diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/11867-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/11867-0.txt | 8846 |
1 files changed, 8846 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/11867-0.txt b/old/11867-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..09a1777 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/11867-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8846 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Alaskan, by James Oliver Curwood + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Alaskan + +Author: James Oliver Curwood + +Illustrator: Walt Louderback + +Release Date: April 1, 2004 [eBook #11867] +[Most recently updated: May 31, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Charles Aldarondo, Charlie Kirschner, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALASKAN *** + + + + +The Alaskan + +A Novel of the North + +By JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD + +With Illustrations by Walt Louderback + + + + +To the strong-hearted men and women of Alaska, +the new empire rising in the North, it is for me +an honor and a privilege to dedicate this work. + +JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD + +_Owosso, Michigan +August 1, 1923_ + + + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + CHAPTER XV. + CHAPTER XVI. + CHAPTER XVII. + CHAPTER XVIII. + CHAPTER XIX. + CHAPTER XX. + CHAPTER XXI. + CHAPTER XXII. + CHAPTER XXIII. + CHAPTER XXIV. + CHAPTER XXV. + CHAPTER XXVI. + CHAPTER XXVII. + +[Illustration: It was as if the man was deliberately insulting her.] + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + It was as if the man was deliberately insulting her. + The long, black launch nosed its way out to sea. + The man wore a gun ... within reach of his hand. + Mary sobbed as the man she loved faced winged death. + + + + +THE ALASKAN + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Captain Rifle, gray and old in the Alaskan Steamship service, had not +lost the spirit of his youth along with his years. Romance was not dead +in him, and the fire which is built up of clean adventure and the +association of strong men and a mighty country had not died out of his +veins. He could still see the picturesque, feel the thrill of the +unusual, and—at times—warm memories crowded upon him so closely that +yesterday seemed today, and Alaska was young again, thrilling the world +with her wild call to those who had courage to come and fight for her +treasures, and live—or die. + +Tonight, with the softly musical throb of his ship under his feet, and +the yellow moon climbing up from behind the ramparts of the Alaskan +mountains, something of loneliness seized upon him, and he said simply: + +“That is Alaska.” + +The girl standing beside him at the rail did not turn, nor for a moment +did she answer. He could see her profile clear-cut as a cameo in the +almost vivid light, and in that light her eyes were wide and filled +with a dusky fire, and her lips were parted a little, and her slim body +was tense as she looked at the wonder of the moon silhouetting the +cragged castles of the peaks, up where the soft, gray clouds lay like +shimmering draperies. + +Then she turned her face a little and nodded. “Yes, Alaska,” she said, +and the old captain fancied there was the slightest ripple of a tremor +in her voice. “Your Alaska, Captain Rifle.” + +Out of the clearness of the night came to them a distant sound like the +low moan of thunder. Twice before, Mary Standish had heard it, and now +she asked: “What was that? Surely it can not be a storm, with the moon +like that, and the stars so clear above!” + +“It is ice breaking from the glaciers and falling into the sea. We are +in the Wrangel Narrows, and very near the shore, Miss Standish. If it +were day you could hear the birds singing. This is what we call the +Inside Passage. I have always called it the water-wonderland of the +world, and yet, if you will observe, I must be mistaken—for we are +almost alone on this side of the ship. Is it not proof? If I were +right, the men and women in there—dancing, playing cards, +chattering—would be crowding this rail. Can you imagine humans like +that? But they can’t see what I see, for I am a ridiculous old fool who +remembers things. Ah, do you catch that in the air, Miss Standish—the +perfume of flowers, of forests, of green things ashore? It is faint, +but I catch it.” + +“And so do I.” + +She breathed in deeply of the sweet air, and turned then, so that she +stood with her back to the rail, facing the flaming