bell river beyond words in capacity and loyalty. but the "outfit." it was called "outfit," as were all such expeditions. it resembled an army in miniature, white and colored. but more than all else it resembled a caravan, and an extensive one. the preparations had occupied the whole of the long winter, and had been wrapped in profound secrecy. the two men who had carried them out, under bill brudenell's watchful eye, had labored under no delusions. they were preparing for a great adventure in the hunt for gold, but they were also preparing for war on no mean scale. their enthusiasm rejoiced in both of these prospects, and they worked with an efficiency that left nothing to be desired. the dispositions at departure were kars' secret. nor were they known until the last moment. the warlike side of the expedition was dispatched in secret by an alternative and more difficult trail than the main communication with fort mowbray. it carried the bulk of equipment. but its way would be shorter, and it would miss fort mowbray altogether, and take up its quarters at the headwaters of snake river, to await the coming of the leaders. abe and saunders would conduct this expedition, while kars and bill traveled via fort mowbray, with peigan charley, and an outfit of packs and packmen such as it was their habit to journey with. the start of the expedition was without herald or trumpet. it left its camp in the damp of a gray spring morning, when, under cover of a gradually lightening dawn, it struck through a narrow valley, where feet and hoofs sank deep into a mire of liquid mud. to the west the hills rose amidst clouds of saturating mist. to the east the rolling country mounted slowly till it reached the foot of vast glacial crests, almost at the limit of human vision. the purpling distance to the west suggested fastnesses remote enough from the northern man, yet in those deep canyons, those wide valleys, along creek-bank and river bed, the busy prospector was ruthlessly prosecuting his quest for the elusive "color," and the mining engineer was probing for nature's most deeply hidden secrets. this was the eldorado john kars had known since his boyhood's days, when the fierce fight against starvation had been bitter indeed. few of the secrets of those western hills were unknown to him. but now that his pouch was full, and the pangs of hunger were only a remote memory, and these hills claimed him only that he was lord of properties within their heart which yielded him fortune almost automatically, his eyes were turned to the north, and to the hidden world eastwards. it was a trail of mud and washout. it was a trail of landslide and flood. it was a dripping land, dank with melting mists, and awash with the slush of the thaw. the skies were pouring out their flood of summer promise, those warming rains which must always be endured before the hordes of flies and mosquitoes swarm to announce the real open season. but these men were hard beyond all complaint at physical discomfort. if they cursed the land they haunted, it was because it was their habit so to curse. it was the curse of the tongue rather than of the heart. for they were men who owed all that they were, or ever hoped to be, to this fierce country north of "sixty." spring was over all. the northern earth was heaving towards awakening from its winter slumber. as it was on the trail, so it was on snake river, where the old black walls of fort mowbray gazed out upon the groaning and booming glacial bed, burying the dead earth beyond the eyes of man. the fount of life was renewing itself in man, in beast, even in the matter we choose to regard as dead. jessie mowbray was watching the broken ice as it swept on down the flooding river. she was clad in an oilskin which had only utility for its purpose. her soft gray eyes were gazing out through the gently falling rain with an awe which the display of winter's break up never failed to inspire in her. the tremendous power of nature held her spellbound. it was all so vast, so sure. she had witnessed these season's changes since her childhood and never in her mind had they sunk to the level of routine. they were magical transformations wrought by the all-powerful fairy, nature. they were performed with a wave of the wand. the iron of winter was swept away with a rush, and the stage was instantly set for summer. but the deepest mystery to her was the glacier beyond the river. every spring she listened to its groaning lamentation with the same feelings stirring. her gentle spirit saw in it a monster, a living, moving, heaving monster, whose voice awoke the echoes of the hills in protest, and whose enveloping folds clung with cruel tenacity to a conquered territory laboring to free itself from a bondage of sterility which it had borne for thousands of years. to her it was like the powers of good battling with influences of evil. it was as though each year, when the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, these powers of good were seeking vainly to overthrow an evil which threatened the tiny human seed planted in the world for the furthering of an all-wise creator's great hidden purpose. the landing was almost awash with the swollen waters. the booming ice-floes swept on. they were moving northwards, towards the eternal ice-fields, to melt or jamb on their way, but surely to melt in the end. and when they had all gone it would be summer. and life--life would be renewed at the post. renewal of the life at the post meant only one thing for jessie. it meant the early return of john kars. the thought of it thrilled her. but the thrill passed. for she knew his coming only heralded his passing on. she sighed and her soft eyes grew misty. nor had the mist to do with the rain which was saturating the world about her. oh, if there were to be no passing on! but she knew she could not hope for so much. there was nothing for him here. besides, he was wedded to the secrets of the long trail. wedded! her moment, of regret passed, and a great dream filled her simple mind. it was her woman's dream of all that could ever crown her life. it was the springtime of her life and all the buoyant hope of the break from a dead winter was stirring in her young veins. she put from her mind the "passing on," and remembered only that he would soon return. her heart was full of a gentle delight as at last she turned back from the river, and sought her home in the clearing. her eyes were shining radiantly when she encountered father josé passing over to his mission from his ministrations to a sick squaw. "been watching the old ice go?" he inquired, smiling into the eyes which looked into his from under the wide brim of a waterproof hat. jessie nodded. "it's spring--isn't it?" she said smiling. her reply summed up her whole mood. the priest understood. "surely. and it's good to see the spring, my child. it's good for everybody, young and old. but," he added with a sigh, "it's specially good for us up here. the indians die like flies in winter. but your mother's asking for you." the girl hurried on. perhaps second to her love for john kars came her affection for her brave mother. ailsa mowbray met her at the threshold. "murray's asking for you," she said, in her simply direct fashion. "he's got plans and things he needs to fix. he told me this morning, but i guess he needs to explain them himself. will you go along up to the fort?" there was nothing in the mother's manner to invite the quick look of doubt which her words inspired. murray had only arrived from leaping horse two days before. since that time he had been buried under an avalanche of arrears of work. even his meals had had to be sent up to him at the fort. he had brought back reports of alec's well-being for the mother and sister. he had brought back all that abounding good-nature and physical and mental energy which dispelled the last shadows of winter loneliness from these women. ailsa mowbray had carried on the easy work of winter at the store, but she was glad of the relief from responsibility which murray's return gave her. but he had laid before her the necessity of a flying visit up country at once, and had urged her to again carry on the store duties in his absence. furthermore he had suggested that jessie's assistance should be enlisted during his absence, since alec was away, and the work would be heavier now that spring was opening. the mother had reluctantly agreed. for herself she had been willing enough. but for jessie she had stipulated that he should place the matter before her himself. she had no desire that the one child remaining to her should be made to slave her days at the fort. she would use none of her influence. her whole interest in the trade which had been her life for so long was waning. there were times when she realized, in the loneliness which had descended upon them with alec's going, that only habit kept her to the life, and even that held her only by the lightest thread. it was coming to her that the years were passing swiftly. the striving of the days at the side of her idolized husband had seemed not only natural, but a delight to her. since his cruel end no such feeling had stirred her. there were her children, and she had realized that the work must go on for them. but now--now that alec had gone to the world outside her whole perspective had changed. and with the change had come the realization of rapidly passing years. there were times, even, when she speculated as to how and where she could set up a new home for her children. a home with which alec could find no fault, and jessie might have the chances due to her age. but these things were kept closely to herself. the habit of years was strong upon her, and, for all her understanding of her wealth, it was difficult to make a change. "can't you tell me, mother? i'd rather have you explain!" the likeness between mother and daughter was very strong. even in the directness with which they expressed their feelings. jessie's feelings were fully displayed in the expression of her preference. "why don't you want to see murray?" the mother's question came on the instant. it came with a suggestion of reproach. "oh, i'm not scared, mother," the girl smiled. "only i don't just see why murray should ask me things you don't care to ask me. that's all." "is it?" the mother's eyes were searching. "nearly." jessie laughed. "best tell me the rest." the girl shook her head decidedly. "no, mother. there's no need. you're wiser than you pretend. murray's a better friend and partner--in business--than anything else. guess we best leave it that way." "yes, it's best that way." the mother was regarding the pretty face before her with deep affection. "but i told murray he'd have to lay his plans before you--himself. that's why he wants to see you up at the fort." the girl's response came at once, and with an impulsive readiness. "then i'll go up, right away," she said. nor was there the smallest display of any of the reluctance she really felt. the girl stood framed in the great gateway of the old stockade. the oilskin reached almost to her slim ankles. it was dripping and the hat of the same material which almost entirely enveloped her ruddy brown head was trailing a stream of water on to her shoulders. murray mctavish saw her from the window of his office. he saw her pause for a few moments and gaze out at the distant view. he remembered seeing her stand so once before. he remembered well. he remembered her expressed fears, and all that which had happened subsequently. the smile on his round face was the same smile it had been then. perhaps it was a smile he could not help. this time he made no move to join her. he waited. and presently she turned and passed round to the door of the store. "mother said you wanted to see me about something. something you needed to explain--personally. that so?" jessie was standing beside the trader's desk. she was looking down squarely into the man's smiling face. there was a curious fearlessness in her regard that was not quite genuine. there was a brusquerie in her manner that would not have been there had there been any one else present. she removed the oilskin hat, and laid it aside on a chair as she spoke, and the revelation of her beautiful chestnut hair, and its contrast with her gray eyes, quickened the man's pulses. he was thinking of her remarkable beauty even as he spoke. "say, it's good of you to come along. you best shed that oilskin." he rose from his desk to assist. but the girl required none of his help. she slipped out of the garment before he could reach her. he accepted the situation, and drew forward the chair from the desk at which alec had been wont to work. "you'll sit," he said, as he placed it for her. but murray's consideration and politeness had no appeal for jessie. she was anxious to be done with the interview. "that's all right," she said, with a short laugh. "the old hill doesn't tire me any. i got the school in an hour, so, maybe, you'll tell me about things right away." "ah, there's the school, and there's a heap of other things that take your time." murray had returned to his desk, and jessie deliberately moved to the window. "it's those things made me want to talk to you. i was wondering how you could fix them so you could hand us a big piece of time up here." "you want me to work around the store?" the girl had turned. her questioning eyes were regarding him steadily. there was no unreality about her manner now. murray's smile would have been disarming had she not been so used to it. "just while i'm--away." there was the smallest possible twist of wryness to the man's lips as he admitted to himself the necessity for the final words. "i see." the girl's relief was so obvious that, for a moment, the man's gaze became averted. perhaps jessie was unaware of the manner in which she had revealed her feelings. perhaps she knew, and had even calculated it. much of her mother's courage was hers. "you'd better make it plain--what you want. exactly. if it's in the interest of things, why, i'll do all i know." murray's remarkable eyes were steadily regarding her again. his mechanical smile had changed its character. it was spontaneous now. but its spontaneity was without any joy. "oh, it's in the interest of--things, or i wouldn't ask it," he said. "y'see," he went on, "i got right back home here to get news of things happening north that want looking into. i've got to pull right away before summer settles down good, and get back again. that being so it sets everything on to your mother's shoulders--with alec away. your mother's good grit. we couldn't find her equal anywhere when it comes to handling this proposition. but she doesn't get younger. and it kind of seems tough on her." he sighed, and his eyes had sobered to a look of real trouble. "y'see, jessie, she's a great woman. she's a mother i'd have been proud to call my own. but she's yours, and that's why i'm asking that you'll weigh in and help her out--the time i'm away. it's not a lot when you see your mother getting older every day, is it? 'specially such a mother. she's too big to ask you herself. that's her way. it makes me feel bad when i get back to find her doing and figgering at this desk when she ought to be sitting around at her ease after all she's done in the past. it's that, or get white help in from down south. and it don't seem good getting white help in, not while we can keep this outfit going ourselves. there's things don't need getting 'outside,' or likely we'll get a rush of whites that'll leave us no better than a bum trading post of the past. it wouldn't be good for us sitting around at this old post, not earning a grub stake, while other folks were eating the--fruit we'd planted." the girl had remained beside the window the whole time he was talking. but her eyes were on him, and she was filled with wonder, and not untouched by the feeling he was displaying. this was a side to his character she had never witnessed before. it astounded. but it also searched every generous impulse she possessed. her answer came on the instant. "you don't need to say another word," she cried. "nothing matters so i can help mother out. i know there's secrets and things. i've every reason to know there are. the good god knows i've reason enough. we all have. what those secrets are i can only guess, and i don't want even to do that--now. i hate them, and wish they'd never been." "your mother would never have been the wealthy woman she is without them." "no, and i'd be glad if that were so." there was a world of passionate sincerity in the girl's denial. it came straight from her heart. the loss of a father could find no compensation in mere wealth. she understood the grasping nature of this man. she understood that commercial success stood out before everything in his desires. her moment of more kindly feeling towards him passed, and a breath of winter chilled her warm young heart. "would you?" the man's smile had returned once more. his questioning eyes had a subtle irony in their burning depths. "sure. a thousand times i'd have us be just struggling traders as we once were. then i'd have my daddy with us, and mother would be the happy woman i've always remembered her--before those secrets." the man stirred with a movement almost of irritation. "there's things i can't just see, child," he said, with a sort of restrained impatience. "you're talking as if you guessed life could be controlled at the will of us folk. you guess your father could have escaped his fate, if he'd left our trade on bell river alone. maybe he could, on the face of things. but could he have escaped acting the way he acted? could any of us? we all got just so much nature. that nature isn't ours to cut about and alter into the shape we fancy. what that nature says 'do,' we just got to do. your nature's telling you to get around and help your mother out. my nature says get busy and see to things up north. well, a landslide, or a blizzard, or any old thing might put me out of business on the way. a storm, or fire might cost you your life right here in this fort. it's the chances of life. and it's the nature of us makes us take the chances. we just got to work on the way we see, and we can't see diff'rent--at will. if we could see diff'rent at will, there's a whole heap i'd have changed in my life. there's many things i'd never have done, and many things i figger to do wouldn't be done. but i see the way i was born, and i don't regret a thing--not a thing--except the shape providence made me. i'm going to live--not die--a rich man, doing the things i fancy, if life don't figger to put me out of business. and i don't care a curse what it costs. it's how i'm born, and it's the nature of me demands these things. i'm going to do all i've set my mind to do, and i'll do it with my last kick, if necessary. do you understand me? that's why i'm glad of those secrets we're talking of. that's why i'll work to the last to hold 'em. that's why i don't mean to let things stand in my way that can be shifted. that's why i'm asking you to help us get busy. our interests i guess are your interests." it was another revelation of the man such as jessie had had at intervals before, and which had somehow contrived to tacitly antagonize her. her nature was rebelling against the material passion of this man. there was something ruthlessly sordid underlying all he said. "i'm glad it doesn't need those feelings to make me want to help my mother," she said quietly. "interests? say, interests of that sort don't matter a thing for me. thought of them won't put an ounce more into the work i'll do to help--my mother. but she counts, and what you said about her is all you need say. the other talk--is just talk." "is it?" the man had risen from his chair. jessie surveyed him with cool measuring eyes. his podgy figure was almost ludicrous in her eyes. his round, fleshy face became almost contemptible. but not quite. he was part of her life, and then those eyes, so strange, so baffling. so alive with an intelligence which at times almost overwhelmed her. "it isn't just talk, jessie," he said approaching her, till he, too, stood in the full light of the window. "maybe you don't know it, but your interests are just these interests i'm saying. it'll come to you the moment you want to do a thing against 'em. oh, i'm not bullying, my dear. i'll show you just how. if a moment came in your life when you figgered to carry out something that appealed to you, and your sense told you it would hurt your mother's proposition right here, you'd cut it out so quick you'd forget you thought of it. why? because it's you. and you figger that no hurt's going to come to your mother from you. there isn't a thing in the world to equal a good woman's loyalty to her mother. not even the love of a girl for a man. there's a whole heap of women-folk break up their married lives for loyalty to a--mother. that's so. and that's why your interests are surely the interests i got back of my head--because they're the interests of your mother." but the girl was uninfluenced by the argument. his words had come rapidly. but she saw underneath them the great selfish purpose which was devouring the man. her antagonistic feeling was unabated. she shook her head. "you can't convince me with that talk," she said coldly. "i wouldn't do a thing to hurt my mother. that's sure. but interests to be personal need to be backed by desire. i hate all that robbed me of a father." the man shook his head. "we most always get crossways," he said. "and it's the thing i just hate--with you." suddenly he laughed aloud. "say, jessie, i wonder if you'd feel different to my argument if i didn't carry sixty pounds too much weight for my size? i wonder if i stood six feet high, and had a body like a greek statue, you'd see the sense of my talk." the girl missed the earnestness lying behind the man's smiling eyes. she missed the passionate fire he masked so well. she too laughed. but her laugh was one of relief. "maybe. who knows," she said lightly. but, in a moment, regret for her unguarded words followed. "before god, jessie, if i thought by any act of mine i could get you to feel diff'rent towards me, i'd rake out all the ashes of the things i've figgered on all these years, to please you. i'd break up all the hopes and objects, and ambitions i've set up, if it pleased you i should act that way. i'd live the life you wanted. i'd act the way you chose. "say, jessie," he went on, with growing passion, "i've wanted to tell you all there is in the back of my head for months. i've wanted to tell you the work i'm doing, the driving towards great wealth, is just because i've sort of built up a hope you'd some day help me spend it. but you've never given me a chance. not a chance. i had to tell you this to-day. it's got to be now--now--or never. i'm going away on work that has to be done, and i can't just wait another day till i've told you these things. "if you'd marry me, jessie," the man continued, while the girl remained mute, dumbfounded by the suddenness with which the passionate outburst had come, "i'd hand you all you can ever ask in life. we'd quit this god-forgotten land, and set up home where the sun's most always shining, and our money counts for all that we guess is life. don't turn me down for my shape. think of what it means. we can quit this land with a fortune that would equal the biggest in the world. i know. i hold the door to it. your mother and i. i just love you with a strength you'll never understand. all those things i've talked of are just nothing to the way i love you. say, child----" the girl broke in on him with a shake of the head. it was deliberate, final. even more final than her spoken words which sought for gentleness. "don't--just don't say another word," she cried. she started. for an instant her beautiful eyes flashed to the window. then they came back to the dark eyes which were glowing before her. in a moment it seemed to her they had changed from the pleading, burning passion to something bordering on the sinister. "i don't love you. i never could love you, murray," she said a little helplessly. there was the briefest possible pause, and a sound reached them from outside. but the man seemed oblivious to everything but the passion consuming him. and the manner of that seemed to have undergone a sudden change. "i know," he broke out with furious bitterness and brutal force. "it's because of that man. that kars----" "don't dare to say that," jessie cried, with heightened color and eyes dangerously wide. "you haven't a right to speak that way. you----" "haven't i?" there was no longer emotion in the man's voice. neither anger, nor any gentler feeling. it was the tone jessie always knew in murray mctavish. it was steady, and calm, and, just now, grievously hurtful. "well, maybe i haven't, since you say so. but i'm not taking your answer now. i can't. i'll ask you again--next year, maybe. maybe you'll feel different then. i hope so." he swung about with almost electrical swiftness as his final words came with a low, biting emphasis. and his movement was in response to the swift opening of the door of the office. john kars was standing in its framing. chapter xxiii the darkness before dawn it was a moment of intensity such as rarely fails to leave a landmark in the lives of those concerned. for murray mctavish it was as though every fear that had ever haunted him from the rivalry of john kars had suddenly been translated into concrete form. for jessie the hero of all her dreams had magically responded to her unspoken appeal for succor. john kars felt something approaching elation at the unerring instinct which had prompted his visit to the fort on the instant of arrival. bill brudenell looked on as usual with eyes calm in their passionless wisdom. to him fortune's wheel was distinctly revolving in their favor. passing the window both he and kars had caught and read the girl's half terrified glance. both of them had seen murray standing before her, and realized something of the passionate urgency of manner he was laboring under. their interpretation of the scene remained each to himself. no word passed between them. only had kars' gait increased as he hurried round towards the door. now kars' tone gave his friend and supporter infinite satisfaction. bill even felt he had miscalculated the primal instincts which governed this man. he knew he was exercising a powerful restraint. and it pleased as well as astonished him. "why, say, you folks, i'm glad to have found you right away," kars said, with perfect cordiality. "we just pulled in on the trail, and came right along up while charley fixes things. we weren't sure of getting murray this time of year." murray was completely master of himself. he was smiling his usual greeting while john kars shook hands with jessie. nor was his smile any the less that his rival's words were for jessie rather than for him. he watched the new look born in the girl's eyes at sight of kars without a sign of emotion. and though it roused in him a fury of jealousy his response only seemed to gain in cordiality. he laughed. "you're kind of lucky, too," he said. "i only got in from leaping horse two days back, and i'm pulling out north right away." it was bill who answered him. jessie had picked up her oilskin, and kars was assisting her into it. "you only got in two days back?" bill's brows were raised questioningly. "you didn't drive as hard in the trail as folks guess." his shrewd eyes were twinkling as he watched the shadow of annoyance pass swiftly across the trader's face. but murray excused himself, and his excuse seemed to afford dr. bill a certain amusement. "the trail was fierce," he said, with a shrug. "the devil himself couldn't have got a hustle on." "no. we came the same trail." kars seemed oblivious to what was passing between the two men. he seemed to have no concern for any one but jessie. "you going right down home now?" he asked. his eyes were smiling gently into the girl's upturned face, for all that his mind was full of the tragic news he had yet to convey. he was so big as he stood there fastening the coat about her neck. his rugged face was a picture of strength as he searched out the fastening of the collar and secured it. his fur-lined pea-jacket, stained and worn, his loose, travel-stained trousers tucked into his heavy knee boots. these things aggravated his great bulk, and made him a very giant of the world it was his whim to roam. the girl's moment of fear had entirely passed. there could be no shadow for her where he was. nor had the rapid beatings of her heart anything to do with the scene through which she had just passed. it was the touch of his great hands that stirred her with a thrill exquisite beyond words. "why, yes," she answered readily. "i've got school at the mission. i came up to get murray's plans he needed to fix. he's going north, as he said, and guessed i ought to help mother right here while he's away. you see, we haven't got alec now." "no." the smile passed out of kars' eyes. the girl's final words shocked him momentarily out of his self-command. there was one other at least who held his breath for what was to follow that curt negative. but bill brudenell need have had no fear. "but you'll be through after a while," kars went on with a swift return to his usual manner. "i'll be along down to pay my respects to your mother. meanwhile bill and i need a yarn with murray here. we're stopping a while." while he was speaking he accompanied the girl to the door and watched her till she had passed the angle of the building in the direction of the gates of the stockade. then he turned back to the trader, who was once more seated at his desk. his whole manner had undergone a complete change. there was no smile in his eyes now. there was a stern setting of his strong jaws. he glanced swiftly at bill, who had moved to the window. then his eyes came back to the mechanical smile on murray's face. "alec's out," he said. "he was shot up in the dance hall at the elysian