lights of the ship. + +The mellow cadence of the music came to her, soft-stringed and sleepy; +she could hear the shuffle of dancing feet. Laughter rippled with the +rhythmic thrum of the ship, voices rose and fell beyond the lighted +windows, and as the old captain looked at her, there was something in +her face which he could not understand. + +She had come aboard strangely at Seattle, alone and almost at the last +minute—defying the necessity of making reservation where half a +thousand others had been turned away—and chance had brought her under +his eyes. In desperation she had appealed to him, and he had discovered +a strange terror under the forced calm of her appearance. Since then he +had fathered her with his attentions, watching closely with the wisdom +of years. And more than once he had observed that questing, defiant +poise of her head with which she was regarding the cabin windows now. + +She had told him she was twenty-three and on her way to meet relatives +in Nome. She had named certain people. And he had believed her. It was +impossible not to believe her, and he admired her pluck in breaking all +official regulations in coming aboard. + +In many ways she was companionable and sweet. Yet out of his +experience, he gathered the fact that she was under a tension. He knew +that in some way she was making a fight, but, influenced by the wisdom +of three and sixty years, he did not let her know he had guessed the +truth. + +He watched her closely now, without seeming to do so. She was very +pretty in a quiet and unusual way. There was something irresistibly +attractive about her, appealing to old memories which were painted +clearly in his heart. She was girlishly slim. He had observed that her +eyes were beautifully clear and gray in the sunlight, and her +exquisitely smooth dark hair, neatly coiled and luxuriant crown of +beauty, reminded him of puritanism in its simplicity. At times he +doubted that she was twenty-three. If she had said nineteen or twenty +he would have been better satisfied. She puzzled him and roused +speculation in him. But it was a part of his business to see many +things which others might not see—and hold his tongue. + +“We are not quite alone,” she was saying. “There are others,” and she +made a little gesture toward two figures farther up the rail. + +“Old Donald Hardwick, of Skagway,” he said. “And the other is Alan +Holt.” + +“Oh, yes.” + +She was facing the mountains again, her eyes shining in the light of +the moon. Gently her hand touched the old captain’s arm. “Listen,” she +whispered. + +“Another berg breaking away from Old Thunder. We are very near the +shore, and there are glaciers all the way up.” + +“And that other sound, like low wind—on a night so still and calm! What +is it?” + +“You always hear that when very close to the big mountains, Miss +Standish. It is made by the water of a thousand streams and rivulets +rushing down to the sea. Wherever there is melting snow in the +mountains, you hear that song.” + +“And this man, Alan Holt,” she reminded him. “He is a part of these +things?” + +“Possibly more than any other man, Miss Standish. He was born in Alaska +before Nome or Fairbanks or Dawson City were thought of. It was in +Eighty-four, I think. Let me see, that would make him—” + +“Thirty-eight,” she said, so quickly that for a moment he was +astonished. + +Then he chuckled. “You are very good at figures.” + +He felt an almost imperceptible tightening of her fingers on his arm. + +“This evening, just after dinner, old Donald found me sitting alone. He +said he was lonely and wanted to talk with someone—like me. He almost +frightened me, with his great, gray beard and shaggy hair. I thought of +ghosts as we talked there in the dusk.” + +“Old Donald belongs to the days when the Chilkoot and the White Horse +ate up men’s lives, and a trail of living dead led from the Summit to +Klondike, Miss Standish,” said Captain Rifle. “You will meet many like +him in Alaska. And they remember. You can see it in their faces—always +the memory of those days that are gone.” + +She bowed her head a little, looking to the sea. “And Alan Holt? You +know him well?” + +“Few men know him well. He is a part of Alaska itself, and I have +sometimes thought him more aloof than the mountains. But I know him. +All northern Alaska knows Alan Holt. He has a reindeer range up beyond +the Endicott Mountains and is always seeking the last frontier.” + +“He must be very brave.” + +“Alaska breeds heroic men, Miss Standish.” + +“And honorable men—men you can trust and believe in?” + +“Yes.” + +“It is odd,” she said, with a trembling little laugh that was like a +bird-note in her throat. “I have never seen Alaska before, and yet +something about these mountains makes me feel that I have known them a +long time ago. I seem to feel they are welcoming me and that I am going +home. Alan Holt is a fortunate man. I should like to be an Alaskan.” + +“And you are—” + +“An American,” she finished for him, a sudden, swift irony in her +voice. “A poor product out of the melting-pot, Captain Rifle. I am +going north—to learn.” + +“Only that, Miss Standish?” + +His question, quietly spoken and without emphasis, demanded an answer. +His kindly face, seamed by the suns and winds of many years at sea, was +filled with honest anxiety as she turned to look straight into his +eyes. + +“I must press the question,” he said. “As the captain of this ship, and +as a father, it is my duty. Is there not something you would like to +tell me—in confidence, if you will have it so?” + +For an instant she hesitated, then slowly she shook her head. “There is +nothing, Captain Rifle.” + +“And yet—you came aboard very strangely,” he urged. “You will recall +that it was most unusual—without reservation, without baggage—” + +“You forget the hand-bag,” she reminded him. + +“Yes, but one does not start for northern Alaska with only a hand-bag +scarcely large enough to contain a change of linen, Miss Standish.” + +“But I did, Captain Rifle.” + +“True. And I saw you fighting past the guards like a little wildcat. It +was without precedent.” + +“I am sorry. But they were stupid and difficult to pass.” + +“Only by chance did I happen to see it all, my child. Otherwise the +ship’s regulations would have compelled me to send you ashore. You were +frightened. You can not deny that. You were running away from +something!” + +He was amazed at the childish simplicity with which she answered him. + +“Yes, I was running away—from something.” + +Her eyes were beautifully clear and unafraid, and yet again he sensed +the thrill of the fight she was making. + +“And you will not tell me why—or from what you were escaping?” + +“I can not—tonight. I may do so before we reach Nome. But—it is +possible—” + +“What?” + +“That I shall never reach Nome.” + +Suddenly she caught one of his hands in both her own. Her fingers clung +to him, and with a little note of fierceness in her voice she hugged +the hand to her breast. “I know just how good you have been to me,” she +cried. “I should like to tell you why I came aboard—like that. But I +can not. Look! Look at those wonderful mountains!” With one free hand +she pointed. + +“Behind them and beyond them lie the romance and adventure and mystery +of centuries, and for nearly thirty years you have been very near those +things, Captain Rifle. No man will ever see again what you have seen or +feel what you have felt, or forget what you have had to forget. I know +it. And after all that, can’t you—won’t you—forget the strange manner +in which I came aboard this ship? It is such a simple, little thing to +put out of your mind, so trivial, so unimportant when you look back—and +think. Please Captain Rifle—please!” + +So quickly that he scarcely sensed the happening of it she pressed his +hand to her lips. Their warm thrill came and went in an instant, +leaving him speechless, his resolution gone. + +“I love you because you have been so good to me,” she whispered, and as +suddenly as she had kissed his hand, she was gone, leaving him alone at +the rail. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +Alan Holt saw the slim figure of the girl silhouetted against the vivid +light of the open doorway of the upper-deck salon. He was not watching +her, nor did he look closely at the exceedingly attractive picture +which she made as she paused there for an instant after leaving Captain +Rifle. To him she was only one of the five hundred human atoms that +went to make up the tremendously interesting life of one of the first +ships of the season going north. Fate, through the suave agency of the +purser, had brought him into a bit closer proximity to her than the +others; that was all. For two days her seat in the dining-salon had +been at the same table, not quite opposite him. As she had missed both +breakfast hours, and he had skipped two luncheons, the requirements of +neighborliness and of courtesy had not imposed more than a dozen words +of speech upon them. This was very satisfactory to Alan. He was not +talkative or communicative of his own free will. There was a certain +cynicism back of his love of