fields. it happened the night of the day you pulled out. he ran foul of a 'gunman' who'd been set on his trail. he did the 'gunman' up. but he was done up, too. it's one of the things made us come along up to you right away." john kars made his announcement without an unnecessary word, without seeking for a moment to lessen any effect which the news might have on this man. he felt there was no need for any nicety. the effect of his announcement was hardly such as he might have expected. there was a sort of amazed incredulity in murray's dark eyes and his words came haltingly. "shot up? but--but--you're fooling. you--you must be. god! you--must be!" kars shrugged. "i tell you alec is dead. shot up." there was a hard ring in his voice that robbed his words of any doubt. "god!" then came a low, almost muttered expression of pity. "the poor darn women-folk." the last vestige of murray's mechanical smile had gone. an expression of deep horror had deadened the curious light in his eyes. he sat nerveless in his chair, and his bulk seemed to have become flabby with loss of vitality. bill was watching the scene from the window. "yes. it's going to be terrible--for them." kars spoke with a force which helped disguise his real emotions. by a great effort murray pulled himself together. "it's--it's shaunbaum," he said. then he went on as though to himself: "it's over--that woman. and i warned him. gee, i warned him for all i knew! josh wiseman was right. oh, the crazy kid!" kars, looking on, remembered that this man had lied when he had said that he had urged alec to quit his follies. he remembered that he had given alec money, his money, to help him the further to wallow in the muck of leaping horse. he remembered these things as he gazed upon an outward display of grief, and listened to words of regrets which otherwise must have carried complete conviction. he saw no necessity to add anything. and in a moment murray had started into an attitude of fierce resentment, and crashed his fleshy fist down upon the pages of the ledger before him. "i warned him," he cried fiercely, his burning eyes fixed on the emotionless face of his rival. "god! i warned him. i had it from josh wiseman the 'gunmen' were around. shaunbaum's 'gunmen.' say, kars," he went on, reaching out with his clenched fist for emphasis, "that boy was in my hotel to tell me he was quitting the city on a big play for a great stake. and i tell you it was like a weight lifted right off my shoulders. i saw him getting shut of shaunbaum and that woman. i told him i was glad, and i told him josh wiseman's yarn. i told him they reckoned shaunbaum meant doing him up some way. an' he laffed. just laffed, and--guessed he was glad. and now--they've got him. it's broke me all up. but the women. jessie! his mother! say, it's going to break their hearts all to pieces." kars stirred in his chair. "we figgered that way," he said coldly. "that's why we came around to you first. i'm going to tell the women-folk. and when i've told 'em i guess you'll need to stop around a while. that's if you reckon this place is to--- say, they'll need time--plenty. it's up to you to help them by keeping your hand on the tiller of things right here." murray leaned back in his chair. his forcefulness had died out under kars' cold counsel. "yes, it's up to me," he said with a sort of desperate regret. presently he looked up. a light of apprehension had grown in his dark eyes. "you said _you'd_ tell them?" he demanded eagerly. "say, i couldn't do it. i haven't the grit." "i'm going to tell them." there was no relaxing of manner in kars. a deep relief replaced murray's genuine dread. and presently his fleshy chin sank upon his broad bosom in an attitude of profound dejection. his eyes were hidden. his emotion seemed too deep for further words. bill, watching, beheld every sign. nothing escaped him. for some moments the silence remained. then, at last, it was murray who broke it. he raised his eyes to the cold regard of the man he had so cordially come to hate. "shaunbaum isn't going to get away with it?" he questioned. "the p'lice? they've got a cinch on him?" "shaunbaum won't get away with it." "they've--arrested him?" kars shook his head. "no. shaunbaum didn't shoot him. the boy did the 'gunman' up. you see, it was the outcome of a brawl. there's no one to arrest--yet." "who did shoot him up? the other 'gunman'? josh spoke of two. can't he be got? he could give shaunbaum away--maybe." "that's so. guess that's most how it stands. maybe it was the other 'gunman.'" murray's satisfaction was obvious. he nodded. "sure. it's shaunbaum's play. there's no question. everybody got it ahead. it wouldn't be his way to see another feller snatch his dame without a mighty hard kick. it's shaunbaum--sure." he bestirred himself. all his old energy seemed to spring suddenly into renewed life. again came that forceful gesture of the fist which bill watched with so much interest, and the binding of the ledger creaked under its force. "by god! i hope they get him and hang him by his rotten vulture neck! he's run his vile play too long. he's a disease--a deadly, stinking, foul disease. maybe it was a 'gunman' did the shooting. but i'd bet my life it was shaunbaum behind him. and to think these poor lone women-folk, hundreds of miles away from him, should be the victims. see here, kars, i'm no sort of full-fledged angel. i don't set myself up as any old bokay of virtue. there's things count more with me, and one of 'em's dollars. i'm out after all i can get of 'em. but i'd give half of all i possess to see a rawhide tight around shaunbaum's neck so it wouldn't give an inch. i haven't always seen eye to eye with young alec. maybe our temperaments were sort of contrary. but this thing's got me bad. before god, there's not a thing i wouldn't do to save these poor women-folk hurt. they're right on their lonesome now. do you get all that means to women-folk? there isn't a soul between them and the world. you ask me to stand by. you ask me to keep my hand on the tiller of things. i don't need the asking--by any one. i was allan's partner, and allan's friend. it's my duty and my right to get in between these poor folk and a world that would show them small enough mercy. and i don't hand my right to any man living. i got to thank you coming along to me. but it don't need you, or any other man, to ask me to get busy for the sake of these folk. you can reckon on me looking after things right here, kars. i'm ready to do all i know. and god help any one who'd rob them of a cent. allan left his work only half done. it was for them. and i'm going to carry it through. the way he'd have had it." the rain had ceased. a watery sunshine had broken through the heavy clouds which were reluctantly yielding before a bleak wintry wind. it was the low poised sun of afternoon in the early year, and its warmth was as ineffectual as its beam of light. but it shone through the still tightly sealed double windows of ailsa mowbray's parlor, a promise which, at the moment, possessed neither meaning nor appeal. the widowed mother was standing near the wood stove which radiated a welcome warmth, and still roared its winter song through its open dampers. john kars was leaning against the centre table. his serious eyes were on the ruddy light shining under the damper of the stove. his strong hands were gripping the woodwork of the table behind him. his grip was something in the nature of a clutching support. his fixed gaze was as though he had no desire to shift it to the face of the woman on whom he had come to inflict the most cruel agony a woman may endure. "you have come to talk to me of alec? yes? what of him?" ailsa mowbray's eyes, so steady, so handsome, eyes that claimed so much likeness to jessie's, were eager. then, in a moment, a note of anxiety found expression. "he--is well?" the man's own suffering at that moment was lacerating. all that was in him was stirred to its deepest note. it was as though he were about to strike this woman down, a helpless, defenceless soul, and all his manhood revolted. he could have wept tears of bitterness, such as he had never dreamed could have been wrung from him. "no." "what--has happened? quick! tell me!" the awful apprehension behind the mother's demand found no real outward sign. she stood firmly--unwaveringly. only was there a sudden suppressed alarm in her voice. kars stirred. the jacket buttoned across his broad chest seemed to stifle him. a mad longing possessed him to reach out and break something. the pleasant warmth of the room had suddenly become unbearable. he could no longer breathe in the atmosphere. he raised his eyes to the mother's face for one moment. the next they sought again the ruddy line of the stove. "he--is dead." "dead? oh, no! not that! oh--god help me!" kars had no recollection of a mother's love. he had no recollection of anything but the hard blows in a cruel struggle for existence, beside a man whose courage was invincible, but in whom the tender emotions at no time found the smallest display. but all that which he had inherited from the iron man who had founded his fortunes had failed to rob him of any of the gentler humanity which his unremembered mother must have bestowed upon him. his whole being shrank under the untold agony of this mother's denial and ultimate appeal. now he spoke rapidly. the yearning to spare this woman, who had already suffered so much, urged him. to prolong the telling he felt would be cruelty unthinkable. he felt brevity to be the only way to spare her. "he was shot by a tough," he said. "it was at the elysian fields. he was dancing, and there was a quarrel. if blame there was for alec it was just his youth, i guess. just sit, and i'll hand it you--all." he moved from the table. he came to the mother's side. his strong hand rested on her shoulder, and somehow she obeyed his touch and sank into the chair behind her. it was the chair from which she had watched her little world grow up about her, the chair in which she had pondered on the first great tragedy of her life. her lips were unmoving. her eyes terrible in their stony calm. they mechanically regarded the man before her with so little understanding that he wondered if he should proceed. presently, however, he was left no choice. "go on," she said, and her hands clasped themselves in her lap with a nerve force suggesting the physical clinging which remained her only support. and at her bidding the man talked. he told his story in naked outline, smothering the details of her boy's delinquencies, and sparing her everything which could wound her mother's pride and devotion. his purpose was clearly defined. the wound he had to inflict was well-nigh mortal, but no word or act of his should aggravate it. his story was a consummate effort of loyalty to the dead and mercy to the living. even in the telling he wondered if those wide-gazing, stricken eyes were reading somewhere in the depths of his soul the real secrets he was striving so ardently to withhold. he could not tell. his knowledge of women was limited, so limited. he hoped that he had succeeded. at the conclusion of his pitiful story he waited. his purpose was to leave the woman to her grief, believing that time, and her wonderful courage, would help her. but it was difficult, and all that was in him bade him stay, and out of his own great courage seek to help her. he stirred. the moment was dreadful in its hopelessness. "jessie will be along," he said. the mother looked up with a start. "yes," she said. "she's all i have left. oh, god, it will break her young heart." there was no thought of self in that supreme moment. the mother was above and beyond her own sufferings, even when the crushing grief was beating her down with the full force of merciless blows. her thought for the suffering of her one remaining child was supreme. the man's hands gripped till his nails almost cut the hard flesh of his palms. he had no answer for her words. it was beyond his power to answer such words. he turned with a movement suggesting precipitate flight. but his going was arrested by the voice he knew and loved so well. "what--what--will break her young heart?" jessie was standing just within the room, and the door was closed behind her. her eyes were on the drawn face of her mother, but, somehow, it seemed to kars that her words were addressed to him. in the agony of his feelings he was about to answer. perhaps recklessly. for somehow the dreadful nature of his errand was telling on a temper unused to such a task. but once again the fortitude of the elder woman displayed itself, and he was saved from himself. "i'll tell you, jessie, when--he's gone." and the handsome, tragic eyes looked squarely into the man's. for a moment the full significance of the mother's words remained obscure to the man. then the courage, the strength of them made themselves plain. he realized that this grief-stricken woman was invincible. nothing--just nothing could break her indomitable spirit. in the midst of all her suffering she desired to spare him, to spare her one remaining child. there could be no reply to such a woman. nor could he answer the girl--now. he came towards her. resting one great hand on the oilskin covering her shoulders, he looked down into her questioning, troubled eyes with infinite tenderness. "jessie, there's things i can say to you i can't say even to your mother. i want to say them now, with her looking on. i can't put all i feel into words. those things don't come easy to me. you see, i've never had anything beyond my own concerns to look after, ever before in my life. other folks never kind of seemed to figger with me. maybe i'm selfish. it seems that way. but now--why, now that's all changed. things i always guessed mattered don't matter any longer. and why? why? because there's just two women in the world got right into my heart, and everything else has had to make way for them. do you get me, child? maybe you don't. well, it's just that all i am or ever hope to be is for you. it don't matter the miles between us, or the season. when i get your call i'll answer--right away." chapter xxiv the first streak of dawn fort mowbray was enveloped in a black cloud of tragedy. its simple life flickered on. but it seemed to have been robbed of all its past reality, all its quiet strength, all that made it worth while. nor was the change confined to the white people. even the indians, those stoic creatures born to the worst buffets life knows how to inflict, whose whole object at the mission was white man's bounty, to be paid for by the worship of the white man's god, yielded to the atmosphere of hopelessness prevailing. alec had been the young white chief after the great hunter who had paid his debt at the hands of the bell river terror. he, too, was gone, and they felt that they were in the hands of the "smiling one" for whom their regard was chiefly inspired by fear. the little white father was their remaining hope, and he was very, very old. so they set up their lamentations, surrounding them with all the rites of their race. the old women crooned their mystic tuneless dirges. the younger "charmed" the evil spirits haunting their path. the men sat in long and profound council which was beset with doubt of the future. ailsa mowbray and jessie fought out their own battle, as once before they had had to fight, and herein their native fortitude strove on their behalf. for days they saw no one but the little priest who remained ever at their call. the primitive in their lives demanded for them that none should witness their hurt. they asked neither sympathy nor pity, wherein shone forth the mother's wondrous courage which had supported her through every trial. the days passed without the departure of kars and bill. the excuse was the state of the river, by which they were to make the headwaters. the ice was still flowing northward, but in ever lessening bulk, and the time was filled in with repairs to the canoes which had suffered during the long portage of the trail. this was the excuse, but it was only excuse. both men knew it, and neither admitted it verbally. the condition of the river would not have delayed john kars in the ordinary way. there was always the portage. the truth lay in the passionate yearning of the heart of a man who had remained so long beyond the influence of a woman upon his life. he had set his task firmly before him, but its fulfilment now must wait till he had made sure for himself of those things which had suddenly become the whole aim and desire of his future. he could not leave the fort for the adventure of bell river till he had put beyond all doubt the hopes he had built on the love that had become the whole meaning of earthly happiness to him. bill understood this. so he refrained from urging, and checked the impatient grumbling of peigan charley without much regard for the scout's feelings. murray mctavish continued at his post, undemonstrative, without a sign. the stream of spring traffic, which consisted chiefly of outfitting on credit the less provident trappers and pelt-hunters for their summer campaign, went on without interruption. his projected journey had been definitely abandoned. but for all his outward manner he was less at his ease than would have seemed. his eyes were upon kars at all times. his delayed departure irritated him. perhaps he, too, like bill brudenell, understood something of its meaning. although his outward seeming had undergone no change, there was a subtle difference in murray. his trade methods had hardened. the trappers who appealed to him in their need left him with a knowledge that their efforts must be increased if they were to pay off their credits, and keep up their profits for the next winter's supplies. then, too, he avoided kars, who was sharing the padre's hospitality, and even abandoned his nightly visits to the priest, which had been his habit of years. it was as rarely as possible that he came down to the mission, and the clearing only saw him when the demand of nature made his food imperative. it was one day, just after his midday dinner, that murray encountered father josé. he was leaving ailsa mowbray's house, and the old priest protested at his desertion. the trader's answer was ready on the moment. "i hate it, padre," he said, with unnecessary force. "but i can't act diff'rent. i got to get around for food or starve. this place wouldn't see me in months else. you see, i had too much to do with that boy going down to leaping horse. and it's broke me up so bad i can't face it yet--even to myself. guess mrs. mowbray understands that, too. say, she's a pretty great woman. if she weren't i'd be scared for our proposition here. she must get time. they both must, and the less they see of me, why, it's all to the good. time'll do most things for women--for us all, i guess. then, maybe things'll settle down--later." and the priest's reply was characteristic. it was the reply of a man who has endured life in the land north of "sixty" for the sheer love of the dark souls it is his desire to help. "yes," he said, with a sigh. "time can heal almost anything. but it can't hide the scars. that's the work that falls to the grave." murray remained silent while the priest helped himself to snuff. the little man's eyes became tenderly reflective as he went on. "sixty years i've been looking around at things. and my conceit made me hope to read something of the meaning that lies behind the things providence hands out." he shook his white head. "it's just conceit. i'm not beyond the title page. maybe the text inside isn't meant for me. for any of us. it just bewilders. these folk. i've known them right through from the start. i can see allan now fixing that old fort into order, that old fort with all its old-time wickedness behind it. i've watched him, and his wife, and his kiddies, as only a lonely man in this country can study the folk about him. wholesome, clean, god-fearing. that was allan and his folk in my notion. they fought their battle with clean hands, and--merciful. it mostly seemed to me god, was in their hearts all the time. they endured and fought, and it wasn't always easy. now?" his eyes were gazing thoughtfully at the home which had witnessed so much happiness and so much sorrow. "why, now god's hand has fallen heavy--heavy. it seems providence means to drive them from the garden. the flaming sword is before their eyes. it has fallen on them, and they must go. the reason?" again came that meditative head-shake. "it's god's will. so be it." murray drew a deep breath. he was less impressed by the priestly view than with the implication. "driving them out?" he questioned, his curious eyes searching the wise old face. "it seems that way. mrs. mowbray won't pass another winter here. it's not good to pitch camp on the grave of your happiness." "no." murray stood looking after the little man, whom nothing stayed in his mission of mercy. he watched him vanish within the woods, in the direction of the indian encampment. so two weeks, two long weeks passed, and each day bore its own signs of the last efforts of winter in its reluctant retreat. and spring, in its turn, was invincible, and it marched on steadily, breathing its fresh, invigorating warmth upon an earth it was seeking to make fruitful. the cloud of disaster slowly began to lift. nothing stands still. nothing can stand still. the power of life moves on inexorably. it brings with it its disasters and its joys, but they are all passing emotions, and are of so small account in the tremendous scheme being slowly worked out by an infinite power. the blow which had fallen on jessie mowbray had robbed her for the moment of all joy in the coming of john kars. but her love was deep and real, and, for all her sorrow, she had neither power nor desire to deny it. in her darkest moments there was a measure of comfort in it. it was something on which she could lean for support. even in her greatest depths of suffering it buoyed her, all unknown, perhaps, but nevertheless. so, as the days passed, and the booming of the glacier thundered under the warming spring sunlight, she yearned more and more for the gentle sympathy which she knew he would readily yield. thus it came that kars one day beheld her on the landing, gazing at the work which was going on under his watchful eye. it was the revelation he had awaited. that night he conferred with bill, with the resulting decision of a start to be made within two days. the wonder of it. god's world. a world of life and hope. the winter of nature's despair driven forth beyond the borders to the outland drear of eternal northern ice. the blue of a radiant sky, flecked with a fleece, white as driven snow, frothing waves tossed on the bosom of a crisp spring breeze. the sun playing a delicious hide-and-seek, at moments flashing its brilliant eye, and setting the channels of life pulsating with hope, and again lost behind its screen of alabaster, that only succeeded in adding to its promise. as yet the skeleton arms of the winter woods remained unclad. but wild duck and geese were on the wing, sweeping up from the south in search of the melting sloughs and flooded hollows, pastures laid open to them by the rapid thaw. the birth of the new season was accomplished, and the labor of mother earth was a memory. they were at the bank of the river again. they were in the heart of the willow glade, still shorn of its summer beauty. the man was standing, large, dominating before her, but obsessed by every unmanly fear. the girl was sitting on a fallen tree-trunk, whose screen of tilted roots set up a barrier which shut her from the view of the frowning glances of the aged fort above them, and whose winter-starved branches formed a breakwater in the ice cold flood of the stream. jessie's pretty eyes were gazing up into the man's face. a quick look of alarm had replaced, for the moment, the shadow of grief which had so recently settled in them. her plain cloth skirt had only utility to recommend it. her shirt-waist was serviceable in seasons as uncertain as the present. the loose buckskin coat, which reached to her knees, and had been fashioned and beaded by the mission squaws, had picturesqueness. but she gained nothing from these things as a setting for her beauty. but for kars, at least, her beauty was undeniable. her soft crown of chestnut hair, hatless, at the mercy of the mood of the breeze, to him seemed like a ruddy halo crowning a face of a childlike purity. her gentle gray eyes were to him unfathomable wells of innocence, while her lips had all the ripeness of a delicious womanhood. "you were scared that day we pulled into the fort," he had said, in his abrupt way. he had been talking of his going on the morrow. and the change of subject had come something startlingly to the girl. "yes," she admitted, almost before she was aware of it. "that's how i guessed," he said. "i reached the office on the dead jump--after i saw. why? murray had you scared. how?" there was no escape from the man's searching gaze. jessie felt he was probing irresistibly secrets she vainly sought to keep hidden. subterfuge was useless under that regard. "murray asked me to marry him. he--asked me just then. i--wish he hadn't." "why?" the inexorable pressure was maintained. jessie tried to avoid his eyes. she sought the aid of the bubbling waters, racing and churning amongst the branches of the fallen tree. she would have resented such catechism even in her mother. but she was powerless to deny this man. "why?" she echoed at last. suddenly she raised her eyes to his again. they were frankly yielding. "guess i'd rather have murray guiding a commercial proposition than hand me out the schedule of life." "you don't like him, and you're scared of him. i wonder why." the girl sat up. she flung back her head, and her outspread hands supported her, resting on the tree-trunk on either side of her. "say, why do you talk that way?" she protested. "is it always your way to drive folks? i thought that was just murray's way. not yours. but you're right, anyway. i'm scared of murray when he talks love. i'm scared, and don't believe. i'd as lief have his hate as his love. and--and i haven't a thing against him." there was a sort of desperation in the girl's whole manner of telling of her fears. it hurt the man as he listened. but his pressure was not idle. he was seeking corroboration of those doubts which haunted him. doubts which had only assailed him for the first time when he learned of the nature of murray's freight with john dunne, and which had received further support in his realization of the man's lies on the subject of alec. "i've got to talk that way," he said. "i'm not yearning to drive you any. say, jessie, if there's a person in this world i'd hate to drive it's you. if there's a thing i could do to fix things easy for you, why, a cyclone couldn't stop me fixing them that way. but i saw the scare in your eyes through the window of that feller's office, and i just had to know about it. i can't hand you the things tumbling around in the back of my head. i don't know them all myself, but there's things, and they're things i can't get quit of. maybe some time they'll straighten out, and when they do i'll be able to show them to you. meanwhile, we'll leave 'em where they are, and simply figger i'm thinking harder than i ever thought in my life, and those thoughts are around you, and for you, all the time." the simplicity of his words and manner robbed the girl of all confusion. a great delight surged through her heart. this great figure, this strong man, with his steady eyes and masterful methods was setting himself her champion before the world. the lonely spirit of the wilderness was deeply in her heart, and the sense of protection became something too rapturous for words. her frank eyes thanked him though her lips remained dumb. "i'm quitting to-morrow," he went on. "but i couldn't go till i'd made a big talk with you. bill's been on the grouch days. and charley? why, charley's come nigh raising a riot. but i had to wait--for you." he paused. nor from his manner could any one have detected the depths of emotion stirred in him. a great fear possessed him, and his heart was burdened with the crushing weight of it. for the first time in his life his whole future seemed to have passed into other hands. and those hands were the brown sunburnt hands, so small, so desirable, of this girl whose knowledge and outlook were bounded by the great wilderness they had loved, and so often vilified together. to him it seemed strange, yet so natural. to him it seemed that for the first time he was learning something of the real meaning of life. never had he desired a thing which was beyond his power to possess. doubt had never been his. now he knew that doubt was a hideous reality, and the will of this girl could rob him beyond all hope of all that made his life worth while. he drew a deep breath. it was the summoning of the last ounce of purpose and courage in him. he flung all caution aside, he paused not for a single word. he became the veriest suppliant at the shrine where woman reigns supreme. "y'see, jessie, i want to tell you things. i want to tell you i love you so that nothing else counts. i want to tell you i've been traipsing up and down this long trail hunting around all the while for something, and i guessed that something was--gold. so it was. i know that now. but it wasn't the gold we men-folk start out to buy our pleasures with. it was the sort of gold that don't lie around in 'placers.' it don't lie anywhere around in the earth. it's on top. it walks around, and it's in a good woman's heart. well, say," he went on, moving towards the tree-trunk, and sitting down at the girl's side, "i found it. oh, yes, i found it." his voice had lowered to an appealing note which stirred the girl to the depths of her soul. she sat leaning forward. her elbows were resting on her knees, and her hands were clasped. her soft gray eyes were gazing far out down the naked avenue ahead without seeing. her whole soul was concentrated on the radiant vision of the paradise his words opened up before her. "i found it," he went on. "but it's not mine--yet. not by a sight. pick an' shovel won't hand it me. the muscles that have served me so well in the past can't help me now. i'm up against it. i guess i'm well-nigh beat. i can't get that gold till it's handed me. and the only hands can pass it my way are--yours." he reached out, and one hand gently closed over the small brown ones clasped so tightly together. "just these little hands," he continued, while the girl unresistingly yielded to his pressure. "say, they're not big to hold so much of the gold i'm needing. look at 'em," he added, gently parting them, and turning one soft palm upwards. "but it's all there. sure, sure. i don't need a thing they can't hand me. not a thing." he closed his own hand over the upturned palm. "if i got all this little hand could pass me there isn't a thing i couldn't do. say, little jessie, there's a sort of heaven on this earth for us men-folk. it's a heaven none of us deserve. and it lies in the soul of one woman. if she guesses to open the gate, why, we can walk right in. it she don't choose that way, then i guess there's only perdition waiting around to take us in. well, i got to those gates right now." one arm unobtrusively circled the girl's waist, and slowly its pressure drew her towards him. "and i'm waiting. it's all up to you. i'm just standing around. maybe--maybe you'll--open those gates?" the girl's head gently inclined towards him. in a moment her lips were clinging to his. those ripe, soft, warm lips had answered him. later--much later, when the warming sun had absorbed the fleecy screen which had served its earlier pastime, and the spring breeze had hastily sought new fields upon which to devote its melting efforts, jessie found courage to urge the single regret these moments had left her. "and you still need to quit--to-morrow?" she asked shyly. "more surely than ever." "why?" a smile lit the man's eyes. she was using his own pressure against himself. he suddenly sprang from his seat. the girl, too, rose and stood confronting him with questioning eyes. she was tall. for all his great size he was powerless to rob her of one inch of the gracious form which her mother had bestowed upon her. he held out his hands so that they rested on her shoulders. he gazed down into her face with eyes filled with a joy and triumph unspeakable. and he spoke out of the buoyant strength of his heart, which was full to overflowing. "because, more than ever i need to go--now. say, my dear, there's folks who've hurt you in this world. they've hurt you sore. i'm going to locate 'em up here, and down at leaping horse. and when i've located them they're going to pay. do you get what that means? no. you can't. your gentle heart can't get it all, when men set out to make folk who've hurt women-folk bad pay for their doings. and i'm glad. i know. and, by god, the folk who've hurt you are going to pay good. they're going to pay--me." chapter xxv the out-world awe was the dominating emotion. wonder looked out of eyes that have long become accustomed to the crude marvels of nature to be found in the northland. the men of kars' expedition were gazing down upon the savage splendor of the promised land. but the milk and honey were lacking. the dream of peace, of delight was not in these men. their promised land must hold something more substantial than the mere comforts of the body. that substance they knew lay there, there ahead of them, but only to be won by supreme effort against contending forces, human and natural. they had halted at the highest point of a great saddle lying between two snow-crowned hills. peaks towered mightily above the woodlands clothing their wide slopes, and shining with alabaster splendor in the sunlight. it was the first glimpse of the torn land of the ominous bell river gorge. the sight of the gorge made them dizzy. the width, the depth, left an impression of infinite immensity upon the mind, an overwhelming hopelessness. men used to mountain vastness all the days of their lives were left speechless for moments, while their searching eyes sought to measure the limits of this long hidden land. the mountains beyond, about them. the broken, tumbled earth, yawning and gaping in every direction. the forests of primordial origin. the snows which never yield their grip upon their sterile bed. and then the depths. those infinite depths, which the human mind can never regard unmoved. the long, toilsome journey lay behind them. the goal lay awaiting the final desperate assault, with all its traps and hidden dangers. what a goal to have sought. it was like the dragon-guarded storehouse of the crudest folk-lore. the white men stood apart from their indian supporters. kars knew the scene. he was observing the faces of the men who were gazing upon the gorge for the first time. they were full of interest. but it was left to bill to interpret the general feeling in concrete form. "they're reckoning up the chances they've taken 'blind,'" he said. kars laughed. "sure." then he added: "and none of them are 'squealers.' chances 'blind,' or any others, need to be taken, or it's a long time living. it's the thing the northland rubs into the bones." "folks are certainly liable to pass it quicker that way." bill's shrewd eyes twinkled as he read the reckless spirit stirring behind the lighting eyes of his friend. kars laughed again. it was the buoyant laugh of a man full of the great spirit of adventure, and whose lust is unshadowed by a single care. "chances _are_ life, bill. all of it. the other? why, the other's just making a darn fool of old prov. and i guess old prov hates being made a darn fool of." but for all kars' reckless spirit he possessed the wide sagacity and vigorous responsibility of a born leader. it was this which inspired the men he gathered about him. it was this which claimed their loyalty. it was partly this which made bill brudenell willingly abandon his profitable labors in a rich city for the hardship of a life at his friend's side. perhaps the other part was that somewhere under bill's hardly acquired philosophy there lurked a spirit in perfect sympathy with that which actuated the younger man. there was not a day passed but he deplored to himself the stupendous waste of energy and time involved. but he equally reveled in outraging his better sense, and defying the claims of his life in leaping horse. no less than kars he reveled in the sight of the battle-field which lay before them. abe dodds and saunders gazed upon it, too. it was their first sight of it, and their view-points found prompt expression, each in his own way. "say, this place kind o' makes you feel old dante was a libelous guy who'd oughter be sent to penitentiary," abe remarked pensively. "guess we'll likely find old whiskers waiting around with his boat when we get on down to the river. still, it's consoling to figger up the cost o' coaling hell north of 'sixty.'" an unsmiling nod of agreement came from his companion. "makes me feel i bin soused weeks," he said earnestly. he pointed down at the forbidding walls enclosing the river. "that's jest mist around ther', ain't it? it ain't--smoke nor nothin'. an' them hills an' things. they are hills? they ain't the rim of a darn fool pit that ain't got bottom to it? an' them folks--movin' around down there. they are folks? they ain't--things?" both men laughed. but their amusement was wide-eyed and wondering. kars' half military caravan labored its way forward. it made its own path through virgin woodland breaks, which had known little else than wild or indian life since the world began. there were muskegs to avoid. broken stretches of tundra, trackless, treacherous. cruel traps which only patience, labor, skill and great courage could avoid. apart from all chances of hostile welcome the bell river approaches claimed all the mental and physical sweat of man. the movements of the outfit if slow were sure, and seemingly inevitable. the days of labor were followed by nights of watchful anxiety and council. nature's batteries were against them. but the lurking human danger was even more serious in the minds of these men. nature they knew. they had learned her arts of war, and their counters were studied, and the outcome of fierce experience. but the other was new, or, at least, sufficiently new to require the straining of every nerve to meet it successfully, should it come. they were under no delusions on the subject. come it would. how? where? but more than all--when? for all their skill, for all their well-thought organization, these men could not hope to escape scathless against the forces of nature opposed to them. they lost horses in the miry hollows. the surgical skill of dr. bill was frequently needed for the drivers and packmen. there was a toll of material, too. the land seemed scored with narrow chasms, the cause of which was beyond all imagination. there were cul-de-sacs which possessed no seeming rhyme or reason. time and again the advancing scout party, seeking the better road, found itself trapped in valleys of muskeg with no other outlet than the way by which it had entered. wherever the eye searched, rugged rock facets, with ragged patches of vegetation growing in the crevices confronted them. it was a maze of desolation, and magnificent hills and forests of primordial growth. it was as crude and half complete in the days when the waters first receded. but the lure of the precious metal was in every heart. even kars lay under its fascination once more, now that the strenuous goal lay within sight. he knew it was there, and in great quantities. and, for all the saner purposes he had in his mind, its influence made itself deeply felt. the gold seeker, be he master or wage earner, is beyond redemption. murray mctavish had said that all men north of "sixty" were wage slaves. he might have included all the world. but the truth of his assertion was beyond all question. not a man in the outfit kars had organized but was a wage slave, down to the least civilized indian who labored under a pack. bodily ease counted for nothing. these men were inured to all hardship. they were men who had committed themselves to a war against the elements, a war against all that opposed them in their hunger for the wage they were determined to tear from the frigid bosom of an earth which they regarded as the vulture regards carrion. the days of labor were long and many. hardship piled up on hardship, as it ever does in the spring of the northland. there was no ease for leader or man. only labor, unceasing, terrific. kars moved aside from the bell river indian encampment. he passed to the west of it, beyond all sight of the workings he had explored on the memorable night of his discovery. and he took the gorge from the north, seeking its heart for his camp, on the wide foreshore beyond the dumps of pay dirt which had first yielded him their secret. it was a movement which precluded all possibility of legitimate protest. and since this territory was all unscheduled in the government of the yukon, it was his for just as long as he could hold it. the whole situation was treated as though no other white influence were at work. it was treated as a peaceful invasion of indian territory, and, as is usual in such circumstances, the indian was ignored. it was an illustration of white domination. in bill brudenell's words "they were throwing a big bluff." but for all their ignoring of the indians, the outfit was under the closest observation. there was not a moment, not a foot of its way, that was not watched over by eyes that saw, and for the most part remained unseen. but this invisibility was not always the rule. indians in twos and threes were frequently encountered. they were the undersized northern indian of low type, who had none of the splendid manhood of the tribes further south. but each man was armed with a more or less modern rifle, and garments of crudely manufactured furs replaced the romantic buckskin of their southern brethren. these men came round the camps at night. they foregathered silently, and watched, with patient interest, the work going on. they offered no friendship or welcome. they made no attempt to fraternize in any way. their unintelligent faces were a complete blank, in so far as they displayed any understanding of what they beheld. the men of the outfit were in nowise deceived. they knew the purpose of these visits. these creatures were there to learn all that could serve the purposes of their leaders. they were testing the strength of these invaders. and they were permitted to prosecute their investigations without hindrance. it was part of the policy kars had decided upon. the "bluff," as bill had characterized it, was to be carried through till the enemy "called." two weeks from the day when the gorge had been sighted, the permanent camp was completely established. furthermore, the work of the gold "prospect" had been begun under the fierce energy of abe dodds, and the thirst-haunted saunders. theirs it was to explore and test the great foreshore, and to set up the crude machinery. the first day's report was characteristic of the mining engineer. he returned to his chief, who was organizing the camp with a view to eventualities. there was a keen glitter in his hollow eyes as he made his statement. there was a nervous restraint in his whole manner. he chewed unmercifully as he made his unconventional statement. "the whole darn place is full of 'color,'" he said. "ther' ain't any sort o' choice anywhere, 'less you set up machinery fer the sake o' the scenery." "then we'll set up the sluices where we can best protect them," was kars' prompt order. so the work proceeded with orderly haste. further up the stream the indians swarmed about their "placers." their washings went on uninterruptedly. they, too, were playing a hand, with doubtless a keen head controlling it. the invasion seemed to trouble them not one whit. but this steady industry, and aloofness, was ample warning for the newcomers. it was far more deeply significant than any prompt display of hostility. kars spared neither himself nor his men. every soul of his outfit knew they were passing through the moments immediately preceding the battle which must be fought out. each laborious day was succeeded by a night which concealed possible terrors. each golden sunrise might yield to the blood-red sunset of merciless war. and the odds were wide against them, and could only be bridged by determination and skilful leadership. great, however, as the odds were, these men were before all things gold seekers, all of them, white and colored, and they were ready to face them, they were ready to face anything in the world for the golden wage they demanded. it was nearing the end of the first week. the mining operations were in full swing under the guidance of abe dodds and saunders. kars and bill were left free to regard only the safety of the enterprise, and to complete the preparations for defence. to this end they were out on an expedition of investigation. their investigations had taken them across the river directly opposite the camp. the precipitous walls of the gorge at this point were clad in dark woods which rose almost from the water's edge. but these woods were not the only thing which demanded attention. there was a water inlet to the river hidden amongst their dark aisles. furthermore, high up, overlooking the river, a wide ledge stood out from the wall, and that which had been discovered upon it was not without suspicion in their minds. for some moments after landing kars stood looking back across the river. his searching gaze was taking in every detail of the defences he had set up across the water. when he finally turned it was to observe the watercourse cascading down a great rift in the walls of the gorge. "guess this is the weak link, bill," he said. "it's a way down to the water's edge. the only way down in a stretch of two miles on this side. and it's plumb in front of us." bill nodded agreement. "sure. and that queer old shack half-way up. we best make that right away." the canoe was hauled clear of the racing stream, and left secure. then they moved up the rocky foreshore where the inlet had cut its way through the heart of the woods. it was a curious, almost cavernous opening. nor was there a detail of it that was not water-worn as far up the confining walls of drab rock as the eyes could see. once within the entrance, however, the scene was completely changed, and robbed of the general sternness which prevailed outside. it was not without some charm. the split was far greater than had seemed from the distance. it was a tumbled mass of tremendous boulders, amidst which the forest of primordial pines found root room where none seemed possible, and craned their ragged heads towards the light so far above them. and, in the midst of this confusion, the mountain stream poured down from heights above, droning out its ceaseless song of movement in a cadence that seemed wholly out of place amidst such surroundings. the whole place was burdened under a semi-twilight, induced by the crowning foliage so frantically jealous of its rights. of undergrowth there was no vestige. only the deep carpet of cones and pine needles, which clogged the crevices, and frequently concealed pitfalls for the steps of those sufficiently unwary. this, and a general saturation from the spray of the falling waters, left the upward climb something more than arduous. it was nearly an hour later when the two men stood on the narrow plateau cut in the side of the gorge, and overlooking the great river. it yielded a perfect view of the vastness of the amazing reach. below them, out of the solid walls, wherever root-hold offered, the lean pines thrust their crests to a level with them. above, where the slope of the gorge fell back at an easier angle, black forests covered the whole face for hundreds of feet towards the cloud-flecked skies. these men, however, were all unconcerned with the depths or the heights, for all their dizzy splendor. a habitation stood before them sheltered by a burnt and tumbled stockade. and to practical imagination it held a significance which might have deep enough meaning. they stood contemplating the litter for some moments. and in those moments it told them a story of attack and defence, and finally of defeat. the disaster to the defenders was clearly told, and the question in both their minds was the identity of those defeated. john kars approached the charred pile where it formed the least obstruction, and his eyes searched the staunch but dilapidated shack, with its flat roof. battered, it still stood intact, hard set against the slope of the hill. its green log walls were barkless. they were weather-worn to a degree that suggested many, many years and cruel seasons. but its habitable qualities were clearly apparent. bill brudenell was searching in closer detail. it was the difference between the two men. it was the essential difference in their qualities of mind. he was the first to break the silence between them. "get a look," he said abruptly. "there! there! and there! all over the darn old face of it. bullet holes. hundreds of them. and seemingly from every direction. say, it must have been a beautiful scrap." "and the defenders got licked--poor devils." kars was pointing down at the strewn bones lying amongst the fallen logs. beyond them, inside the boundary of the stockade lay a skull, a human skull, as clean and whitened as though centuries had passed since it lost contact with the frame which had supported it. bill moved to it. his examination was close and professional. "indian," he said at last, and laid it back on the ground with almost reverent care. he turned his eyes upon the shanty once more. two other piles of human bones, picked as clean as carrion birds could leave them, passed under his scrutiny, but he was no longer concerned with them. the hut absorbed his whole interest now, and he moved towards its open doorway with kars at his heels. they passed within. as their eyes grew accustomed to the indifferent light, more of the story of the place was set out for their reading. there were some ammunition boxes. there were odds and ends of camp truck. but nothing of any value remained, and the fact suggested, in combination with the other signs, the looting of a victorious foe. kars was the first to offer comment. "do you guess it's possible----?" "allan held this shack?" bill nodded. "these are all white men signs. those ammunition boxes. they're the same as we've loaded up at the fort many times. sure. allan held this shack, but he didn't die here. murray found what was left of him down below, way down the river. maybe he held this till his stores got low. then he made a dash for it, and--found it. it makes me sick thinking. let's get out." he turned away to the door and kars followed him. kars had nothing to add. the picture of that hopeless fight left him without desire to investigate further. it was almost the last fight of the man who had made the happiness he now contemplated possible. his heart bled for the girl who he knew had well-nigh worshiped her "daddy." but bill did not pass the doorway. at that moment the sharp crack of a rifle split the air, and set the echoes of the gorge screaming. a second later there was the vicious "spat" of a bullet on the sorely tried logs of the shack. he stepped back under cover. but not before a second shot rang out, and another bullet struck, and ricochetted, hurtling through the air to lose itself in the pine woods above him. "the play's started," was his undisturbed comment. kars nodded and his eyes lit. the emotions of the moment before had fallen from him. "good!" he exclaimed. "now for mister louis creal." bill turned, and his twinkling eyes were thoughtful as they regarded his friend. "ye-es." but kars was paying small attention. his eyes were shining with a light such as is only seen in those who contemplate the things their heart is set upon. in his mind there was no doubt, only conviction. "we're not fighting those poor, darn-fool neches who fired those shots," he cried in a sudden break from his usual reticence. "maybe they're the force but they aren't the brain. the brain behind this play is mister louis creal. say, this thing's bigger than we guessed. this louis creal runs these workings. guess he's been running them since the beginning. he's been running them in some sort of partnership with the men at the fort. he was allan's partner, if i'm wise to anything. he was allan's partner and murray's. and allan was murdered right here. he was murdered by these poor darn neches. and the brain behind them was louis creal's. do you get it now? oh, it's easy. that half-breed's turned, as they always turn when it suits them. he's turned on his partners. and murray knows it. that's why murray's got in his arms. it's clear as daylight. there's a three-cornered scrap coming. murray's going to clean out this outfit, or lose his grip on the gold lying on this river for the picking up. and murray don't figger to lose a thing without a mighty big kick--and not gold anyway. this feller, creal, located us, and figgers to wipe us off his slate. see? say, bill, i guessed long ago bell river was going to hand us some secrets. i guessed it would tell us how allan mowbray died. well, louis creal's going to pay. he's going to pay good. murray's wise. gee, i can't but admire. another feller would have shouted. another feller would have told the womenfolk all he discovered when he found allan mowbray murdered. can't you get his play? he was allan's friend. he kind of hoped to marry jessie--some day. he worked the whole thing out. he guessed he'd scare mrs. mowbray and jessie to death if he told them all that had happened. he didn't want them scared, or they might quit the place. so he just blamed the neches, and let if go at that. he handled the proposition himself. there was alec. he didn't guess it would be good alec butting in. alec, for all he's jessie's brother, wasn't bright. he might get killed even. he'd be in the way--anyway. so he got him clear of the fort. then he got a free hand. he shipped in an arsenal of weapons, and he's going to outfit a big force. he's coming along up here later, and it'll be him and creal to the death. and it's odds on murray. then the folk at the fort can help themselves all they need, and the world won't be any the wiser. it's a great play. but alec's death has queered it some. do you get it--all? it's clear--clear as daylight." "ye-es." again came that hesitating affirmative. but then bill was older, and perhaps less impressionable. again kars missed the hesitation. "good," he said. "now we'll get busy. maybe we'll save murray a deal of trouble. he'd got me worried. i was half guessing----" he broke off and sighed as though in relief. "but i've got it clear enough now. and louis creal'll have to reckon with me first. we'll make back to camp." bill offered no comment. he watched the great figure of his companion move towards the door. nor was the nerve of the man without deep effect upon him. kars passed out on to the open plateau and instantly a rain of bullets spat their vicious purpose all about him. even as bill stepped out after him his feelings were absorbed in his admiration of the other. the shots continued. they all came from the same direction, from the woods across the river, somewhere just above their camp. it was indian firing. its character was unmistakable. it was erratic, and many of the shots failed hopelessly to reach the plateau at all. the movements of the two men were rapid without haste, and, as they left the plateau, the firing ceased. an hour later they were walking up the foreshore to their camp, and the canoe was hauled up out of the water. the sluices were in full work under the watchful eye of abe dodds. the thirsty saunders was driving his gang at the placers, from which was being drawn a stream of pay dirt that never ceased from daylight to dark. they had heard the firing, as had the whole camp, and they had wondered. but for the present their responsibility remained with their labors. the safe return of kars and his companion nevertheless afforded keen satisfaction. bill smiled as they moved up towards their quarters. curiously enough the recent events seemed to have lightened his mood. perhaps it was the passing of a period of doubt. perhaps the reconstruction of murray's doings, which kars had set out so clearly, had had its effect. it was impossible to say, for his shrewd eyes rarely told more than he intended them to. "makes you feel good when the other feller starts right in to play his 'hand,'" he said. kars looked into the smiling face. he recognized in this man, whose profession should have robbed him of all the elemental attributes, and whose years should have suggested a desire for the ease of a successful life, a real fighter of the long trail, and his heart warmed. "makes you feel better when you know none of your 'suits' are weak," he replied. chapter xxvi the deputation kars was asleep. he was in the deep slumber of complete weariness in the shanty which had been erected for his quarters, and was shared by bill. the bed was a mere pile of blankets spread out on a rough log trestle which sufficiently raised it from the ground. it was a mean enough habitation. but it was substantial. furthermore, it was weather-proof, which was all these men required. then, too, it was set up in a position on the higher ground whence it overlooked the whole camp, with a full view of the sluices, and the operations going on about them. adjacent were the stores, and the kitchens, all sheltered by projections of the rocky foreshore, so that substantial cover against hostile attack was afforded them. while kars slept the defensive preparations he had designed were being carried out feverishly under the watchful eyes of bill and abe dodds, with joe saunders a vigorous lieutenant. he had planned for every possible emergency. embankments of pay dirt were erected and strengthened by green logs. loopholes were arranged for concentrated defence in any one direction. the water supply was there open to them, direct from the river, which, in its turn, afforded them a safeguard from a purely frontal attack. the bell river indians were no great water men, so the chief defences were set up flanking along the shore. kars had spent a day and two nights in unceasing labor, and now, at last, the claims of nature would no longer be denied. he had fallen asleep literally at his work. so the watchful doctor had accepted the responsibility. and the great body was left to the repose which made so small a claim upon it. there was no man who could fight harder than john kars, there was no man who could fight more intelligently. just as no man could fight fairer. he accepted all conditions as he found them, and met them as necessity demanded. but all that was rugged in him remained untainted through the years of his sojourn beyond the laws of civilization. there were a hundred ways by which he could have hoped to survive. but only one suited his temperament. then he had closed the doors of civilization behind him. he had metaphorically burnt his text-books, if he ever really possessed any. he viewed nothing through the pleasantly tinted glasses such as prevail where cities are swept and garnished daily, and bodily comfort is counted more to be desired than god-fear. he forgot that law and order must be paid for by a yearly toll in currency. but he never failed to remember that a temple had been raised in the human heart, erected firmly on the ashes of savagery. "now for mister louis creal!" it was the situation as he saw it. he by no means underrated the threat of the indians. but he drove straight to the root of the matter. he believed the indians had been bought body and soul by this bastard white for his own ends. and his own end was the gold of bell river. it