silence. He was a good listener and a +first-rate analyst. Some people, he knew, were born to talk; and +others, to trim the balance, were burdened with the necessity of +holding their tongues. For him silence was not a burden. + +In his cool and causal way he admired Mary Standish. She was very +quiet, and he liked her because of that. He could not, of course, +escape the beauty of her eyes or the shimmering luster of the long +lashes that darkened them. But these were details which did not thrill +him, but merely pleased him. And her hair pleased him possibly even +more than her gray eyes, though he was not sufficiently concerned to +discuss the matter with himself. But if he had pointed out any one +thing, it would have been her hair—not so much the color of it as the +care she evidently gave it, and the manner in which she dressed it. He +noted that it was dark, with varying flashes of luster in it under the +dinner lights. But what he approved of most of all were the smooth, +silky coils in which she fastened it to her pretty head. It was an +intense relief after looking on so many frowsy heads, bobbed and +marcelled, during his six months’ visit in the States. So he liked her, +generally speaking, because there was not a thing about her that he +might dislike. + +He did not, of course, wonder what the girl might be thinking of +him—with his quiet, stern face, his cold indifference, his rather +Indian-like litheness, and the single patch of gray that streaked his +thick, blond hair. His interest had not reached anywhere near that +point. + +Tonight it was probable that no woman in the world could have +interested him, except as the always casual observer of humanity. +Another and greater thing gripped him and had thrilled him since he +first felt the throbbing pulse of the engines of the new steamship +_Nome_ under his feet at Seattle. He was going _home_. And home meant +Alaska. It meant the mountains, the vast tundras, the immeasurable +spaces into which civilization had not yet come with its clang and +clamor. It meant friends, the stars he knew, his herds, everything he +loved. Such was his reaction after six months of exile, six months of +loneliness and desolation in cities which he had learned to hate. + +“I’ll not make the trip again—not for a whole winter—unless I’m sent at +the point of a gun,” he said to Captain Rifle, a few moments after Mary +Standish had left the deck. “An Eskimo winter is long enough, but one +in Seattle, Minneapolis, Chicago, and New York is longer—for me.” + +“I understand they had you up before the Committee on Ways and Means at +Washington.” + +“Yes, along with Carl Lomen, of Nome. But Lomen was the real man. He +has forty thousand head of reindeer in the Seward Peninsula, and they +had to listen to him. We may get action.” + +“May!” Captain Rifle grunted his doubt. “Alaska has been waiting ten +years for a new deck and a new deal. I doubt if you’ll get anything. +When politicians from Iowa and south Texas tell us what we can have and +what we need north of Fifty-eight—why, what’s the use? Alaska might as +well shut up shop!” + +“But she isn’t going to do that,” said Alan Holt, his face grimly set +in the moonlight. “They’ve tried hard to get us, and they’ve made us +shut up a lot of our doors. In 1910 we were thirty-six thousand whites +in the Territory. Since then the politicians at Washington have driven +out nine thousand, a quarter of the population. But those that are left +are hard-boiled. We’re not going to quit, Captain. A lot of us are +Alaskans, and we are not afraid to fight.” + +“You mean—” + +“That we’ll have a square deal within another five years, or know the +reason why. And another five years after that, we’ll he shipping a +million reindeer carcasses down into the States each year. Within +twenty years we’ll be shipping five million. Nice thought for the beef +barons, eh? But rather fortunate, I think, for the hundred million +Americans who are turning their grazing lands into farms and irrigation +systems.” + +One of Alan Holt’s hands was clenched at the rail. “Until I went down +this winter, I didn’t realize just how bad it was,” he said, a note +hard as iron in his voice. “Lomen is a diplomat, but I’m not. I want to +fight when I see such things—fight with a gun. Because we happened to +find gold up here, they think Alaska is an orange to be sucked as +quickly as possible, and that when the sucking process is over, the +skin will be worthless. That’s modern, dollar-chasing Americanism for +you!” + +“And are you not an American, Mr. Holt?” + +So