was his purpose to destroy all competition. he had murdered one partner, or perhaps employer. he hoped, no doubt, to treat the other white man similarly. now he meant a similar mischief by this new threat to his monopoly. kars felt it was characteristic of the bastard races. well, he was ready for the fight. he had sought it. with that first enemy attempt on the plateau events moved rapidly. but they so moved on kars' initiative. it was not his way to sit down at the enemy's pleasure. his was the responsibility for the eighty men who had responded to his call. he accepted it. he knew it would demand every ounce of courage and energy he could put forth. his wits were to be pitted against wits no less. the fate of allan mowbray, a man far beyond the average in courage and capacity among men of the long trail, told him this. so he had worked, and would work, to the end. "the play's started good, boys," he had said to his white companions on his return to the camp. "the gold can wait, i guess, till we've wiped out this half-breed outfit. it's a game i know good, an' i'm going to play it for a mighty big 'jack-pot.' it's up to you to hand me all i need. after that the gold's open to all." then he detailed the various preparations to be made at once, and allotted to each man his task. he spoke sharply but without urgency. and the simplicity of his ideas saved the least confusion. it was only to bill that his plans seemed hardly to fit with that cordial appreciation which he had given expression to on the plateau. "now for mister louis creal." so he had said. yet all the plans were defensive rather than offensive. later this doubt found expression. "what about louis creal?" bill asked in his direct fashion. and kars' reply was a short, hard laugh. "that feller's for me," he replied shortly. that night a second trip was made across the river. this time with a canoe laden with a small party of armed men. it was kars who led, while bill remained behind in command of the camp. this mission was one of remorseless purpose. it was perhaps the most difficult decision that kars had had to force himself to. it hurt him. it was a decision for the destruction of the things he loved. to him it was like an assault against the great ruling powers of the creator, and the sin of it left him troubled in heart and conscience. yet he knew the necessity of it. none better. so he executed it, as he would have executed any other operation necessary in loyalty to the men supporting him and his purpose. it was midnight when the paddles dipped again for the return to the camp, and the return journey was made under a light which had no origin in any of the heavenly bodies, nor in the fantastic measure danced by the brilliant northern lights. it was the blaze of a forest fire which lit the gorge from end to end, and filled the air with a ruddy fog of smoke, which reeked in the nostrils and set throats choking. it had been deliberately planned. the wind was favorable for safety and success. it was blowing gently from the west. the fire was started in six places, and the resinous pines which had withstood centuries of storms yielded to the devouring flames with an ardent willingness that was pitiful. the forests crowning the opposite walls of the gorge were a desperate threat to the camp. they had to be made useless to the enemy. they must be swept away, and to accomplish this fire was the only means. kars watched the dreadful devastation from the camp. his eyes were thoughtful, troubled. he was paying the price which his desire for achievement required. the dark of night was swept away by a furnace of flame. the waters of the river reflected the glare, till they took on a suggestion of liquid fire. the gloom of the gorge had passed, and left it a raging furnace, and the fierceness of the heat beaded men's foreheads as they stood at a distance with eyes filled with awe. where would it end? a forest fire in a land of little else but forest and waste. it was a question kars dared not contemplate. so he thrust it aside. and herein lay the difference between bill brudenell and himself. bill could contemplate the destruction from its necessity, while a sort of sentimental terror claimed his imagination and forced this question upon him. he felt that only the wind and providence could answer it. if the links were there, beyond those frowning crests, between forest and forest, and the wind drifted favorably, the fire might burn for years. it would be impossible to say where the last sparks would burn themselves out. it was another of the tragedies to be set at the door of man's quest of gold. "makes you feel nature's score against man's mounting big," he said, in a tone there could be no mistaking. "seems that's going to hurt her mighty bad. she'll hit back one day. centuries it's taken her building that way. she's nursed it in the hollows, and made it strong on the hills. she's made it good, and set it out for man's use. and man's destroyed her work because he's got a hide he guesses to keep whole. it's all a fearful contradiction. there doesn't seem much sense to life anyway. and still the scheme goes right on, and i don't guess a single blamed purpose is lost. gee, i hate it." the truth of bill's words struck home on kars. but he had no reply. he hated it, too. the roar of flame went on all night. the boom of falling trees. the splitting and rending. the heat was sickening. those who sought sleep lay bare to the night air, for blankets were beyond endurance. then the smoke which clung to the open jaws of the gorge. the night breeze seemed powerless to carry it away. with the outbreak of fire the indian workings further up the river awoke, too. a few stray figures foregathered at the water's edge. their numbers were quickly augmented. long before the night was spent a great crowd was watching the fierce destruction of the haunts which it had known for generations. fire is the indian terror. and in the heart of these benighted creatures a superstitious awe of it remains at all times. now they were panic-stricken. towards morning the fire passed out of the gorge. it swept over the crests of the enclosing hills and passed on, nursed by the fanning of the western breeze. and as it passed away, and the booming and roaring became more and more distant, so did the smoke-laden atmosphere begin to clear. but a tropical heat remained behind for many hours. even the northland chill of spring failed to temper it rapidly. kars had achieved his purpose. no cover remained for any lurking foe. the hills across the river were "snatched" bald. charred and smoldering timbers lay sprawling in every direction upon the red-hot carpet. blackened stumps stood up, tombstones of the splendid woods that once had been. there was no cover anywhere. none at all. no lurking rifle could find a screen from behind which to pour death upon the busy camp across the waters. the position was reversed. the watchful defenders held the whole of those bald walls at the mercy of their rifles. it was a strategic victory for the defenders, but it had been purchased at a terrible cost. kars' dreamless slumber was broken at last by the sharp voice of bill brudenell, and the firm grip of a hand upon his shoulder. he awoke on the instant, his mind alert, clear, reasoning. he had slept for ten hours and all sense of fatigue had passed. "say, i've slept good," was his first exclamation, as he sat up on his blankets. then his alert eyes glanced swiftly into the face before him. "what's the time? and what's--doing?" "it's gone midday. and--there's visitors calling." kars' attitude was one of intentness. "they started attacking?" he demanded. "i don't hear a thing." he rose from his bed, moved down to the doorway and stood gazing out. his gaze encountered a group of men clustered together at a short distance from the hut. he recognized peigan charley. he recognized abe dodds, lean and silent. he recognized one or two of his own fighting men. but there were others he did not recognize. and one of them was an old, old weazened up indian of small stature and squalid appearance. "visitors?" he said, without turning. bill came up behind him. "a deputation," he said. "an old chief and three young men. they've got a neche with them who talks 'white.' and they're not going to quit till they've held a big pow-wow with the white chief, kars. they've got his name good. i'd say louis creal's got them well primed." "yes." kars glanced round the hut. and a half smile lit his eyes at the meagre condition of the place. bill's bed occupied one side of it. his own the other. between the two stood a packing case on end, which served as a table. a bucket of drinking water stood in a corner with a beaker beside it. for the rest there was a kit bag for a pillow at the head of each bed, while underneath were ammunition cases filled with rifle and revolver ammunition, and the walls were decorated with a whole arsenal of weapons. but it lost nothing in its businesslike aspect, and kars felt that its impression would not be lost upon his visitors. "the council chamber," he said. "have 'em come right along, bill. maybe they're going to hand us louis creal's bluff. well, i guess we're calling any old bluff. if they're looking for what they can locate of our preparations they'll find all they need. they'll get an elegant tale to hand louis creal when they get back." five minutes later the capacity of the hut was taxed to its utmost. kars was seated on the side of his bed. bill and abe dodds occupied the other. the earth floor, from the foot of the bunks to the door, was littered by a group of squatting figures clad in buckskin and cotton blanket, and exhaling an aroma without which no indian council chamber is complete, and which is as offensive as it is pungent. peigan charley, the contemptuous, blocked up the doorway ready at a moment's notice to carry out any orders his "boss" might choose to give him, and living in the hopes that such orders, when they came, might at least demand violence towards these "damn neches" who had dared to invade the camp. but his hopes were destined to remain unfulfilled. his boss was talking easily, and in a friendliness which disgusted his retainer. he seemed to be even deferring to this aged scallawag of a chief, as though he were some one of importance. that was one of charley's greatest grievances against his chief. he was always too easy with "damn-fool neches." charley felt that these miserable creatures should be "all shot up dead." worse would come if these "coyotes" were allowed to go free. there was no such thing as murder in his mind as regards his own race. only killing--which was, at all times, not only justifiable, but a necessity. "the great chief thunder-cloud is very welcome," kars responded to the interpreter's translation of the introduction. "guess he's the big chief of bell river. the wise man of his people. and i'm sure he's come right along to talk--in the interests of peace. good. we're right here for peace, too. maybe thunder-cloud's had a look at the camp as he came in. it's a peaceful camp, just set right here to chase gold. no doubt his people, who've been around since we came, have told him that way, too." as the white man's words were translated to him, the old indian blinked his inflamed eyes, from which the lids and under-lids seemed to be falling away as a result of his extreme age. he wagged his head gently as though fearful of too great effort, and his sagging lips made a movement suggesting an approving expression, but failed physically to carry out his intent. bill was studying that senile, expressionless face. the skin hung loose and was scored with creases like crumpled parchment. the low forehead so deeply furrowed. the small eyes so offensive in their inflamed condition. the almost toothless jaws which the lips refused to cover. it was a hateful presence with nothing of the noble red man about it. it was with relief he turned to the younger examples of what this man had once been. but the chief was talking in that staccato, querulous fashion of old age, and his white audience was waiting for the interpreter. it was a long time before the result came. when it did it was in the scantiest of pigeon english. "him much pleased with white man coming," said the interpreter with visible effort at cordiality. "the great chief thunder-cloud much good friend to white man. much good friend. him say young men fierce--very fierce. they fish plenty. they say white man come--no fish. white man come, indian man mak' much hungry. no fish. white man eat 'em all up. young man mak' much talk--very fierce. young man say white man burn up land. indians no hunt. so. indian man starve. indian come. young men kill 'em all up dead. or indian man starve. so. white man come, indian man starve, too. white man go, indian man eat plenty. white man go?" the solemn eyes of the indians were watching the white man's face with expressionless intensity. they were striving to read where their language failed them. kars gave no sign. his eyes were steadily regarding the wreck of humanity described as a "great chief." "white man burn the land because neche try to kill white man," he said after a moment's consideration, in level, unemotional tones. "white man come in peace. he want no fish. he want no hunt. he want only gold--and peace. white man not go. white man stay. if indian kill, white man kill, too. white man kill up all indian, if indian kill white man. louis creal sit by his teepee. he say white man come louis creal not get gold. he say to indian go kill up white man. white man great friends with indian. he good friend with louis creal, if louis creal lies low. indian man very fierce. white man very fierce, too. if great chief thunder-cloud not hold young men, then he soon find out. louis creal, too. much war come. much blood. white man make most killing. so." he waited while his reply was passed on to the decrepit creature, who, for all his age and physical disability, was complete master of his emotions. thunder-cloud listened and gave no sign. then he spoke again. this time his talk was briefer and the interpreter's task seemed easier. "great chief say him sorry for white man talk. him come. him good friend to white man. him old. him very old. white man not go. then him say him finish. him mak' wise talk to young men. young men listen. no good. young men impatient. young men say speak white man. speak plenty. him not go? then young man kill 'em all dead. so. thunder-cloud sorry. heap sorry." a shadowy smile flitted across kars' rugged face. it found a reflection in the faces of all his comrades. even charley's contempt found a similar expression. kars abruptly stood up. his great size brought him within inches of the low, flat roof. his eyes had suddenly hardened. his strong jaws were set. he no longer addressed himself to the aged chief. his eyes were directed squarely into the eyes of the mean-looking interpreter. nor did he use any pigeon english to express himself now. "see right here, you neche," he cried, his tones strong, and full of restrained force. "you can hand this on to that darn old bunch of garbage you call a great chief. the play louis creal figgers on is played right out. he murdered allan mowbray to keep this gold to himself. well, this gold ain't his, any more than it's mine. it's for those who got the grit to take it. if he's looking for fight he's going to get it plenty--maybe more than he's needing. we're taking no chances. we're right here to fight--if need be. we're here to stop. we're no quitters. we'll go when we fancy, and when we do the news of this strike goes with us. louis creal tried to murder me here, and failed, and took a bath instead. well, if he's hoss sense he'll get it his game's played. if he don't see it that way, he best do all he knows. you an' this darn old scallawag have got just five minutes to hit the trail clear of this camp. the whole outfit of you. guess you wouldn't get that much time only for the age of this bunch of the tailings of a misspent life. clear. clear quick--the whole darn outfit." all the dignity and formality of an indian pow-wow were banished in a moment. the interpreter conveyed the briefest gist of the white man's words, even as he hastily scrambled to his feet. kars' tone and manner had impressed him as forcibly as his words. he was eager enough to get away. the old man, too, was on his feet far quicker than might have been expected, and he was making for the door with ludicrous haste, which robbed his going of any of the ceremony with which he had entered it. charley stood aside, but with an air of protest. he would willingly have robbed the old man of his last remaining locks. the hut was cleared, and the white men emerged into the open. the air which still reeked of burning was preferable to the unwholesome stench which these bestial northern indians exhaled. they stood watching the precipitate retreat of their visitors. the whole camp was agog, and looked on curiously. even the indian packmen were stirred out of their usual indifference to things beyond their labors. bill laughed as the old man vanished beyond the piles of pay dirt, which had been converted into defences. "guess he's worried some," he said. abe dodds chewed and spat. "worried? gee, that don't say a thing--not a thing. guess that old guy ain't had a shake up like that since he first choked himself with gravel when his momma wa'n't around. i allow louis creal, whoever he is, is going to get an earful that'll nigh bust his drums." but kars had no responsive smile. "they'll be on us by nightfall," he said quietly. "we need to get busy." then he suddenly called out. his voice was stern and threatening. "quit that, charley! quit it or by----!" his order came in the nick of time. all the pent-up spleen and hatred of peigan charley had culminated in an irresistible desire. he had seized a rifle from one of the camp indians standing by, and had flung himself on the banked up defences. even as his boss shouted, his eye was running over the sights, and his finger was on the trigger. he flung the weapon aside with a gesture of fierce disgust, and stood scowling after the hurrying deputation, his heart tortured with the injustice of his chief in robbing him of the joy of sheer murder. chapter xxvii the battle of bell river the dark of night was creeping up the gorge. a gray sky, still heavy with the smoke of the forest fire, made its progress easy and rapid. the black walls nursed its efforts, yielding their influence upon the deep valley below them. no star could penetrate the upper cloud banks. the new-born moon was lost beyond the earth-inspired canopy. the fires of the great camp were out. no light was visible anywhere. the fighting men were at their posts on the flanking embankments. reserves were gathered, smoking and talking in the hush of expectancy. further afield an outpost held the entrance to the gorge to the north of the camp. a steep rugged split deeply wooded and dropping sharply from the heights above to the great foreshore. it was an admirable point to hold. no living soul could approach the camp from above that way without running the gauntlet of the ambushed rifles in skilful hands. no rush could make the passage, only costly effort. nature had seen to that. the white men leaders of the camp were squatting about the doorway of the shanty which had witnessed the brief interview with the chief, thunder-cloud. kars occupied the sill of the doorway. his great body in its thick pea-jacket nearly filled it up. talk was spasmodic. kars had little enough inclination, and the others seemed to have exhausted thought upon the work of preparations. kars' thoughts were far away at the bald knoll of fort mowbray, and the little mission nestling at its foot. out of the gray shadows of twilight a pair of soft eyes were gazing pitifully into his, as he had seen them gaze in actual life. his mind was passing over the tragic incidents which had swept down upon that ruddy brown head with such merciless force, and a tender pity made him shrink before his thought, as no trouble of his own could have done. the moment was perhaps the moment for such feeling. it was the moment preceding battle. it was the moment when each man realized that a thousand chances were crowding. when the uncertainties of the future were so many and so deeply hidden. resolve alone was definite. life and purpose were theirs to-day. to-morrow? who could say of tomorrow? so it was that the mind groped back amongst memories which had the greatest appeal. for kars all his memories were now centred round the home of the girl who had taught him the real meaning of life. bill brudenell was sitting on a rough log, within a yard or two. he, too, was gazing out into the approaching night while he smoked on in meditative silence. his keen face and usually twinkling eyes were serious. he had small enough claims behind him. there was no woman in his life to hold his intimate regard. the present was his, and the future. the future had his life's work of healing in it. the present held his friend, beside whom he was ranged in perfect loyalty against the work of desperate men. his purpose? perhaps he would have found it difficult to explain. perhaps he could not have explained at all. his was a nature that demanded more than a life of healing could give him. there was the ceaseless call of the original man in him. it was a call so insistent that it must be obeyed, even while his mental attitude spurned the folly of it. abe dodds was propped on an upturned bucket with his lean shoulders squared against the log walls of the shanty. his jaw was moving rhythmically as he chewed with nervous energy. the difference in him from the others was the difference of a calculating mind always working out the sum of life from a purely worldly side. he knew the values of the bell river strike to an ounce. it was his business to know. and he was ready to pass through any furnace, human or hellish, to seize the fortune which he knew was literally at his feet. there was neither sentiment nor feeling in his regard of that which was yet to come. this was the great opportunity. he had lived and struggled north of "sixty" for this moment. he was ready to die if necessary for the achievement of all it meant. the men sat on, each wrapped in his own mood as the pall of night unfolded itself. the last word had been given to those at the defences, and it had been full and complete. joe saunders held the pass down from above. it had been at his own definite request. but the moment attack came he would be supported by one of these three. it was for this reason that he was absent from the final vigil of his fellow leaders. it was abe who finally broke the prolonged silence. he broke it upon indifferent ears. but then he had not the same mood for silence. "there's every sort of old chance lying around," he observed, as though following out his own long train of thought. "but i don't guess many of 'em's worth while. there's fellers 'ud hand over any sense they ever collected fer the dame that's had savvee to buy a fi' cent perfume. 'tain't my way. there's jest one chance for me. it's the big boodle. i'm all in for that. right up to my ear-drums." he laughed and spat. "there's a mighty big world to buy, an' when you got your fencing set up around it, why, there ain't a deal left outside that's worth corrallin'. i'd say it's only the folk who fancy the foolish house need to try an' buy a big pot on a pair o' deuces. if you stand on a 'royal' you can grab most anything. i got this thing figgered to a cent. when we're through there's those among us going to make home with a million dollars--cold." "ye-es." dr. bill removed his pipe. his gaze was turned on the engineer, whose vigorous mind was searching only one side of the task before them. the side which appealed to him most. "that million don't worry me a cent," he went on. "if life's just a matter of buying and selling you're li'ble to get sick of it quick." abe's eyes shot a swift glance in the doctor's direction. "then what brings you up to bell river?" he exclaimed. "it ain't a circumstance as a health resort." bill smiled down at his pipe. "much the same as you, i guess," he said. "say, you're talking dollars. you're figgering dollars. you've got a nightmare of all you can buy with those dollars." he shook his head. "turn over. maybe that way you'd see things the way they are with you. those dollars are just a symbol. you fix your eye on them. it isn't winning the 'pot' with a 'royal.' it isn't winning anyway. it's the play that gets you. if you could walk right into the office of the president of a state bank, and come out of it with a roll of a million, with no more effort than it needed pushing one foot in front of another, guess you'd as soon light your two dollar cigar with a hundred dollar bill as a 'frisco stinker. i've seen a heap of boys like you, abe. i've seen them sweat, and cuss, and work like a beaver for a wage, and they've been as happy as a doped chinaman. i've seen them later, when the dollars come plenty, and they're so sick there isn't dope enough in leaping horse can make them feel good. guess i'm right here because it's good to live, and fight, and work, same as man was meant to. the other don't cut much ice, unless it is the work's made things better--someways." abe spat out his chew and sat up. his combative spirit, which was perhaps his chief characteristic, was easily stirred. "it ain't stuff of that sort made john kars the richest guy in leaping horse. it ain't that play set him doping around 'inside' where there ain't much else but cold, and skitters, and gold. it ain't that play set him crazy to make bell river with an outfit to lick a bunch of scallawag neches. no, sir. he's wise to the value of dollars in a world where there's nothing much else counts. there ain't no joy to life without 'em. an' you just can't live life without joy. if you're fixed that way, why, you'll hit the trail of the long haired crank, or join the folk who make a pastime of a penitentiary. the dollars for mine. if they come on a cushion of down i'll handle 'em elegant with kid gloves on my hands. i'm sick chasin'--sick to death." kars became caught in the interest of the talk. his dream picture faded in the shades of night, and the reality of things about him poured in upon him. he caught at the thread of discussion in his eager, forceful way. "you ain't right, abe, and bill, here, too, is wrong," he said, in his amiably decided fashion. "human life's just one great big darn foolish 'want.' it's the wage we're asking for all we do. don't make any sunday-school mistake. we're asking pay for every act we play, and the purse of old prov is open most all the time. we all got a grouch set up against life. most of us know it. some don't. if i know anything of human nature we'd all squat around waiting till the end, doping our senses without restraining the appetite nature gave us, if it wasn't for that blamed wage we're always yearning after. it's the law we've got to work, and prov sets the notion in us we want something as the only way to keep our noses to the grinding mill. those dollars ain't the end of your want. they're just a kind of symbol, as bill says--till you've got 'em. after that you'll still be yearning for the big opportunity same as you've been right along up to now. it's just the symbol'll be diff'rent. you'll work, and cuss, and sweat, and fight, just the same as you're ready to do now. you'll still be biting the heels of old prov for more. and prov'll dope it out when you've worked plenty, and he figgers you've earned your wage. bill's here on the same argument. he's got the dollars he needs, but he's still chasing that wage. maybe his wage is diff'rent from yours or mine. y'see he's quite a piece older. but he's worrying old prov just as hard. bill's here because his notions of things lie along the line of doping out healing to the poor darn fools who haven't the sense to keep themselves whole. it don't matter who's going to be better for his work on this layout. but when he's through, why, he'll open out his hands to old prov, and prov'll dope out his wage. and that wage'll come to him plenty when he sets around smoking his foul old pipe over a stove, and thinks back--all to himself." he smiled with a curious twisted sort of smile as he gazed almost affectionately at the loyal little man of medicine. then he turned again to the night which now hid the last outlines of the stern old gorge, as he went on. "as for me the dollars in this gorge couldn't raise a shadow of joy." he shook his head. "and if i told you the wage i'm asking, maybe you'd laff till your sides split up. i'm not telling you the wage old prov'll have to hand out my way. but to me it's big. so big your million dollars couldn't buy a hundredth part of it. no, sir. nor a thousandth. and maybe when prov has checked my time sheet, and handed out, he won't be through by a sight. i'll still be yepping at his heels for more, only the--symbol'll kind of be changed. meanwhile----" he broke off listening. abe started to his feet. bill deliberately knocked out his pipe on the log, while his eyes were turned along the foreshore in the direction of the indian workings. kars heaved himself to his feet and stood with his keen eyes striving to penetrate the darkness in the same direction. "--we're going to start right in earning that wage--now!" a hot rifle fire swept over the camp with reckless disregard of all aim. it came with a sharp rattle. the bullets swept on with a biting hiss, and some of them terminated their careers with a vicious "splat" against the great overhang of rock or the woodwork of the trestle-built sluices. in an instant the deadly calm of the night was gone, swept away by the sound of many voices, and the rush of feet, and the answering fire of the defenders. the battle of bell river had begun. the white men had staked their all in the great play, confident they held the winning hand. the alternative from complete victory for them had one hard, definite meaning. there was no help but that which lay in their own hands, their own wits. death, only, was on the reverse of the victory they were claiming from providence. a fierce pandemonium stirred the bowels of the night. the rattle of musketry with its hundreds of needle-points of flame joined the chorus of fiercely straining human voices. the black calm of night was rent to shreds, leaving in its place only the riot of cruel, warring passions. the white men leaders and their men received the onslaught of the savage horde with the steadfastness of a full understanding of the meaning of defeat. they were braced for the shock with the nerve of men who have bitterly learned the secret of survival in a land haunted with terror. no heart-quail showed in the wall of resistance. the secret emotions had no power before the realization of the horror which must follow on defeat. the shadow of mutilation, of torture, of unspeakable death made brave the surest weakling. many of the defenders were indian, like the attacking horde, though of superior race. some were bastard whites, that most evil thing in human production in the outlands. a few were white, other than the leaders. men belonging to that desperate crew always clinging to the fringe of human effort, where wealth is won by the lucky turn of the spade. reckless creatures who live sunk in the deeps of indulgence of the senses, and without a shred of the conscience with which they were born. it was a collection of humanity such as only a man of kars' characteristics could have controlled. but for a desperate adventure it might well have been difficult to find its equal. it was their mission to fight, generally against the laws of society. but fight was their mission, and they would fulfil it. they were ready braced at their posts, and their leaders were in their midst. the fierce yelling of advancing indians was without effect. they met the onslaught at close quarters with a fire as coldly calculated as it was merciless. the rush of assault was doubtless calculated to brush all defence aside in the first attack. but as well might the bell river leaders have hoped to spurn ferro concrete from their path. the method was old. it was tried. it was as old as the ages since the red man was first permitted to curse the joys of a beautiful world. it was brave as only the savage mind understands bravery. but it was as impotent before the defence as the beating of captive wings against the iron bars of a cage. the insensate horde came like the surging tide of driven waters. it reeled before the flaming weapons like rollers on a breakwater. there came the swirl and eddy. then, in desperate defeat, it dropped back to gather fresh impetus from the volume behind. the conflict was shadowy, yet searching eyes outlined without difficulty the half-naked, undersized forms as they came. there was nothing wild in the defence. fire was withheld till the moment of contact. then it poured out at pointblank range. the carnage of that first onslaught was horrible. but the defenders suffered only the lightest casualties. they labored under no delusion. the attack would come again and again in the hope of creating a breach, and that breach was the thought in each leader's mind. its prevention was his sheet anchor of hope. its realization was his nightmare. the tide of men surged once more. it came on under a rain of reckless fire. the black wings of night were illuminated with a fiery sparkle, and the smell of battle hung heavily on the still air. kars shouted encouragement to his men. the response was all he could desire. the indians surged to the embankment only to beat vainly, and to fall back decimated. but again and again they rallied, their temper growing to a pitch of fury that suggested the limit of human endurance. the defence was hard put to it, and only deliberation, and the full knowledge of consequences, saved the breach. the numbers seemed endless, rising out of the black beyond only to take shape at the rifle muzzle. thought and action were simultaneous. each rifle was pressed tight into the shoulder, while the hot barrel hurled its billet of death deep into the dusky bodies. for kars those moments were filled to the brim with the intoxicating elixir demanded by his elemental nature. he fought with a disregard of self that left its mark upon all those who were near by. he spared nothing, and his "automatic" drove terror, as well as death, into the hearts of those with whom he was confronted. it was good to fight for life in any form. the life of ease and security had small enough attraction for him. but now--now he fought with the memory of the wrongs which, through these creatures, had been inflicted upon the girl who had taught him the true meaning of life. bill was no less stirred, but he possessed another incentive. he fought till the first casualties in the defence claimed mercy in exchange for the merciless, and he was forced regretfully to obey the demands of his life's mission. all his ripeness of thought, all his philosophy, gleaned under the thin veneer of civilization, had been swept away by the tidal wave of battle. the original man hugged him to his bosom, and he rested there content. with abe dodds emotion held small place. a cold fury rose under the lash of motive. it was the motive of a man ready at all times to spurn obstruction from his path. his heart was without mercy where his interests were threatened. these creatures were a wolf pack, from his view-point, and he yearned to shoot them down as such. like peigan charley his desire was that every shot should sink deeply into the bowels of the enemy. in a moment of lull bill dragged a wounded man off the embankment at kars' side. kars withdrew his searching gaze from the dark beyond. "how's things?" he demanded. his voice was thick with a parching thirst. "he's the fifth." bill's reply was preoccupied. kars was thinking only of the defence. "bully!" he exclaimed. it was the appreciation of the fighter. he had no thought for anything else. "we'll get 'em hunting their holes by daylight," he went on. then suddenly he turned back. his rifle was ready, and he spoke over his shoulder. "there's just one thing better than chasing the long trail, bill. it's scrap." with a fierce yell a dusky form leaped out of the darkness. he sprang at the embankment with hatchet upraised. kars' rifle greeted him and he fell in his tracks. bill shouldered his wounded burden. a grim smile struggled to his lips as he bore it away. nor did his muttered reply reach his now preoccupied friend. "and we cuss the poor darn neche for a savage." it was midnight before the final convulsions of the great storming assaults showed a waning. the first signs were the lengthening intervals between the rushes. then gradually the rushes lessened in determination and only occasionally did they come to close quarters. to kars the signs were the signs he looked for. they were to him the signs of first victory. but no vigilance was relaxed. the stake was far too great. none knew better than he the danger of relaxing effort under the assurance of success. and so the straining eyes of the defence were kept wide. minutes crept by, passed under a desultory fire from the distance. the bullets whistled widely overhead, doing no damage to life. the time lengthened into half an hour and still no fresh assault came. kars stirred from his place. he wiped the muck sweat from his forehead, and passed down the line of embankment to where abe dodds held command. "we got to get the boys fed coffee and sow-belly," he said. abe with his watchful eyes on the distance replied reluctantly. "guess we'll have to." kars nodded. "i sent word to the cook-house. pass 'em along in reliefs. there's no figgerin' on the next jolt. we can't take chances--yet." "we'll have to--later." again kars nodded. "that's how i figger. but we got to get through this night first. there's no chances this night. pass your men along easy. hold 'em up on the least sign of things doing." he was gone in a moment. and the operation he had prescribed for abe's men was applied to his own. another hour passed and still there was no sign from the enemy. it almost seemed as if the victory had been more complete for the defence than had at first been thought. the men were refreshed, and the rest was more than welcome. kars refused to leave his post. for all his faith in the defence he trusted the vigilance of no one. a meal of sorts was sent down to him from the cook-house, and he shared it with the stalwart ruffian, abe, and, for the most part, they quenched their thirst with the steaming beverage in silence. the thought of each man was busy. both were contemplating the ultimate, rather than the effort of the moment. abe was the first to yield to the press of thought. "how's bill doin'?" he demanded. "what's the figures? i lost four." "wounded--only?" "wounded." "guess that raises the tally." "how about your boys?" kars gazed in the direction of the rough storehouse now converted into a hospital. "i'd say five. bill was here a while back. he reckoned he'd got five then." abe laughed. it was not a mirthful laugh. he rarely gave way to mirth. purpose had too profound a hold on him. "figger up nine by eight nights like this and you ain't got much of a crowd out of eighty." kars' eyes came swiftly to the lean face shadowed under the night. "no." then he glanced in the direction whence came the reckless indian fire. "you mean we can't sit around, and let the neches play their own war game. that so?" "guess it seems that way." "i don't reckon they're going to." kars tipped out the coffee grounds from his pannikin with unnecessary force. he laid the cup aside and turned on the engineer. "say, boy," he cried, with a deliberate emphasis, "i've got this thing figgered from a to z. i've spent months of thought on it. you're lookin' on the dollars lying around, and you're yearning to grab them plenty. it's a mighty strong motive. but it's not a circumstance beside mine. i'd lose every dollar in my bank roll; i'd hand up my life without a kick, rather than lose this game. get me? say, don't you worry a thing, so we hold this night through. that's what matters in my figgering. if we hold this night, i got a whole stack of aces and things in my sleeve. and i'm goin' to play 'em, and play 'em--good." the assurance of his manner had a deep effect. passivity of resistance at no time appealed to the forceful abe. aggression was the chief part of his doctrine of life. he was glad to hear his chief talk in that fashion. "that talk suits me," he said readily. "i----" he broke off, his eyes searching the distance, his hearing straining. kars, too, had turned, searching beyond the embankment. "it's coming," he said. "it's coming plenty." but abe had not waited. his lean figure was swallowed up in the darkness as he made off to his post where his men were already assembled. in less than two minutes the battle was raging with all its original desperation. the black night air was filled with the fury of yelling voices which vied with the rattle of firearms for domination. bare, shadowy bodies hurled themselves with renewed impetus against the defences, and went down like grain before the reaper. the embankments were held with even greater confidence. earlier experience, the respite; these things had made their contribution, a contribution which told heavily against the renewed assault. kars wondered. he had said these men were like sheep. now they were like sheep herded on to the slaughter-house. the senselessness of it was growing on him with his increased confidence. it all seemed unworthy of the astute half white mind lying behind the purpose. these were the thoughts which flashed through his mind as he plied his weapons and encouraged the men of his command, and they grew in conviction with each passing moment. but there was more wit in it all than he suspected. the battle was at its height. the insensate savages came on, regardless of the numbers who fell. the whole line of defence was resisting with all the energy and resource at its disposal. then came the diversion. it came by water. it came with a swirl of paddles in the black void enveloping the great river. out of the darkness grew the shadowy outlines of four laden canoes, and the beaching of the craft was the first inkling abe dodds, who held the left defences, had of the adventure. action and thought were almost one with him. claiming the men nearest him he hurled himself on the invaders with a ferocity which had for its inspiration a full understanding of the consequences of disaster in such a direction. outflanking stared at him with all its ugly meaning, and as he went he shouted hoarsely back to kars his ill-omened news. kars needed no second warning. he passed the call on to bill. he claimed the reinforcement which only desperate emergency had the right to demand. then he flung himself to the task of making good the depleted defence where abe had withdrawn his men. the crisis was more deadly than could have seemed possible a moment before. the whole aspect of the scene had been changed. the breach, that dreaded breach with all its deadly meaning, was achieved in something that amounted only to seconds. the neches swarmed on the embankments on the lower foreshore. the defenders who had been left were driven back before the fierce onslaught. they were already giving ground when kars flung himself to their support. the whole position looked like being turned. it was no longer a battle of coldly calculated method. here at least it had become a conflict where individual nerve and ability alone could win out. already some dozen of the half-nude savages had forced themselves across the embankment, and more were pressing on behind. it was a moment to blast the sternest courage. it was a moment when the whole edifice of the white man's purpose looked to be tottering, if not falling headlong. kars understood. he had the measure of the threat to the last fraction, and he flung himself into the battle with a desperateness of energy and resolve that bore almost immediate fruit. his coming had checked the breaking of the defenders. but he knew it was like patching rotten material. his influence could not last without bill and his reinforcements. he plied his guns with a discrimination which no heat or excitement could disturb, and the first invaders fell under his attack amidst a din of fierce-throated cries. his men rallied. but he knew they were fighting now with a shadow at the back of their minds. it was his purpose to remove that shadow, and he strove with voice and act to do so. the first support of his coming passed with the emptying of his pistols. he flung them aside without a moment's hesitation, and grabbed a rifle from a fallen neche. it was the act of a man who knew the value of every second gained. he knew, even more, the value of his own gigantic strength. the weapon in his hands became a far-reaching club. and, swinging it like a fiercely driven flail, he rushed into the crowd of savages, scattering them like chaff in a gale. the smashing blows fell on heads that split under their superlative force, and the ground about him became like a shambles. in a moment he discovered another figure in the shadowy darkness, fighting in a similar fashion, and he knew by the crude, disjointed oaths which were hurled with each blow, so full of a venomous hate, that peigan charley had somehow come to his support. his heart warmed, and his onslaught increased in its bitter ferocity. he was holding. just holding the rush, and that was all. without the reinforcements he had claimed he could not hope to drive his attack home. he knew. nor did he attempt to blind himself. the whole thing was a matter of minutes now. defeat, complete disaster hung by a thread, and the fever of the knowledge fired his muscles to an effort that was almost superhuman. he drove his way through the raging savages, whose crude weapons for close quarters were aimed at him from every direction. he was fighting for time. he was fighting to hold--simply hold. he was fighting to demoralize the rush, and drive terror into savage hearts. and he knew his limits were steadily approaching. his first call had reached the ears of the man for whom it was intended. nor had they been indifferent. a call for help from kars was an irresistible clarion of appeal to bill brudenell. mercy? there was no consideration of healing or mercy could claim him from his friend's succor. he flung aside his drugs, his bandages. he had no thought for his wounded. he had no thought for himself. to collect reinforcements from the northern defences was the work of a few minutes. even the elderly breed cook at the cook-house was claimed, though his only weapons were an ancient patterned revolver and a pick-haft he had snatched up. fifteen men in all he was able to collect and at the head of them he rushed for the battle-ground. nor was he a moment too soon. kars' vigor was rapidly exhausting itself. peigan charley was fighting with a demoniac fury, but weakening. the handful of men who were still supporting were nearly defeated. bill knew the value of creating panic. as he came he set up a yell. his men took it up, and it sounded like the advance of a legion of demons. in a moment they were caught in the whirl of battle, and the flash of their weapons lit the scene, while the clatter of firearms, and the hoarse-throated shouting, gave an impression of overwhelming force. back reeled the yelling horde in face of the onslaught. back and still back. confusion with those pressing on behind set up a panic. the wretched creatures fell like flies in the darkness. then came flight. headlong flight. the panic which bill had sought. in half an hour from the moment of the first break the position was restored. within an hour kars knew the battle of bell river had been won. but it had been won at a cost he had never reckoned upon. the margin of victory had been the narrowest. abe had been able to complete his work in the cold businesslike manner which was all his own. the attack from the river was an unsupported diversion with forces limited to its need. how nearly it had succeeded no doubt remained. but in that direction abe's heavy hand had fallen in no measured fashion. those of the landing party who were not awaiting burial on the foreshore were meeting death in the deep waters of the swiftly flowing river. even the smashed canoes were flotsam on the bosom of the tide. the battle degenerated from the moment of the failure of the intended breach. there was no further attack in force. small, isolated raids came at intervals only to be swept back by rifle fire from the embankments. these, and a desultory and notoriously wild fire, which, to the defence, was a mere expression of impotent, savage rage, wore the long night through. kars had achieved his desire. the night had been fought out, and the defence had held. kars was standing in the doorway of the storehouse where bill was calmly prosecuting his work of mercy. the doctor's smallish figure was moving rapidly about the crowded hut. his preoccupation was heart whole. he had eyes and thought for nothing but those injured bodies under their light blanket coverings, and the groans of suffering that came from lips, which, in health, were usually tainted with blasphemy. all kars' thoughts were at the moment concerned with the busy man. that array of figures had already told him its story. a painful story. a story calculated to daunt a leader. just now he was thinking how his debt to this man was mounting up. years of intimate friendship had been sealed by incident after incident of devotion. now he felt that he owed his present being to the prompt response to his signal of distress. but bill had never failed him. bill would never fail when loyalty was demanded. he breathed devotion in every act of his life. there could be no thanks between them. there never had been thanks between them. their bond was too deep, too strong for that. the dull lamplight revealed the makeshift of the hospital. there were no bunks, only the hard earthen floor cleared of stones. its log walls were stopped with mud to keep the weather out. a packing case formed the table on which the doctor's instruments were laid out. it was rough, uncouth. its inadequacy was only mitigated by the skill and gentle mercy of the man. kars' voice broke in upon the doctor's preoccupation. "twenty," he said. "twenty out of eighty." bill glanced up from the wounded head he was dressing. "and the fight just started." kars stirred from the support of the door-casing which had served to rest his weary body. "yes," he admitted. then he turned away. there seemed to be nothing further to add. he drew a deep breath as he moved into the open. a moment later he was moving with rapid strides in the direction of the battle-ground. a hard light was shining in his steady eyes, his jaws were sternly set. all feeling of the moment before had passed. the gray of dawn was spreading over the eastern sky. his nightmare was over. there was only left for him the execution of those plans he had so carefully worked out during the long days of preparation. chapter xxviii the harvest of battle the sun rose on a scene of great activity. it was the garnering of the harvest of battle. the light of day smiled down on this oasis on a barren foreshore of bell river and searched it from end to end. it was so small in the immensity of its surroundings. isolated, cut off from all outside help, it looked as though a deep breath of the living purpose of life must have swept it away like some ant heap lying in the path of a thrusting broom. yet it had withstood the shock of battle victoriously, and those surviving were counting the harvest. but there was no smile in the heart of man. a hundred dead lay scattered on the foreshore. they congested the defences of the camp. they had even breathed their last agony within the precincts which they had sought to conquer. mean, undersized, dusky-skinned, half-nude creatures sprawled everywhere, revealing in their attitudes something of that last suffering before the great release. doubtless the price had been paid with little enough regret, for that is the savage way. it was for their living comrades to deplore the loss, but only for the serious depletion of their ranks. the victorious defenders had no thought beyond the blessings of the harvest. they had no sympathy to waste. these dead creatures were so much carrion. the battle was the battle for existence which knows neither pity nor remorse. so the dead clay was gathered and thrown to its last rest on the bosom of the waters, to be borne towards the eternal ice-fields of the pole, or lie rotting on barren, rock-bound shores, where only the cries of the wilderness awaken the echoes. there was no reverence, no ceremony. the perils of existence were too near, too real in the minds of these men. with the last of the human sheaves disposed of the real work of the day began under the watchful eyes of the leaders. the garrison was divided in half. one-half slept while the other half labored at the defences. only the leaders seemed to be denied the ease of body their night's effort demanded. picks and shovels were the order of the day, and all the shortcomings of the defences, discovered during battle, were made good. the golden "pay dirt" which had drawn the sweepings of leaping horse into the service of john kars was the precious material of salvation. the fortifications rose on all sides. the river front was no longer neglected. none could say whence the next attack would come. none could estimate for sure the subtleties of the bastard white mind which had so long successfully manipulated the secret of bell river. not a man but had been impressed by the battle of the night. not a man but knew that the losses in defence had been detrimentally disproportionate. life to them was sweet enough. but even greater than the passionate desire to live was lust for possession of the treasure upon which their feet trod. so they worked with a feverish effort. nothing must be spared. nothing neglected that could make for security. the leaders conferred, and planned. and the result was concrete practice. kars was the guiding spirit, and abe dodds was the machine-like energy that drove the labor forward. bill took no part in the work. his work lay in one direction only, and it was a work he carried out with a self-sacrifice only to be expected from him. his hospital was full to overflowing, and for all his skill, for all his devotion, five times, during the day, bearers had to be summoned to carry out the cold remains of one of their comrades. the question in all minds was a speculation as to whether a fresh attack would mature on the second night. this speculation was confined to the rank and file of the outfit. the clearer vision of the leaders searched their own understanding of the position. it was pretty definitely certain there would be no attack in force. the enemy had hoped for a victory as the result of surprise and overwhelming odds. it had failed. it had failed disastrously. the indians were supposed to be five hundred strong. they had lost a fifth of their force without making any apparent impression on the defenders. there could be no surprise on the second night. it would take longer than twelve hours to spur the indians to a fresh attack of a similar nature. no, there would be no attack of a serious nature--yet. and kars unfolded the plans he had so carefully thought out long months ago. he set them before his three companions late in the afternoon, and detailed them with a meticulous care and exactness which revealed the clarity of vision he had displayed in their construction. but they were not plans such as these men had expected. they were daring and subtle, and they involved a risk only to be contemplated by such a nature as that of their author. but they promised success, if fortune ran their way. and in failure they would be left little more embarrassed than they now stood. the meeting terminated as it was bound to terminate with kars guiding its council. joe saunders, whose mentality limited him to a good fight, and the understanding of a prospector's craft, had neither demur nor suggestion. bill admitted he had no better proposition to offer, and only stipulated that his share in the scheme should be completely adequate. abe protested at the work imposed upon him, but admitted its necessity. "sit around this layout punchin' daylight into the lousy carcases of a bunch of neches, while you an' doc here get busy, seems to me a sort o' sunday-school game i ain't been raised to. it's a sort of pie that ain't had no sweetenin', i guess. an' my stomach's yearnin' for sugar. that play of yours has got me itching to take a hand. still, i guess this darn ol' camp needs holding up, an' if you need me here you can count me in to the limit." kars nodded unsmilingly. he knew abe, second only to his knowledge of bill brudenell. that limit was a big one. it meant all he desired. "it had to be you or bill, abe," he said. "i fixed on you because you got the boys of this camp where you need them. you'll get all the fight out of them when you want it. the doc, here, can dope 'em all they need, but he hasn't spent half his days driving for gold with an outfit of scallawags same as you have. hold this camp to the limit, boy, and when the work's through i don't guess your share in things'll be the least. i'm going to bank on you as i've never banked before. and i don't worry a thing." it was a tribute as generous as it was diplomatic, and its effect was instantaneous. "it goes, chief," exclaimed the engineer, with the nearest approach to real enthusiasm he ever permitted himself. "the limit! an' they'll need a big bank roll of fight to call my hand." half an hour later peigan charley was surprised into wakefulness under the southern embankment, where he had fallen asleep over his pipe. his boss was standing over him, gazing down at him with steady, gray, unsmiling eyes. the scout was sitting up in a moment. he was not yet certain what the visitation portended. "had a good sleep, peigan?" kars demanded, "him sleep plenty, boss." "good." kars turned and glanced out over the great volume of water passing down the river in a ponderous tide. peigan charley waited in mute, unquestioning fashion for what was to come. presently kars turned back to his trusted henchman. he began to talk rapidly. and as he talked the scout thrust his pipe away into a pocket in his ragged coat, which had once formed part of his boss's wardrobe. he stood up. nor did he interrupt. the keen light in his big black eyes alone betrayed any emotion. there was no doubt as to the nature of that emotion. for the sparkle in them grew, and robbed them of the last shadow of their native lack of expression. following upon his boss's words came the indian's brief but cordial expression of appreciation. then came a few minutes of sharp question, and eager reply. and, at last, came kars' final injunctions. "well, you'll get right up to the cook-house and eat your belly full. get fixed that way good. maybe you'll need it. then start right in, when it's dark, and don't pass word to a soul, or i'll rawhide you. get this good. if the neches get wise to you the game's played, and we've lost." the indian's reply came on the instant, and it was full to the brim of that contempt which the mention of his race never failed to arouse. "damn fool neche not know," he said icily. kars watched him set out for the cook-house. then he moved over to the hospital where bill was at work. he passed within the crude storehouse. he had not come out of any curiosity. he had not come to contemplate the havoc wrought on the bodies of this flotsam of dissolute life. he had come for the simple purpose of offering some cheer in the darkness of suffering. for all the ruggedness of exterior displayed by this man when the call of the northern wilderness claimed him, deep