soft and near was the voice that both men started. Then both turned +and stared. Close behind them, her quiet, beautiful face flooded with +the moon-glow, stood Mary Standish. + +“You ask me a question, madam,” said Alan Holt, bowing courteously. +“No, I am not an American. I am an Alaskan.” + +The girl’s lips were parted. Her eyes were very bright and clear. +“Please pardon me for listening,” she said. “I couldn’t help it. I am +an American. I love America. I think I love it more than anything else +in the world—more than my religion, even. _America,_ Mr. Holt. And +America doesn’t necessarily mean a great many of America’s people. I +love to think that I first came ashore in the _Mayflower_. That is why +my name is Standish. And I just wanted to remind you that Alaska _is_ +America.” + +Alan Holt was a bit amazed. The girl’s face was no longer placidly +quiet. Her eyes were radiant. He sensed the repressed thrill in her +voice, and he knew that in the light of day he would have seen fire in +her cheeks. He smiled, and in that smile he could not quite keep back +the cynicism of his thought. + +“And what do you know about Alaska, Miss Standish?” + +“Nothing,” she said. “And yet I love it.” She pointed to the mountains. +“I wish I might have been born among them. You are fortunate. You +should love America.” + +“Alaska, you mean!” + +“No, America.” There was a flashing challenge in her eyes. She was not +speaking apologetically. Her meaning was direct. + +The irony on Alan’s lips died away. With a little laugh he bowed again. +“If I am speaking to a daughter of Captain Miles Standish, who came +over in the _Mayflower_, I stand reproved,” he said. “You should be an +authority on Americanism, if I am correct in surmising your +relationship.” + +“You are correct,” she replied with a proud, little tilt of her glossy +head, “though I think that only lately have I come to an understanding +of its significance—and its responsibility. I ask your pardon again for +interrupting you. It was not premeditated. It just happened.” + +She did not wait for either of them to speak, but flashed the two a +swift smile and passed down the promenade. + +The music had ceased and the cabins at last were emptying themselves of +life. + +“A remarkable young woman,” Alan remarked. “I imagine that the spirit +of Captain Miles Standish may be a little proud of this particular +olive-branch. A chip off the old block, you might say. One would almost +suppose he had married Priscilla and this young lady was a definite +though rather indirect result.” + +He had a curious way of laughing without any more visible manifestation +of humor than spoken words. It was a quality in his voice which one +could not miss, and at times, when ironically amused, it carried a +sting which he did not altogether intend. + +In another moment Mary Standish was forgotten, and he was asking the +captain a question which was in his mind. + +“The itinerary of this ship is rather confused, is it not?” + +“Yes—rather,” acknowledged Captain Rifle. “Hereafter she will ply +directly between Seattle and Nome. But this time we’re doing the Inside +Passage to Juneau and Skagway and will make the Aleutian Passage via +Cordova and Seward. A whim of the owners, which they haven’t seen fit +to explain to me. Possibly the Canadian junket aboard may have +something to do with it. We’re landing them at Skagway, where they make +the Yukon by way of White Horse Pass. A pleasure trip for flabby people +nowadays, Holt. I can remember—” + +“So can I,” nodded Alan Holt, looking at the mountains beyond which lay +the dead-strewn trails of the gold stampede of a generation before. “I +remember. And old Donald is dreaming of that hell of death back there. +He was all choked up tonight. I wish he might forget.” + +“Men don’t forget such women as Jane Hope,” said the captain softly. + +“You knew her?” + +“Yes. She came up with her father on my ship. That was twenty-five +years ago last autumn, Alan. A long time, isn’t it? And when I look at +Mary Standish and hear her voice—” He hesitated, as if betraying a +secret, and then he added: “—I can’t help thinking of the girl Donald +Hardwick fought for and won in that death-hole at White Horse. It’s too +bad she had to die.” + +“She isn’t dead,” said Alan. The hardness was gone from his voice. “She +isn’t dead,” he repeated. “That’s the pity of it. She is as much a +living thing to him today as she was twenty years ago.” + +After a moment the captain said, “She was talking with him early this +evening, Alan.” + +“Miss Captain Miles Standish, you