in his heart there were warm fires glowing which the bond of loyal comradeship never failed to fan. these breeds and scallawag indians were no less to him for their color, or their morals. they were fighters--fighters of the trail like himself. it was enough. a desultory rifle fire played over the camp. it was the signal of passing day. it was a reminder that the day's cessation of hostilities marked no abatement in the enemy's purpose. the defence was at its post. a long line of rifles held their vicious muzzles searching for a target that would repay. wastage of ammunition was strictly forbidden. the night, like its predecessor, was obscure. the targets were far off, and, as yet, invisible. so the defence remained unanswering, but ready. beyond the new defences on the river front a shadowy figure was stirring. his movements were stealthy. his moccasined feet gave out no sound. but there was sound. it was the muffled grating of something being slid over the gravelly beach at the water's edge. then came a gentle splash of water. it was scarcely more than the sound of a leaping fish. after that came the lapping of the stream against an obstruction to its course. the figure stood up, tall and slim. the rawhide rope in his hand strung taut. a moment later he secured the end of it by the simple process of resting a small boulder upon its knotted extremity. the canoe had swung to the stream and lay in against the river bank. the silent figure stooped over its gunwale and deposited various articles within its shallow depths. it was the merest cockle-shell of stoutly strutted bark, a product of the northland indian which leaves modern invention far behind in the purpose for which it is designed. the sound of a footstep on the beach drew the crouching figure to its full height. then, at the sound of a familiar voice, all suspicion died out. "all fixed right, charley?" "sho', boss. him fix plenty good." "got sow-belly an'--hardtack? maybe you'll need him. gun? plenty cartridge?" "him plenty--all thing." "good. say, you need to get around before daylight. good luck." the indian grunted his reply while he stooped again to release the rawhide painter. then, with a nice sense of balance, he sprang lightly into the shell-like vessel. john kars waited only till he heard the muffled dip of the paddle. then he withdrew, a sigh escaping him, an expression of pent feeling which had hope and doubt closely intermingling for its inspiration. he passed up to the defences for his second night's vigil. he had arranged that abe should sleep unless emergency demanded otherwise. the night passed without incident. kars was thankful. it was so much valuable time gained. the labors had been hard following upon the night of battle. the whole garrison had needed rest. this had been achieved by systematic relief, which was almost military in its method. but sleep had been taken at the defences. there had been no relaxing of vigilance. nor had the enemy any intention of permitting it. his loose fire went on the whole time, stirring the echoes of the gorge in protest at the disturbance of the night. towards morning kars and bill were at the water's edge, searching the black distance, while they strained for a sound other than the echoes of the spasmodic rifle fire. "charley'll find a trail, if he hasn't broken his fool neck," kars said. "guess he'd find a trail in a desert of sand that's always shifting. this darn gorge must be scored with them. if he don't, why, i guess we'll need to chance it up-stream past those workings." "yes." bill sat on the boulder charley had used as a mooring. he had had his sleep, but a certain weariness still remained. "you'd stake a roll on charley," he said, with an upward glance of amusement that was lost in the darkness. "sure." kars gave a short laugh. "he's a mascot. it's always been that way since i grabbed him when he quit the penitentiary for splitting another neche's head open in a scrap over a breed gal. charley's got all the brains of his race, and none of its virtues. but he's got virtues of a diff'rent sort. they're sometimes found in white folk." "you mean he's loyal." "that's it. every pocket he's got is stuffed full of it. he'll find a trail or break his fool neck--because i'm needing one. he's the sort of boy, if i needed him to shoot up a feller, it wouldn't be sufficient acting the way i said. he'd shoot up his whole darn family, too, and thieve their blankets, even if he didn't need 'em. he's quite a boy--when you got him where you need him. i----" kars broke off listening acutely. he turned his head with that instinct of avoiding the night breeze. bill, too, was listening, his watchful eyes turned northward. the moments grew. the splutter of rifle fire still haunted the night. but, for all its breaking of the stillness, the muffled sound of a paddle grew out of the distance. kars sighed a relief he would not have admitted. "back to--schedule," he said. "guess it needs a half hour of dawn." there was no muffle to the sound of the paddle now, and the waiting men understood. the indian was up against the full strength of the heavy stream, and, light as was his craft, it was no easy task to breast it. for some minutes the rhythmic beat went on. then the little vessel grated directly opposite them, with an exactness of judgment in the darkness that stirred admiration. a moment later peigan charley was giving the results of his expedition in the language of his boss, of which he considered himself a perfect master. "charley, him find him," he said with deep satisfaction. "him mak' plenty trail. much climb. much ev'rything. so." chapter xxix the lap of the gods he looked like a disreputable image carved in mahogany, and arrayed in the sittings of a rag-picker's store. he was seated on the earthen door-sill of the hut where kars was sleeping. he was contemplating with a pair of black, expressionless eyes the shadows growing in the crevices of the far side of the gorge. the occasional whistle of a bullet passing harmlessly overhead failed to disturb him in the smallest degree. why should he be disturbed? they were only fired by "damn-fool neche." he sat quite still in that curious haunch-set fashion so truly indian. it was one of the many racial characteristics he could not shake off--for all his boasted white habits--just as his native patience was part of his being. nothing at that moment seemed to concern him like the watching of those growing shadows of night, and the steady darkening of the evening sky. the defences were alive with watchful eyes. the movement of men was incessant. the smell of cooking hung upon the evening air blending with the smoke of the cook-house fire. only the sluices stood up still and deserted, and the dumps of pay dirt. but, for the moment, none of these things were any concern of his. he had been detached from the work of the camp. his belly was full to the brim of rough food, and he was awaiting the psychological moment when the orders of his boss must be carried out. peigan charley was nothing if not thorough in all he undertook. it mattered very little to him if he were asked to cut an indian's throat, or if he were told by kars to attend sunday-school. he would do as his "boss" said. the throat would be cut from ear to ear, if he had to spend the rest of his days in the penitentiary. as for the sunday-school he would sing the hymns with the best, or die in the attempt. half an hour passed under this straining vigil. he had stirred slightly to ease his lean, stiffening muscles. the rough buildings of the camp slowly faded under the growing darkness. the activity of the camp became swallowed up, and only his keen ears told him of it. the pack ponies at their picketings, under the sheer walls beyond the cook-house, abandoned their restless movements over their evening meal of grain. the moment was approaching. at last he stirred. he rose alertly and peered within the darkened doorway. then his moccasined feet carried him swiftly and silently to the side of the bunk on which his "boss" was sleeping. kars awoke with a start. he was sitting up with his blankets flung back. the touch of a brown hand upon his shoulder had banished completely the last of his deep slumber. "boss come. him dark--good." the indian had said all he felt to be necessary. he stood gazing down at the great shadowy figure sitting up on the bunk. "you're an infernal nuisance," kars protested. but he swung himself round and stood up. "everything ready?" he went on, strapping a revolver belt about his waist. "boss bill? he ready?" he picked up his heavy automatic lying on the table at the head of his bunk, and examined it with his fingers to ascertain if the clip of cartridges was full. he reached under the bunk for some spare clips. then he drew on his pea-jacket and buttoned it up. "boss bill all ready. him by hospital." "good. then come right on. go tell boss bill. i go to the river." the dusky indian shadow melted away in the darkness. kars watched it go. then he filled up a brandy flask and thrust it into his pocket. a moment later he passed down to the water's edge, only diverging to exchange a few parting words with abe dodds who was in charge of the defences. bill brudenell sat in the middle of the canoe, a smallish, thickly coated figure with a beaver cap pressed low down on his iron gray head. kars and the indian were at the paddles, kneeling and resting against the struts. kars was in the bow. he was a skilled paddle, but just now the indian claimed responsibility for their destination and the landing. charley, in consequence, felt his importance. besides, there was the praise for his skilful navigation yet to come. the rhythmic pressure of the paddles was perfectly muffled. the stream was with them. it was a swift and silent progress. for all his knowledge and experience kars had difficulty in recognizing their course. then there were possible submerged boulders and other "snags" and their danger to the frail craft. but these things were quite undisturbing to the scout. his sight seemed to possess something of feline powers. his sense of locality, and of danger, were something almost uncanny on the water. he had made their present journey once before, and his sureness was characteristic of his native instincts. the journey occupied perhaps a quarter of an hour. then a low spoken order came from the indian. "charley tak' him," was all he said, and kars, obediently, shipped his paddle. then came an exhibition of canoeing which rewarded the white men for their faith in their disreputable henchman. charley played with the light craft in the great volume of stream as a feather might yield to a gentle breeze. the canoe sidled in to the shore through a threatening shoal of rocky outcrop, and the first stage of the journey was completed. the second stage began after the little craft had been lifted and placed high above the water's level. scarcely a word was spoken as the various articles were taken out of it, and matters were adjusted. there was nothing slipshod in the arrangements. every precaution was taken. these men knew, only too well, the hazard of their undertaking, and the necessity for provision against emergency. the profound darkness was their cover. it was also their danger. there was no light anywhere under the clouded sky. the northern lights were hidden, and not even a star was visible. it was what they desired, what they needed. but the gaping jaws of the profound gorge might easily form a trap for their undoing. charley led the way over the rocks, and the murmur of cascading waters greeted the white men's ears. it was another of those draining waterways which scored the rock-bound river. the sound of the water grew as they approached its outlet. then, in a moment, it seemed they were swallowed up by an inky blackness. charley came to a halt and uncoiled the rawhide rope which he had taken from the canoe. he paid it out, and passed one end of it to his boss. he fastened the other end about his waist. half-way down its length bill took possession of it. it was a guiding life-line so that those behind him should not lose the trail. then the upward struggle began. it was a fierce effort, as charley's information had indicated. it was a blind climb surrounded by every pitfall conceivable. the white men had recollections of a climb of lesser degree, in full daylight, on the far shore of the river. it had taken something like an hour of tremendous effort. the difficulties and danger of it had been incomparable with their present task. not once, but a dozen times the life-line was the saving clause for these men who had studied nature's book in the northern wilderness from end to end. and none realized better than they how much reliance they were placing in the hands of the untutored indian who was guiding them. never for a moment was charley at a loss. his movements were precise, definite. he threaded his way amongst tree-trunks and a tangle of undergrowth with a certainty that never faltered. he surmounted jutting, slippery crags as though broad daylight marked out for him the better course. there were moments when he stood on the brink of a black abyss into which heavy waters fell to a depth of thirty or forty feet. but always he held the life-line so that the course lay clear behind him for those who had to follow. so the struggle went on. higher and higher; up, up to what seemed immeasurable heights. always was there the threat of the water at hand, a warning and a constant fear, as well as the main guide. there was not a moment when life and limb were not threatened. it was only the pliability of the moccasins, which each man was wearing, that made the journey possible. it gave them foothold at times where no foothold seemed possible. it was, as charley had warned them, "much climb." but the task had been contemplated by minds tuned to great purpose. nor was there anything in the nature of the northern world that could daunt that purpose. bill might have found complaint to offer in the cool contemplation of his philosophic mind, but the nature of him defied all better sense, and drove him to a resolution as stubborn and invincible as that of kars himself. and kars had no other thought but of the objective to be gained. only physical disaster could stop him. so his whole strength was flung into the melting pot of achievement. the indian had no other feeling than the pride of a brief leadership. the aboriginal in him was intensely stirred. here he was in his native element. here he could teach the great man who was, in his curiously warped mind, far above all others. besides, was there not at the end to be a satisfaction of all the savage instincts in him? he knew the bell river neches, whom he hated so cordially in common with all others of his race, were to be outwitted, defeated. and his share in that outwitting was to be a large one, and would only go to prove further what a contemptible thing the neche really was. so he brought to his aid all those faculties which he owed to his forebears, and which had been practised in the purposes of his crooked youth. nor had he the wit to understand that the "contemptible" indian in him was serving him to the limit in this effort he was putting forth. the tremendous climb terminated on the wooded crests of the walls of the great gorge. and the white men paused, thankful enough for the moment of relaxation, while charley scouted for his bearings. but the pause was of the briefest. charley was back almost before the tired muscles had relaxed. the briefest announcement in the scout's pigeon english and the journey was resumed. "charley's eye all clear. we go?" the life-line was recoiled, and the scout wore it over one shoulder, and across his chest. he had secret hopes for that rope which he imparted to no one. the way through the virgin forest was almost brief. in a half hour they stood clear of it with a dark stretch of open country stretching out before them. nor was there the least hesitation. charley picked out his way, as a cat will pass through the darkest apartment without colliding with the furnishings. he seemed to read through the darkness with a mental torch. a mile of the way lay over a stretch of attenuated grass along a ridge that sloped away to the depths of a narrow valley, which converged upon the river some miles to the north. then came a drop, a steady decline which brought them to a wider and shallower part of the valley they had been skirting. what obstacles might lie in that hollow the white men were powerless to estimate. they were entirely in the hands of the indian, and were content that this was so. none spoke, and the scout moved on with the swiftness of absolute certainty. shadowy bluffs loomed up, were skirted, were left behind. once or twice a grunted warning came from the leader as marshy ground squelched under the soft moccasins. but that was all. charley's whole mind was set in deep concentration. pitfalls, which might trap, were of small enough importance. the trail was all-absorbing. a shallow lapping stream crossed their path. the banks were low and quaking. they plunged into the knee-deep water, and their feet sank into the bed of soft, reed-grown mud. they crossed the deep nearly waist high, and floundered out on to the far bank. then came a further groping progress through a thicket of saplings and lesser growth. this passed, they emerged upon an upward slope and firm patchy grassland. it was at the summit of this that the indian paused. he stood staring out in a southwesterly direction. for a while he remained silent. kars and bill squeezed the water from their stout moleskin trousers. suddenly charley flung out an arm. he was pointing with a lean forefinger. "neche lodge," he said. "louis creal him shack." kars and bill were at either side of him searching the dark horizon. a light was shining dimly in the distance. nor did it need much understanding to realize that it came from behind a primitive, cotton-covered window. "good. how far?" it was kars who spoke. "piece down. piece up. so. one mile. bluff. small piece. bell river neches--plenty teepee." charley spoke with his outstretched hand indicating a brief decline, and the corresponding rise of ground beyond. again it was the indian in him that would not be denied illustration by gesture. again they moved forward. again was the scout's rightness and accuracy proved. the ground fell away into a short dip. it rose again in the far side of the moist bottom, and its summit confronted them with a clean cut barrier of tall pine woods. it was the end of the toilsome journey. the screening bluff to the northeast, without which no indian village, however primitive, is complete. they were not to pass through it. the scout turned off sharply to the left, and moved down its length with swift, untiring steps. nor did he pause again till the great bluff was passed, and once more the square, yellow patch of light gazed out at them from the dark vault of night. with a brief explanation the indian yielded up his command. "him louis creal," he said pointing. then he swung his arm away to the right. "him indian lodge. much teepee. much dog." he paused. "charley him finish--yes?" he added almost regretfully. kars promptly led the way back to the cover of the woods. "guess we'll sit around," he said, in a low voice. "i'll hand out the talk." under the deep hush of night the village of the bell river terror slumbered. the raw-pelt teepees, their doors laced fast, stood up like shadowy mausoleums with rigid arms stretched high above their sharp crowns, as though in appeal to the frowning night heavens. in vain glory an occasional log hut, with flattened reed roof, stood out surrounded by its complement of teepees to mark the petty chieftainship of its owner. otherwise there was nothing to vary the infinite squalor of the life of a northern race. squalor and filth, and almost bestial existence, made up the life of aboriginal man in a land where glacier and forest vied with each other as the dominating interpretation of nature. nor was there need for optical demonstration of the conditions. it was there to faculties of scent. it was there in the swarms of night flies. it was there in the howl of the scavenging camp dogs, seeking, in their prowling pack, that which the daylight denied them. savage as a starving wolf pack these creatures wallowed in the refuse of the camp, and fought for offal as for a coveted delicacy. and so the women and men laced tight their doors that the fly-tormented pappooses might sleep in security. in daylight these foraging beasts were curs who labored under the shadow of the club, at night they were feared even by their masters. kars, and those with him, understood the conditions. the night hid no secrets from them with regard to the village which sheltered their enemy. they had learned it all in years of the long trail, and accepted it as a matter of course. but, for the present, the village was not their concern. it was the yellow patch of light shining in the darkness that held them and inspired their council. the light was widely apart from the village. it was on a rising ground which overlooked the surroundings. it was one of the many eyes of a low, large, rambling building, half store, half mere dwelling, which searched the movements of the degraded tribe which yielded something approaching slavery to the bastard white mind which lurked behind them. the silence of the place was intense. there was no yap of angry cur here. there was no sign of life anywhere, beyond that yellow patch of light. the place was large and stoutly constructed. the heavy dovetailed logs suggested the handicraft of the white. the dimly outlined roof pitches had nothing of the indian about them. but in other respects it was lacking. there were no fortifications. it was open to approach on all sides. and its immediate neighborhood reeked with the native odors of the indian encampment. it suggested, for all its aloofness, intimate relations with the aboriginal life about it. it suggested the impossibility of escape for its owner from the taint of his colored forebears. though no sound broke the stillness about this habitation shadows were moving under its outer walls. gliding shadows moving warily, stealing as though searching out its form, and measuring its vulnerability. they hovered for moments at darkened window openings. the closed doors afforded attraction for them. for half an hour the silent inspection went on. these movements seemed to have system. no doorway or window escaped attention. no angle but was closely searched. yet for all the movement, it was ghostly in its completeness of silence. finally the lighted window drew their whole attention, and, for many minutes, nothing further interested them. at last, however, the gathering broke up. one figure passed away around an angle of the building and disappeared in the direction of a closed doorway. a second figure, larger than the others, passed on in the direction of another door. the third, a slim, alert creature, remained at the window. in one hand he held a long, keen-edged knife. in the other a heavy pistol loaded in every barrel. within the building an equally silent scene was being enacted. the room was low roofed, with a ceiling of cotton billowing downwards between the nails which held it to the rafters. no minute description could adequately picture the scene. it was half living-room, half store for indian trade, and wholly lacking in any sort of order or cleanliness. one wall was completely covered with shelves laden with merchandise. there were highly colored cotton prints and blankets. there were bottles and canned goods. there were tobacco and kegs of fiery rye whisky. there were packets and bundles, and deep partitioned trays of highly colored beads. a counter, which stood before this piled up litter, was no less laden. but that which was under the counter was hidden from view. a corner of the room was crowded to the ceiling with valuable furs in their rough-dried state. another was occupied by a fuel box stacked with split cord-wood, for the box stove which stood in the centre of all. the earthen floor was foul with dust and litter, and suggested that no broom had passed over it for weeks. but the quality of the place was of less interest than its human occupants. there were two. both were clad in the thick, warmth-giving garments characteristic of the north. one stood behind the counter leaning over an account book of considerable proportions and was absorbed in its perusal. the other was seated with his feet resting on the steel rail of the stove, basking in its warmth. his back was to the lamp and the cotton-covered window, and he was gazing in the direction of the man at the counter through a haze of smoke from his pipe. he was lounging in the only piece of furniture the room boasted, except for the table on which a large glass of spirits stood adjacent to the oil lamp. not once, but several times he plied himself with the ardent spirits, while the man absorbed in his ledger turned the pages before him. the man in the chair continued to drink without stint. he drank with the abandon of one who has long since done with the restraint imposed by civilization. the man at the counter worked on silently. he, too, had a charged glass beside him. but, for the moment, it was neglected. his figures absorbed his whole attention. at last he looked up. his yellow skin was shining. his wicked black eyes were twinkling, which, with the scars distorting his features, gave him a look of curiously malevolent triumph. "guess they're kind of rough figgers," he apologized. "but they're near enough to make good readin'." "what's the total?" the demand was sharp and masterful. "just under ten thousand ounces since last reckoning. that's the last half of last summer's wash-up. there's nigh a thousand tons of dirt to clean still. it's the biggest wash we've had, an' it's growing. when we've cleaned out this gang we won't need to do a thing but shout. there ain't no limit to the old gorge," he added gleefully. "when we've passed the bones of john kars to the camp dogs, why, we can jest make up our bank roll how we darn please." "yes." the man at the stove emptied and replenished his glass, and sat handling it like one who treasures its contents. but there was a frowning discontent in his eyes. "we need to pass those bones along quick," he demurred. "we haven't done it yet." the half-breed at the counter searched the discontented face with speculative eyes. "you guessin' we can't?" there was incredulity in his tone. "i don't guess a thing. we've just--got to." the surly determination was unconvincing. "an' why not?" the half-breed's eyes were widely questioning. "it don't worry me a thing. we fixed mowbray all right. he was no blamed sucker. i tell you right here there's no white outfit goin' to dip into my basket, an' get away with it. we'll hammer 'em good and proper. an' if that don't fix 'em, why, i guess there's always the starvation racket. that don't never fail when it's backed by winter north of 'sixty.' them curs'll get his bones all----" but the man at the stove was no longer paying attention. he had turned in his chair, and his eyes were on the door. his glass was poised in the act of raising it to his lips. it remained untouched. "i thought----" nor did he complete that which he had been about to say. the door was thrust wide with a jolt. there was the swift clash of a knife ripping the cotton window behind him. then came an incredulous ejaculation, as two guns were held leveled in the doorway. "god! murray mctavish!" the movements of those moments were something electrical. everything seemed to happen at once. every man playing his little part in the drama of it was accustomed to think and act in the moment of emergency. these men owed their present existence to their capacity for survival where danger was ever lurking. seconds counted on the fingers on one hand were sufficient to decide the issue. a shot sung in through the uncovered window which carried back no "spat" to the man who fired it. but the eyes which had guided it beheld the half-breed at the counter sprawl across the account book which had yielded him so much satisfaction. almost at the instant of his fall a lean, agile, dusky, disreputable figure leaped into the room through the aperture which his knife had freed of its covering. kars in the doorway had been no less swift. his automatic spoke, but it spoke no quicker than a similar weapon in the hands of murray mctavish. it was a situation pregnant with possibilities. the bulky body of the trader of fort mowbray had moved with the quickness, the agility of lightning. his glass had dropped to the filthy floor with a crash, and its place in his hand had been taken by a pistol in the twinkle of an eye. he was on his feet, and had hurled his bullet at the figure in the doorway in the space of time elapsing between john kars' startled exclamation and the discharge of his weapon, which had been almost on the instant. with deadly purpose and skill murray had taken no aim. he had fired for the pit of the stomach with the instinct of the gunman. perhaps it was the haste, perhaps the whisky had left its effect on him. his shot tore its way through kars' pea-jacket, grazing the soft flesh of his side below his ribs. the second and third shots, as the automatic did its work, were even less successful. there was no fourth shot, for the weapon dropped from murray's nerveless hand as kars' single shot tore through his adversary's extended arm and shattered the bones. the injured man promptly sought to recover his weapon with the other hand. but no chance remained. a dusky figure leaped upon his back from behind, and the dull gleam of a long knife flourished in the lamplight. then came kars' fierce tones. "push your hands up, blast you!" peigan charley's arm was crooked about the trader's neck. there was no mercy in his purpose. the fierce joy of the moment was intoxicating him. the knife. he yearned, with savage lust, to drive it deep into the fat body struggling under his hold. but murray understood. one hand went up. the other made an effort, but remained helpless at his side. instantly kars stayed the ruthless hand of the savage. "quit it, charley!" he cried. "loose your hold and see to the other. i got this one where i need him." the indian yielded reluctantly. he looked on for a moment while kars advanced and secured the trader's fallen weapon. then he passed across to the counter. the half-breed was badly wounded. but the indian had neither pity nor scruple. he turned him over where he lay groaning across his counter. he searched him and relieved him of a pair of loaded revolvers. then, standing over him, he waited for his chief. nor had he to wait long. kars completed his work in silence. for the time words were unnecessary. murray was suffering intensely, but he gave no sign. his great eyes, glowing with malevolent fire, watched his victorious rival's movements, and a growing dread took possession of him at his silence. he was searched, carefully searched. then kars turned to the indian as a thin haze of smoke crept in through the jamb of a door which communicated with some other portion of the building. "get him outside," he said. "pass that rope along." the indian uncoiled the rawhide rope from about his chest and brought it across. kars pointed at the fat figure of murray. "get it about his feet so he can walk--that's all." the indian's appreciation rose. it was displayed in the fashion in which he secured the trader. he erred generously on the side of security. when he had finished murray could hobble. there was no chance of his escape. the mist of smoke was deepening. the smell of burning was in the air. the prisoner suddenly displayed alarm. "for god's sake get out of here," he cried, in a sudden access of panic. "the place is afire. the cellars under are full of explosives." "that's how i figgered." kars' rejoinder was calmly spoken. he pointed at the half-breed. "see to him, charley," he said. and he waited till the indian had roughly dragged the wounded man into the open. then he turned to the panic-stricken trader. "now you," he commanded, and pointed at the doorway. the night sky was lit with a dull red glow. a fierce fire was raging on the rising ground beyond the indian village. a great concourse of dusky figures, men, and women, and pappooses were gathered at a safe distance watching with awe the riot of that terror which haunted their lives. the whole village was awake, and had turned out to witness the calamity which had befallen. others had joined them. those others who had contemplated the destruction of the white invaders down in the river gorge. their crude minds held no clue to the cause of the thing which had happened. each and all wondered and feared at the non-appearance of the men who led them. but none dared approach the fire. none thought to extend help to its possible victims. fire was a demon they feared. it was a demon they were ready enough to invoke to aid them in war. but his wrath turned against themselves was something to be utterly dreaded. so they stood and watched--from afar off. there were others watching, too. but they were still farther off. they were standing on a high ground in the shelter of a bluff of trees. their direction was towards the river, where the indian had led them earlier in the night. the fire licked up towards the heavy sky in jagged tongues of flame. the indians were held fascinated by their own terror. the others were waiting for other reasons. two figures were on the ground. one was squatting on his heavy buttocks. the other was stretched prone and helpless. two men were standing guard, their eyes wide for that which was to come. the indian charley was absent. he had gone to summon aid from the river. that which was awaited came when the fire was at its height. it came with a roar, tossing the licking flames into a wild chaos of protest. they were swept apart, and a great detonation boomed across to expectant ears. a pillar of smoke and flame shot up to the heavens. then a deluge of smoke partially obscured all vision. "good!" kars' monosyllable was full of intense satisfaction. "they'll go hungry for fighting fodder," said bill. nor was there any less satisfaction in his comment. chapter xxx the end of the terror kars stood on the embankment watching the receding form of the aged chief, thunder-cloud, taking his departure with his escort. it was an outfit to inspire ridicule, were it not for the seriousness lying behind the human passions governing the situation. kars understood. those with him understood. peigan charley alone lacked appreciation. he regretted the old man's coming under a truce. he even more regretted his departure--whole. but then peigan charley was a savage, and would never be otherwise. the old man tottered along over the rough foreshore which had been cleared of its human debris. his blanket-clad shoulders, though gay with color, were bowed with senility, a mockery of the vaunting splendor which glared out in vivid stripes. his escort, too, was mostly elderly. there were no fighting men in it. they were the counselors, who worked overtime with inadequate brains, and delivered the result by word of mouth with all the confidence of their kind. it had been an interesting moment for the leaders of the camp. for kars it had been something in the nature of a triumph. it had yielded him his reward for a superlative effort of reckless daring, in which the loyalty of his companions had helped him. the old man had talked. he had babbled on through his interpreter at great length. his talk had been a rambling declaration of friendship for the white man. he had assured kars that he, kars, was held in great personal esteem by the indians. the last thing in any indian mind was a desire to shed his blood, or the blood of any of his "braves," who fought so magnificently. he assured him that he had come to say that all the indians, even those who had been so very fierce, and were now so no longer, would gladly smoke the pipe of peace with their white brothers, and bury the hatchet now and forever. nor did he inform his audience of the events which had led up to this desire, and of which he believed they must be ignorant. he failed to mention that their own white leaders had vanished, literally in smoke, that all supplies necessary to carry on the war had been completely cut off by the destruction by fire of the magazine in which these things were stored. on these matters he was discreetly reticent, and kars was satisfied that it should be so. on his part he had no desire to enlighten him to the fact that, at that moment, murray mctavish was lying in the extemporized hospital in the camp with a shattered arm, and that the half-breed, louis creal, was slowly dying with a bullet through his lungs, under the same primitive shelter. kars had listened. and his whole attitude was one of clear-eyed wisdom. he assured the crafty old man that he was certain of the bell river indians' good faith. he was furthermore convinced that the men of bell river were the finest indian race in the world, with whom it was the whole object of a white man's life to live in peace. he was certain that the recent events had been inspired by powers of evil which had now been destroyed, and that he saw no obstacle to cementing a lasting friendship with the indians, which he was sure would lead to happy days of plenty for the noble red man. and so the farce had gone on to its end with truly indian ceremonial. but it did not come to a close until kars had elicited from the old rascal a complete story of the murder of allan mowbray. to him this was of far more importance than all the rest of the old sinner's talk. the story was extracted piecemeal, and was given in rambling, evasive fashion. but it was given completely in the end, and with a veracity which kars had no reason to doubt. it was a long enough story, which became a record of perfidy and crime laid entirely at the doors of murray mctavish and louis creal. the indians had known allan mowbray for many years. they were good friends. allan mowbray clothed and fed them in return for furs. then came a time when the white man found yellow dust on the river bank. he liked it. he told the indians so, and showed them how to find it, and promised them, if they would collect all they could, and trade it with him, they would never want for anything. he sent the half-breed, louis creal, to see they did the work right, and fitted him out a store. louis creal was a servant of allan mowbray. he was not a partner. a great prosperity set in for the indians, and they were very pleased and very contented. then came a time when the other white man appeared, murray mctavish. he made great changes. the indians had to work harder, but they got more trade. they got whisky. they grew more and more prosperous. the new white man was always smiling and pleasant, and the young men liked him very much, because he made the squaws and old men do most of the work, while they were given rifles, and allowed to practice the arts of war which had died out in their tribe for so long. the new white man then told them that they must not let any other indians come near bell river. these traveling indians were a great danger. finding the bell river folk prosperous and happy they would become envious. they would come in the night and burn and massacre. the young men realized the danger, and they went on the war-path. all who came near were killed. then the young men scoured the country around, and burned the homes of all indians they found, and killed their fighting men. the new white man was very pleased. after a very long time murray mctavish and louis creal held a big council with the young men. the white man told them they were in very great danger. he said that allan mowbray was no longer to be trusted. he was a traitor. he assured them that allan mowbray was going through the country telling the indians and white folk of the yellow dust on the river. this was betraying the indians. for now all people would come along in such numbers they would sweep the bell river indians away, they would kill them all, and burn their homes, and they would kill the white men, too, so that they could get all the dust that belonged to the people of bell river. the only way to save themselves was by killing allan mowbray. the young men were very angry, and very fierce. and the white man offered them council and advice. he showed them how they could trap allan mowbray and kill him. and louis creal would help them. this the young men did on the banks of the river, led by louis creal. but the old villain was careful to explain that now, now, at last--of course since the ruin of their prospects through the destruction of their sources of supply--all the bell river tribe was sorry that allan mowbray had been killed. they understood that he was not a traitor. it was the others who were traitors. allan mowbray was killed because they wanted all the yellow dust themselves, and he, thunder-cloud, personally, as well as the young men, was very glad that they had both been found out by the indians. they were very, very bad men who had wanted kars and his people killed, too, but fortunately the indians had found out that kars was a good man, and a friend of the indian, and so it was the desire of all to live in peace. in fact the indian would be very pleased to trade yellow dust with him. as the old chief vanished in the region of the indian workings kars turned back to his camp. for some moments he surveyed the scene with serious eyes. it was all over. already the persistent energy of abe dodds was making itself apparent. the pumps had been restarted. the sluices were awash, and gangs were starting to demolish the embankments of auriferous pay dirt. the armed camp was vanishing before the breath of peace, and the change brought him a measure of relief he remained wholly unaware of. it had been a desperate time while it had lasted. a desperateness quite unrealized until it was over, and complete victory had been achieved. and, curiously enough, by far his most anxious time had been the safe return from his raid on louis creal's store, with his prisoners. peigan charley had been unfailing. the indian had reached the camp and found it secure. there had been no attack in his absence. he had explained the situation in his own lurid but limited language to abe dodds, and the assistance needed had been promptly forthcoming. the whole enterprise, the capture of the prisoners, the burning of louis creal's store, had been carried out without the indian's obtaining an inkling of that which was going forward. and unquestionably it was due largely to this absolute secrecy in the operation that the present peace offer had been so promptly forthcoming. but in the midst of his triumph kars had little enough rejoicing. he had been shocked--shocked beyond words. and the shock left a haunting memory which dominated every other feeling. it was murray mctavish's share in the villainies of the sombre river. it was incredible--almost. but the worst feature of the whole thing lay in the man's callous display. this murderer, this murderer of her father, this man who was her father's friend, had dared to contemplate marriage with jessie. he had asked her to marry him while the memory of his crime must still have been haunting, almost before the red blood of his victim had dried upon his ruthless hands. it was unspeakable. the smiling, genial murray. the man of bristling energy and apparent good-will. the man who had assumed the protection of the women-folk left defenceless by his own crime--a murderer. the horror of it all left kars consumed by a cold fury more terrible than any passion he had ever known. with his whole soul he demanded justice. with his whole soul he was resolved that justice should be done. he remembered so many things now. he remembered the shipment of arms with which, he had assured bill, he believed murray intended to wipe out the bell river scourge. and he remembered bill's doubtful acceptance of it. now he knew from bitter experience the meaning of that shipment. it was the murder of himself. the massacre of his "outfit." an added crime to leave murray free to wallow in his gold lust. free to possess himself of jessie mowbray. he wondered how long louis creal would have survived had murray achieved his purpose. his discovery had been incredible--_almost_. but not quite. subconscious doubts of murray had always been his. bill brudenell's doubts of the man had been more than subconscious. the growth of his own subtle antagonism towards the trader had always disturbed him. but its growth had gone on while he remained powerless to check it. he had set it down to rivalry for a woman's love. he had accepted it as such. but now it possessed a deeper significance. he believed it to have been instinctive distrust. but a murderer. no. the reality was beyond his wildest imaginings. he left the embankment and passed back to the shanty where the council of peace had been held. bill was within. he was seated on his bunk contemplating the automatic pistol which kars had taken from murray mctavish. it was lying across his knee, and one hand was gripping its butt. the indian reek still permeated the atmosphere, and kars exhaled in noisy disgust as he entered. "gee! it's a stinking outfit," he exclaimed, in tones that left no doubt of his feelings, as he flung himself on his bunk and began to fill his pipe. bill glanced up. his gaze was preoccupied. "neches do stink," he admitted. kars struck a match. "i wasn't worrying about the neches. the neches don't cut any ice with me. it's murray." bill shook his head while he watched kars light his pipe. "then it's more than a stinking outfit. maybe i should say 'worse.'" his eyes were twinkling. it was not with amusement. it was the nature of them. but kars denied him with an oath. "it couldn't be." bill turned his gaze towards the doorway. he was watching the blaze of spring sunlight, and the hovering swarms of flies which haunted the river bank. "but it could. it is," he said deliberately, and his eyes came back to the weapon in his hand. then he added with some force: "there'll need to be a hanging--sure." "allan was murdered at his instigation. he'll certainly hang for it," kars agreed. "i wasn't thinking that way." "how then?" "this." bill held up the gun. "that? it's murray's gun. i----" "yes," bill interrupted him, a fierce light leaping into his eyes and transfiguring them in a manner kars had never before beheld. "it's murray's gun, and it's the gun that handed death to young alec mowbray at the elysian fields." "god!" kars' ejaculation was something in the nature of a gasp. renewed horror was looking out of his eyes. his pipe was held poised in his fingers while it was allowed to go out. a curious feeling of helplessness robbed him of further articulation. the two men were gazing eye to eye. at last, with an effort, kars flung off the silence that held him. "how--how d'you know?" he demanded in thick tones. bill held up a nickel bullet between his finger and thumb. then he displayed the half empty cartridge clip he had extracted from the weapon. "they're the same make, and--this is the bullet i dug out of poor alec's body." kars breathed deeply. he regarded the various articles, held fascinated as by something evil but irresistible. he watched bill as he replaced them on the bunk beside him. then, for a few seconds, the sounds of activity outside, and the buzz of the swarming flies alone broke the silence. but the moment of silence passed. it was broken by a fierce oath, and it came from bill. a hot flush stained his tanned cheeks. his anger transformed him. "god in heaven!" he cried. "i've suspected right along. guess i must have _known_, and couldn't believe. i'm just mad--mad at the thought of it. say, john, he's had us beaten the whole way. and now it's too late. i could cry like a kid. i could break my fool head against the wall. the whole darn thing was telling itself to me, way back months, down in leaping horse, and i just wouldn't listen. and now the boy's dead." he drew a deep breath. but he went on almost at once. and though his tones were more controlled his emotion was working deeply. "d'you know why i brought that bullet along? no," as kars shook his head. "i guess i don't quite know myself. and yet it seemed to me it was necessary. i sort of felt if we got behind things here on bell river we'd find a link between them and that bullet. now i know. say, i've got it all now. it's acted itself all to me right here in this shack. it was acting itself to me up there in that ruined shack across the river, when you handed me your talk of murray's purpose, only i guess i wasn't sitting in the front row, and hadn't the opera glasses to see with. "say, it's the same darn story over again," he went on with passionate force. "it's the same with a different setting, and different characters. it's the same motive. just the rotten darn motive this world'll never be rid of so long as human nature lasts. we've both seen it down there in leaping horse, and, like the fools we were, guessed the long trail was clear of it. we're the fools and suckers. god made man, and the devil handed him temptation. i'll tell you the things i've seen floating around in the sunlight, where the flies are worrying, while i've been sitting around here looking at that gun you grabbed from murray. it's a tough yarn that'll sicken you. but it's right. and you'll learn it's right before the police set their rope around murray mctavish's neck. i don't think murray's early history needs to figger. if it did, maybe it wouldn't be too wholesome. where allan found him i don't know, and murray hasn't felt like talking about things himself. maybe allan knew his record. i can't say. anyway, as i said, it doesn't figger. there's mighty few folks who hit north of 'sixty' got much of a sunday-school record, and they're mostly out for a big piece of money quick. anyway, in this thing allan found murray and brought him along a partner in a gold stake. he brought him because the proposition was too big, and too rich for him to handle on his own. get that. and murray knew what he was coming to. that was allan's way. he handed him the whole story because he was a straight dealing feller who didn't understand the general run of crookedness lying around. it was no partnership in a bum trading outfit. it was a big gold proposition, and _it had to be kept secret_. "murray came along up. maybe he had no thought then of what he was going to do later. maybe he had an eye wide open anyway. he got a grip on things right away. he found a feller who didn't know how to distrust a louse. he found two white women, as simple as the snow on the hilltops, and a boy who hadn't a heap of sense. he found an old priest who just lived for the love of helping along the life of those around him. and he found gold, such as maybe he'd dreamed of but never thought to see. do you get it? do i need to tell you? murray, hard as a flint, and with a pile set out in front of him for the taking. can you hear him telling himself in that old fort that he's there on a share only, while he runs the things for a simple feller, and his folks, who haven't a real notion beyond the long trail? i can hear him. i can hear the whole rotten story as he thinks it out. it's the same, always the same. the mania for gold gets men mad. it drives them like a slave under the lash. but murray is cleverer than most. a heap cleverer. this thing is too big for any fool chance. it wants to go so no tracks are left. so no one, not even those simple women, or that honest priest, can make a guess. so there isn't a half-breed or indian around the fort can get wise. there's just one way to work it, and for nigh ten years he schemes so the bell river terror under louis creal gets busy. we've seen the result here. we heard his yarn from old thunder-cloud, and to fix things the way he needed he only had to buy over a dirty half-breed, which is the best production of hell walking the earth. "with the murder of allan, _by the indians_, his whole play begins. he goes up with an outfit. there's no fooling. his outfit sees the result. there's nothing to be done. so he gets right back with the mutilated body, and mourns with the folk he's injured. yes, it's clever. that's the start. what next? murray keeps to the play of the loyal friend and protector. it's all smooth to him, and only needs the playing. the store and its trade, and his fortune are left by allan to his widow. he's completed his first step without a snag cropping up. meanwhile you come along. "murray's quick to see things. louis creal tells him you've been around bell river. he tells him you've found the indian workings. he tells him he nearly got you cold. besides that murray figgers around you and jessie. it's the first snag he's hit, and it's one to be cleared. but it's just incidental to his scheme, which has to be put through. and his scheme? it's so easy--now. he's got to marry jessie and so make himself one of the family. the widow'll be glad to hand over her fortune to be administered by jessie's husband. and, in the end, the whole outfit'll come into jessie's hands, and so into his. but there's a further snag. alec is to get the business at his mother's death. and alec hasn't any use for murray, and, if foolish, is hot-headed. alec has to be got rid of. how? the father's murder can't be safely repeated. how then? alec is yearning for life. he's yearning to wallow in the sink of leaping horse. murray encourages him. murray persuades his mother. murray takes him down there, and flings him into the sink. but murray hasn't forgotten you. not by a lot. he's going to match your outfit. he's going to measure his wits against yours. he's going to get you done up on bell river the same as allan mowbray, and the play will be logical for all who hear of it. so he ships in the supplies and makes ready. meanwhile the boy plays into his hands. he gets all tied up with the woman belonging to shaunbaum. and shaunbaum figgers to kill him. murray needs that. it'll save him acting that way himself. but he's taking no chances. he watches all the while. he locates everything, every move shaunbaum makes. how i can't guess, but it's easy to a feller like murray. well, the gunmen get around. maybe you'll say this is just a guess. it don't seem that way to me. i sort of see it all doing. the day alec's to be shot up by shaunbaum's gunmen gets around. that morning murray pulls out north. then comes night. he sneaks back. i seem to see murray sitting around in one of the boxes opposite us. maybe he came in quietly amongst the crowd. he keeps close in that box, hidden. he watches. his eye is on the gun-men. if they do their work right, why, he'll clear out free of the blood of the boy. if they don't----? "but the boy had a dash of his father in him. he knew trouble was hitting his trail. when it caught him up he was ready. he was quicker than the gun-men. and murray was watching and saw. his gun was ready behind the curtains of that box, and it spoke, and spoke quick. the gunman was dead. alec was dead. there was no trail left. only the bullet i dug out of the poor kid's body. murray cleared on the instant, and didn't have to _pass through the hall_. the rest----" bill finished up with a comprehensive gesture indicating the camp about them. the work going on outside sounded doubly loud in the silence that followed the rapidly told story. kars' brooding eyes were turned on the sunlit doorway. his pipe had remained cold. it was almost a visible effort with which he finally bestirred himself. "you guess he quit his outfit and returned to leaping horse," he said. "you can't prove it." bill shrugged. "it'll be easy. his outfit can prove it. he either quit it or didn't join it in the morning. the p'lice'll get it out of them. when they learn what's doing they won't be yearning to screen murray. specially keewin." "no. keewin was allan's best boy. keewin would have given his life for allan." kars drew a deep breath. he sat up and struck a match. his pipe began to glow under his deep inhalations. he stood up and moved towards the door. "it's the foulest thing i've ever heard. and--i guess you've got it right, bill," he admitted. "i allow we've done all we can. it's right up to the p'lice." he abruptly turned, and his steady eyes stonily regarded his friend. "he's got to hang for this. get me? if the law don't fix things that way, i swear before god i'll hunt his trail till i get him cold--with my own hands." bill's reply was a silent nod. he had nothing to add. he knew all that was stirring beyond that stony regard, and his sympathies were in full harmony. the bigness of these two men was unlimited by any of the conventions of human civilization. they were too deeply steeped in the teachings of the long trail to bow meekly to the laws set up by men. their doctrines were primitive, but they saw with wide eyes the justice of the wild. kars stood for a few moments lost in profound thought. then he stirred again and moved to depart. "where you going?" bill demanded, recalling himself from his own contemplation. kars turned again. "i'm going to hand over to abe and the boys," he said. "they're needing this thing. guess i'm quit of bell river. there's a wealth of gold here'll set them crazy. and they can help 'emselves all they choose. you and i, bill, are going to see this thing through, and our work don't quit till murray's hanging by the neck. then--then--why then," a smile dawned in his eyes, and robbed them of that frigidity which had so desperately held them, "then i'll ask you to help me fix things with father josé so jessie and i can break a new trail that don't head out north of 'sixty.'" chapter xxxi the close of the long trail bell river lay far behind. leagues beyond the shadowy hills serrating the purple horizon, it was lost like a bad dream yielding to the light of day. for kars the lure of it all was broken, broken beyond repair. the wide expanses of the northland had become a desert in which life was no longer endurable. the wind-swept crests, the undulating, barren plains no longer spoke of a boundless freedom and the elemental battle. these things had become something to forget in the absorbing claim of a life to come, wherein the harshness of battle had no place. the darkling woods, scarce trodden by the foot of man, no longer possessed the mystic charm of childhood's fancy. the trackless wastes held only threat, upon which watchful eyes would now gladly close. the stirring glacial fields of summer, monsters of the ages, boomed out their maledictions upon ears deaf to all their pristine wrath. the westward streams and trail were alone desirable, for, at the end of these things, the voice was calling. the voice of life which every man must ultimately hear and obey. such was the mood of the man who for years had dreamed the dream of the northland; the bitter, free, remorseless northland. to him she had given of her best and fiercest. battle and peace within her bosom had been his. he was of the strong whom the northland loves. she had yielded him her all, a mistress who knows no middle course. and now he was satiated. she had gambled for his soul. she had won and held it. and, in the end, she had been forced to yield her treasure. such is the fate of the northland wanton, bending to the will of nature supreme. her hold is only upon superb youth, which must find outlet for its abounding life. she has no power beyond. the ripening purpose of the great creator thrusts her back upon herself, beaten, desolate. the elemental in kars was still a great living force. that could never change. just now it was submerging in an ocean of new emotion he was powerless to deny. the strength of his manhood was undiminished. it was even greater for the revolution sweeping his estate. just as the passionate fire of his elemental nature had swept him all his years, so now the claims of human love coursed through the strong life channels which knew no half measure. now he yearned for the gentler dream, even as he had yearned for all that which can be claimed by strength alone. his whole being was centred upon the goal towards which he was speeding. his light outfit was being driven by the speed of his desire. so bell river was far behind. all the wide wastes of forest and hill, of canyon and tundra, of glacier and torrent, had passed under his feet. now the swift waters of snake river were speeding under driven paddles. another day and he would gaze once more into the sweet eyes which meant for him the haven his soul so ardently craved. bill brudenell, too, had shaken himself free. the nauseating breath of bell river had driven him before it. he, too, had loved the north. perhaps he still loved his mistress, but he cursed her, too, and cursed her beyond forgiveness or recall. his eyes were turned to the west, like the eyes of his friend. but the only voice summoning him was the voice of a spirit wearied with the contemplation of men's evil. this was the final journey for him, and the long nights of the trail were spent in a pleasant dreaming of sunlit groves, of warming climes. the faithful charley was untouched by any gentler emotion. his crude mind was beyond such. he was satisfied that his boss had given the order to "mush." it mattered nothing to him if the journey ended at the pole. perhaps he regretted the indians left behind him alive. but even so, there were compensations. had he not a prisoner, a white man under his charge? and had his boss not assured him that that prisoner would hang by the neck at his journey's end? yes, that was so. it seemed almost a matter for regret to his unsophisticated understanding that the hanging could not be done on the trail. that the joy of performing the operation might not be his own reward for faithful service. still, his boss had spoken. it was sufficient. night closed down within thirty miles of fort mowbray. an early camp was made for food and rest. the journey was to go through the night that it might be completed before dawn broke. in a few minutes the spiral of smoke from the camp-fire rose on the still air, and helped dispel the attacks of the mosquitoes. then came the welcome smell of cooking. the indian crew lolled about the dew-laden bank with the unconcern and luxury of men whose iron muscles are welcomely relaxed. one of their number was at the fire preparing food, and charley hectored whilst he superintended. kars and bill were seated apart under the shelter of a bush. for the time they had charge of their prisoner. murray mctavish was unchanged in appearance, except that his smile had died from his round face and his curious eyes shone with a look that was daily growing more hunted. nearly six weeks had passed since kars' bullet had crashed through his arm, and left a shattered limb behind it. his final journey had had to be delayed while bill had exercised his skill in healing that the prisoner might face his ultimate ordeal whole. now the healing was nearing completion, but the irony of it all lay in the fact that the prisoner's well-being was of necessity the first thought of those who controlled the itinerary. from the moment of murray's capture his attitude had become definite and unchanging. his sufferings from his shattered arm were his own. he gave vent to no complaint. he displayed no sign. a moody preoccupation held him aloof from all that passed about him. he obeyed orders, but his obedience was sullen and voiceless. but that which he refused to his captors by word of mouth, by action, was there for the reading. his big eyes could not remain silent. the mask-like smile was no longer part of him. the knowledge of his defeat, and all its consequences, looked out of glowing depths which shone with so mysterious a light. and daily the pages were turned for the reading of the tragedy, the scenes of which were passing behind them. resolute in will he was powerless to deny emotion. and the eyes which saw and watched, day and night, on the long journey, read with perfect understanding. his mental sufferings were far beyond any that his wounded body could have inspired. the westward goal for which his captors were making had a far different meaning for him. he only saw in it the harvest of defeat, and all it meant of human punishment. but far, far worse was the loss of all that which he had labored to achieve through his crimes. nor was the sting of defeat lessened by the knowledge that it had been accomplished by the one man he had instinctively feared from his first meeting with him. now, as they waited while the indian prepared a steaming supper of rough but welcome food, the three men sat with the smoke of their pipes doing battle with the mosquito hordes which cursed the country. for long it remained a silent gathering. such is the way of the long trail. silence is the rule after the first routine has settled down. a week of close companionship, where nature's silences are deep and unbroken, and all exchange of thought becomes exhausted. only the exigences of labor can excuse verbal intercourse. otherwise it would be intolerable. these three had labored long upon the trail in their different spheres. they accepted every condition. the camp-fire threw its cheerful glow, and set the shadows dancing. the moon had risen, a golden globe just hovering above the horizon. its yellow light searched out the three figures dimly, and the dancing flames of the camp-fire supported its effort. kars' eyes were directed upon the tongues of flame licking about the camp-kettle. but they held in their focus the round, undiminished figure over whom he sat ward. bill sat facing the captive in full view of the slung arm in its rough splints. murray seemed to have no concern for those about him. his haunted eyes were on the rising moon disc, and his thoughts were on all those terrible problems confronting him. he smoked from habit, but without appreciation. he could have no appreciation now for bodily comfort when all mental peace was destroyed. his pipe went out and bill held matches towards him. silently, almost automatically, he relit it, using his sound arm with the skill of weeks of practice. he passed the matches back. he offered no thanks. then, with a sudden stirring of his unshapely body, he glanced swiftly in the direction of kars. a moment later he was gazing across at bill and addressing him. "we'll make the fort before sun-up?" he said. "before daylight," came the prompt correction. kars had abandoned his pleasant train of silent thought. his keen eyes were alight with the reflection of the fire. they were searching the prisoner's face for the meaning of his inquiry. "how long do we stop around?" murray's voice was sharp. "we don't stop around." again bill's reply came on the instant, and in tones that were coldly discouraging. "but i guess i need to collect things. my papers. kit. i've a right that way. you can't deny it," murray protested swiftly. "you got no rights in this layout." it was kars who replied. "you'll pass right on down the river for leaping horse. and you aren't stopping on the way to pay calls. guess the p'lice in leaping horse will allow you your rights. but there's nothing doing that way till you're quit of this outfit." his decision was coldly final, but it was a blow in the face which the murderer refused to accept. "you can't act that way," he protested fiercely. "you got a charge against me you haven't proved, and i don't guess you ever will prove. i'm a prisoner by force, not by law. i demand the right to decent treatment. i need to get papers from the fort. there's things there to help my case. maybe you figger to beat me through holding me from my rights. it would rank well with the way you've already acted. i need to see father josé and mrs. mowbray and jessie----" "cut that right out!" kars' words came with a vicious snap. "you'll see no one till you're in the hands of the mounted p'lice at leaping horse. that goes. i don't care a cuss for the law of this thing. we'll fix that all later." murray's burning eyes were furious as they searched the unyielding features of his captor. his absolute impotence drove him to an insane desire for violence. but the violence was not forthcoming. he was powerless, and no one knew it better than he. "we surely will," he cried, hoarse with passion. "you can't prove a thing. allan was murdered by the neches. i was at the fort with the rest. you know that. others can prove it." the fierce anger which the mention of jessie's name had set leaping in kars' brain subsided as swiftly as it had risen. he sat silent for some moments regarding the storm-swept features of the man whose crimes had devastated the life of the girl he loved. his anger changed to an added loathing. and his loathing inspired a desire to hurt, to hurt mortally. this man as yet knew nothing of the discovery of his second crime. the time had come when he must realize all that this thing meant to him. there were weeks of journey yet before him. kars knew no mercy. the wild had taught him that mercy was only for the weak, for those who erred through that weakness. this man was not of those. he was a vicious criminal whose earthly reward would be inadequate to his crimes. "that won't help you a thing," he said frigidly. he knocked out his pipe and thrust it into his pocket. his gaze was steadily fixed on the eyes so furiously alight as they watched his every movement. "there's more to this than the murder of allan mowbray, your share in which can be proved clear out. guess you've acted pretty bright, murray. i allow you've covered a whole heap of tracks. but you haven't covered them all. guess there never was a murderer born who knew how to cover all his tracks. and it's just a mercy of providence for the protection of us folk. if you'd covered your last tracks you'd have dropped your automatic in the snake river, and lost it so deep in the mud it wouldn't have been found in years. but you didn't act that way, and that's why you're going to hang. you're going to hang for murdering the son, as well as the father, and the whole blamed world'll breathe freer for your hanging. do you need me to tell you more? do you need me to tell you why you're not landing at the fort? no, i guess not. your whole play is in our hands. you're here by force, sure, and by force you're goin' to stay. just as i guess by force you're going to die. you've lived outside the law such a long spell i don't guess you need teaching a thing. if we're acting outside the laws of man now, i guess we're acting within the laws of justice. that's all that gets me where you figger. i guess we'll eat. charley'll know how to hand you your food." the prisoner made no reply. it was the final blow. kars had withheld it till the psychological moment. he had withheld it, not with any thought of mercy, but with a crude desire to punish when the hurt would be the greatest. he had achieved more than he knew. buoyed with the belief that his earlier crime on bell river had been so skilfully contrived that no court of law could ever hope to convict him of a capital offence, murray mctavish had only endured the suspense and haunting fear of uncertainty. now he realized to the full the disaster that had overtaken him. he was stunned by the blow that had fallen. the cooked meat that was passed to him by the indian was left untouched. the dark night journey passed before his wide, unsleeping eyes as the canoes sped on towards the fort. the last hope had been torn from him. a dreadful waking nightmare pursued him. it was the complete wrecking of a strong mentality, the shattering of an iron nerve under a sledge-hammer blow that had been timed to the moment. he might walk to the scaffold with a step that was outwardly firm. but it would be merely the physical effort of a man in whom all hope is dead. so the fort landing was reached and passed. kars alone disembarked, his canoe remaining ready to overhaul his companions at their next night camp. he was going to tell his story to those who must learn the truth. it was a mission from which he shrank, but he knew that his lips alone must tell it. he hoped and believed it was the final act of the drama these cruelly injured people must be forced to witness. then the gloomy curtain would be dropped, but to rise again on scenes of sunlight and happiness. chapter xxxii the summer of life the passage of time for john kars had never been so swift, so feverish in the rush of poignant events. four months had passed since he had landed like a shadow in the night on the banks of snake river, to tell the story of men's evil to those to whom he would gladly have imparted only happy tidings. now he was at the landing again, with pages of tragic history turned in his book of life. but they were turned completely, and only the memory of them was left behind. the other pages, those remaining to be perused, were different. they contained all those things without which no life could ever be counted complete. that happiness which all must seek, and the strong and wise will cling to, and only the weak and foolish will make a plaything of. it was the crowning day of his life, and he desired to live every moment of it. so he had left his bed under the hospitable roof of father josé to witness the first moment of its birth. the first gray shadow lit the distant hilltops. to him it was like the first stirring of broken slumber. strange but familiar sounds broke the profound stillness. the cry of belated beast, and the waking cries of the feathered world. the light spread northward. it moved along stealing, broadening towards the south. it mounted the vault of night. again, to him it was the growth of conscious life, the passing from dream to reality. he saw the stubborn darkness yield reluctantly. he watched the silver ghosts flee from the northern sky, back, back to the frigid bergs which inspired their fantastic steps; the challenge hurled at the star-world's complacent reign. even the perfect burnish of the silver moon was powerless before the victorious march of day. his spirit responded in perfect harmony. as the flush of victory deepened it reminded him of all that a life of effort meant. the myriad hues growing in the east were the symbol of human hope of success so hardly striven. the massing billows, fantastic cloud-shapes, rich in splendid habiliments, suggested the enthronement of joy supreme. and then, in blazing splendor, the golden rising sun pointed the achievement of that perfect happiness which the merciful creator designs for every living creature. it was a moment when there should have been no room for shadowed memory. it was a moment when only the great looking forward should have filled him. but the strong soul of the man had been deeply seared by the conflict which had been fought and won. in the midst of all the emotion of that day of days memory would not wholly be denied, and he dwelt upon those events of which he had read so deeply in the pages of his book of life. for all his desire to forget, the rapid moving scenes of the summer days came back to him now, vivid, painful. it was as though the pure search-light of dawn had a power of revealing no less than its inspiration of hope and delight. he contemplated afresh his journey down the river with his prisoner and his loyal friends. he remembered his landing on that very spot when sleep wrapped the mission of st. agatha, as it did now. he thought of his first visit to the padre, and of his ultimate telling of his story to the two women who had suffered so deeply at the hands of the murderer. it had been painful. yet it had not been without a measure of compensation. had he not run the man to earth? and was not the avenging of the girl he loved yet to come? yes, this had been so, and he dwelt on the courage and patience which governed the simple women who listened to the details of man's merciless villainy. the story told, then had come the great looking forward. his work completed, he had promised that not a consideration in the world should stay his feet from the return. and jessie had yielded to his urgency. on that return she would give herself to him, and the beloved padre should bless their union in the little mission house. then had come the mother's renunciation of all the ties which had so long held her to the banks of the snake river. happiness had been hers in the long years of her life there, but the overwhelming shadow of suffering weighed her down completely now, and she would gladly renounce the home which had known her so long. so it had been arranged under the strong purpose the man had put forth, and, in consequence, added energy was flung into his labors. that night his canoe glided from the landing, and he was accompanied by keewin, and two other indians, who had been witnesses of murray's movements on the day of the murder in leaping horse. the memory of these things carried him on to his journey's end where he encountered again the tawdry pretentiousness of leaping horse, seeking to hide its moral poverty under raiment of garish hue. he remembered the anxious, busy days when the machinery of outland justice creaked rustily under his efforts to persuade it into full and perfect motion. the labor of it. how bill brudenell had labored. the staunch efforts of the mounted police. and all the time the dread of a breakdown in the rusted machinery, and the escape of the murderer from the just penalty of his crimes. none knew better than kars the nearness of that disaster. money had flowed like water in the interests of the accused. it had correspondingly had to flow in the interests of the prosecution. the tradition of leaping horse had been maintained throughout the whole trial. and loathing and disgust colored his every recollection. the defending counsel had set out to buy and corrupt. kars had accepted the challenge without scruple. the case was one of circumstance, circumstance that was overwhelming. but the power of money in leaping horse was tremendous. the verdict remained uncertain to the last moment. perhaps the balance was turned through weight of money. kars cared very little. the jesuitical method of it all was a matter for scruple. and scruple was banished completely from this battle-field. and justice had won. whatever the method, justice had won. the relief of it. the cold reward. allan mowbray was avenged. jessie and her mother were freed from the threat which had so long over-shadowed their lives. the bitter air of the northland had been cleansed of a pestilential breath. so he turned his back on leaping horse with the knowledge that the murderer would pay his penalty before god and man. nor was the whole thing without a curiously grim irony. even while murray mctavish was fighting for his life he was witness of the complete shattering of all that for which he had striven. his trial revealed to the world the secret which his every effort had sought to keep inviolate, and the horde of vultures from the gold city were breaking the trail in their surging lust. word flashed down the boulevards. it flew through the slums. it sung on the wires to the rail-heads at the coast. it reached the wealthy headquarters at seattle. thence it journeyed on the wings of cable and wire to every corner of the world. and the message only told the fabulous stories of the new strike on bell river. the world was left all unconcerned with the crimes it had inspired. the scenes of the early days were renewed. nor was there any great difference from them. it was a pell-mell rush. incompetent, harpy, "sharp" and the gold seeker of substance. it was a train of the northland flotsam, moving again without scruple or mercy. kars watched its beginning. he understood. none could understand this sort of thing better. all his life had been spent in the midst of such conditions. the thing had been bound to come, and he was frankly glad that those who had served him so well were already in possession of all they required in the new eldorado. how the "rush" ultimately fared he neither knew nor seriously cared. it had no concern for him. the lust of gold had completely passed from him. all he cared was that it had left fort mowbray untouched. the overland route had suited the needs of these folk best. it was shorter, and therein lay its claim. the waterways which would have brought pandemonium to the doors of the folk he loved were circuitous, and the double burden of water and land transport would have been a hindrance in the crazy haste of the reckless souls seeking fortune in a whirlwind of desire. so the girl he loved was saved the contamination from which he desired to shield her. so the pristine calm of the mission of st. agatha was left unbroken. father josé was left to his snuff-box and his mission of mercy. and kars was glad. his work was done. and now, on this day of days, as he watched its splendid birth, he thanked his god that the contamination of the gold world which had so long overshadowed would no longer threaten the life of the girl who was to be given into his keeping before its close. the sun cleared the sky-line, a molten, magnificent spectacle. and as it rose the multi-hued escort of cloud fell away. its duty was done. it had launched the god of day upon its merciful task for mankind. it would go, waiting to conduct him to his nightly couch at the other side of the world. kars drew a deep breath. the draught of morning air was nectar to his widely expanding lungs. realization of happiness rarely comes till it is past. kars was realizing it to the full. his eyes turned from the splendid vision. the landing was crowded with craft. but it was not the craft of trade which usually gathered at the close of summer. it was his own outfit, largely augmented. and it was deeply laden. he dwelt upon it for some moments. its appeal held him fascinated. a week had been spent upon the lading, a week of unalloyed happiness and deeply sentimental care. these were canoes laden with the many household goods and treasures of the feminine hearts who were about to take their places in his life. those slight, graceful vessels contained a hundred memories of happiness and pain carefully taken from the settings to which they had so long been bound. he knew that they represented the yielding up of long years of treasured life upon the altar of sacrifice his coming had set up. he had no other feeling than thankfulness and tenderness. it stirred every fibre of his manhood to its depths. his happy contemplation was suddenly broken. a sound behind him caught his quick ears. in a moment he had turned, and, in that moment, the deep happiness of his communing became a living fire of delight. jessie was standing in the mouth of the avenue which led down from the clearing. she stood there framed in the setting of ripe summer foliage, already tinging with the hues of fall. her ruddy brown hair was without covering, and her tall slim figure was wrapped in an ample fur-lined cloak which reached to her feet. kars recognized the garment as something he had dared to purchase for her in leaping horse, to keep her from the night and morning chills on the journey from the fort. in his eyes she made a picture beyond all compare. her soft cheeks were tinted with a blush of embarrassment, and her smiling eyes were shyly regarding him. he strode up to her, his arms outheld. the girl yielded to his embrace on the instant, and then hastily released herself, and glanced about her in real apprehension. kars smilingly shook his head. "there's no one around," he comforted her. "are you quite sure?" "quite." the girl led the way back to the landing. "tell me," she cried, glancing half shyly up at the strong, smiling face that contained in its rugged molding the whole meaning of life to her. "what--why are you down here--now?" the man's responsive smile was half shamefaced. he shook his head. "i can't just say. maybe it's the same reason you're around." "oh, i just came along to look at things." kars' embarrassment passed. he laughed buoyantly. "that's how i felt. i needed to look at--things." "what things?" the girl pressed him. her great love demanded confession of those inner feelings and thoughts a man can so rarely express. kars resorted to subterfuge. "you see, i'm responsible to you and your mother for the outfit. i had to see nothing's amiss. there won't be a heap of time later, and we start right out by noon. you can trust bill most all the time. and charley's no fool on the trail. but i had to get around." "so you got up before the sun to see to it." kars laughed again. "yes. same as you." the girl shook her head. "say, it won't do. i'll--i'll be frank. yes. i was awake. wide awake--hours. i just couldn't lie there waiting--waiting. i had to get around. i had to look at it all--again. say, john, dear, it's our great day. the greatest in all life for us. and all this means--means just a great big whole world. so i stole out of the house, and hurried along to look at it. am i foolish? am i just a silly, sentimental girl? i--i--couldn't help it. true." they were standing at the edge of the landing. the speeding waters were lapping gently at the prows of the moored craft under pressure of the light morning breeze. the groans of the summer-racked glacier across the river rumbled sonorously, accentuating the virgin peace of the world about them. the insect world was already droning its day-long song, and the cries of the feathered world came from the distance. the girl's appeal was irresistible. kars caught her in his arms, and his passionate kisses rained on her upturned face. all the ardor of his strong soul gazed down into her half-closed eyes in those moments of rapture. "you couldn't help it? no more could i," he cried, yielding all restraint before the passion of that moment. "i had to get around. i had to see the day from its beginning. same as i want to see it to its end. great? why, it's everything to me--to us, little jessie. i want it all--all. i wouldn't miss a second of its time. i watched the first streak of the dawn, and i've seen the sun get up full of fire and glory. and that's just how this day is to us. think of it, little girl, think of it. by noon you'll be my wife--my wife. and after, after we've eaten, and father josé and bill have said their pieces, we'll be setting out down the river with all the folks we care for, for a new, big, wide world, and the wide open trail of happiness waiting for us. if it wasn't i'm holding you right now in my arms i guess it--it would be incredible." but the girl had suddenly remembered the possibility of prying eyes. with obvious reluctance she released herself from the embrace she had no desire to deny. "yes," she breathed, "it's almost--incredible." then with a sudden passionate abandon she held out her arms as though to embrace all that which told her of her joy. "but it's real, real. i'm glad--so glad." it was a scene which had for its inspiration a world of the gentler human emotions. the laden canoes had added their human freight. each was manned by its small dusky crew, indians tried in the service of the long trail, men of the mission, and men who had learned to regard john kars as a great white chief. it was an expedition that had none of the grim earnestness of the long trail. the dusky indians, even, were imbued with the spirit of the moment. every one of these people had witnessed the wonderful ceremonial of a white man's mating, the whole mission had been feasted on white man's fare. now the landing was thronged for the departure. women, and men, and children. they were gathered there for the final godspeed. peigan charley was consumed with his authority over the vessels which led the way, bearing the baggage of the party. he was part of the white man's life, therefore his contempt for the simple awe of the rest of his race, at the witnessing of the wedding ceremony, still claimed his profoundest "damn-fool." never were his feelings of superiority more deeply stirred. bill brudenell piloted the vessel which bore ailsa mowbray towards the new life for which she had renounced her old home. kars and his bride were the last in the procession, as the vessels swept out into the stream under the powerful strokes of the paddles. it was an unforgetable moment for all. for the women it had perhaps an even deeper meaning than for any one else. it was happiness and regret blended in a confused tangle. but it was a tangle which time would completely unravel, and, flinging aside all regret, would set happiness upon its throne. for bill it was the great desire of his life fulfilled. his friend, the one man above all others he regarded, had finally stepped upon the path he had always craved for him. for himself? his years were passing. there was still work to be done in the unsavory purlieus of leaping horse. for john kars it was a moment of the profoundest, unalloyed joy. no searching of his emotions could have revealed anything but the wholesome feelings of a man who has achieved his destiny in those things which the god of all has set out for human desire. the world lay all before him. wealth was his, and, in his frail barque, setting out upon the waters of destiny, was the wife he had won for himself from the bosom of the desolate north. father josé, gray headed, aged in the long years of a life of sacrifice, stood at the forefront of the landing as the procession glided out on to the bosom of the stream. simple in spirit, single in purpose, he regarded the going with the calmness which long years of trial had imposed upon him. his farewell was smiling. it was deep with truth and feeling. he knew it was the close of a long chapter in the book of his life's effort. he accepted it, and turned the page. but for all the great gathering of his mission about him he was a lonely little figure, and the sigh which followed his voiceless blessing came from a loyal heart which knew no other purpose than to continue to the end its work of patient, unremitting mercy. 