mean?” + +“Yes. There seems to be something about her that amuses you.” + +Alan shrugged his shoulders. “Not at all. I think she is a most +admirable young person. Will you have a cigar, Captain? I’m going to +promenade a bit. It does me good to mix in with the sour-doughs.” + +The two lighted their cigars from a single match, and Alan went his +way, while the captain turned in the direction of his cabin. + +To Alan, on this particular night, the steamship _Nome_ was more than a +thing of wood and steel. It was a living, pulsating being, throbbing +with the very heart-beat of Alaska. The purr of the mighty engines was +a human intelligence crooning a song of joy. For him the crowded +passenger list held a significance that was almost epic, and its names +represented more than mere men and women. They were the vital fiber of +the land he loved, its heart’s blood, its very element—“giving in.” He +knew that with the throb of those engines romance, adventure, tragedy, +and hope were on their way north—and with these things also arrogance +and greed. On board were a hundred conflicting elements—some that had +fought for Alaska, others that would make her, and others that would +destroy. + +He puffed at his cigar and walked alone, brushing sleeves with men and +women whom he scarcely seemed to notice. But he was observant. He knew +the tourists almost without looking at them. The spirit of the north +had not yet seized upon them. They were voluble and rather excitedly +enthusiastic in the face of beauty and awesomeness. The sour-doughs +were tucked away here and there in shadowy nooks, watching in silence, +or they walked the deck slowly and quietly, smoking their cigars or +pipes, and seeing things beyond the mountains. Between these two, the +newcomers and the old-timers, ran the gamut of all human thrill for +Alan, the flesh-and-blood fiber of everything that went to make up life +north of Fifty-four. And he could have gone from man to man and picked +out those who belonged north of Fifty-eight. + +Aft of the smoking-room he paused, tipping the ash of his cigar over +the edge of the rail. A little group of three stood near him, and he +recognized them as the young engineers, fresh from college, going up to +work on the government railroad running from Seward to Tanana. One of +them was talking, filled with the enthusiasm of his first adventure. + +“I tell you,” he said, “people don’t know what they ought to know about +Alaska. In school they teach us that it’s an eternal icebox full of +gold, and is headquarters for Santa Claus, because that’s where +reindeer come from. And grown-ups think about the same thing. Why”—he +drew in a deep breath—“it’s nine times as large as the state of +Washington, twelve times as big as the state of New York, and we bought +it from Russia for less than two cents an acre. If you put it down on +the face of the United States, the city of Juneau would be in St. +Augustine, Florida, and Unalaska would be in Los Angeles. That’s how +big it is, and the geographical center of our country isn’t Omaha or +Sioux City, but exactly San Francisco, California.” + +“Good for you, sonny,” came a quiet voice from beyond the group. “Your +geography is correct. And you might add for the education of your +people that Alaska is only thirty-seven miles from Bolshevik Siberia, +and wireless messages are sent into Alaska by the Bolsheviks urging our +people to rise against the Washington government. We’ve asked +Washington for a few guns and a few men to guard Nome, but they laugh +at us. Do you see a moral?” + +From half-amused interest Alan jerked himself to alert tension. He +caught a glimpse of the gaunt, old graybeard who had spoken, but did +not know him. And as this man turned away, a shadowy hulk in the +moonlight, the same deep, quiet voice came back very clearly: + +“And if you ever care for Alaska, you might tell your government to +hang a few such men as John Graham, sonny.” + +At the sound of that name Alan felt the blood in him run suddenly hot. +Only one man on the face of the earth did he hate with undying hatred, +and that man was John Graham. He would have followed, seeking the +identity of the stranger whose words had temporarily stunned the young +engineers, when he saw a slim figure standing between him and the light +of the smoking-room windows. It was Mary Standish. He knew by her +attitude that she had heard the words of the young engineer and the old +graybeard, but she was looking at _him_. And he could not remember that +he had ever seen quite that same look in a woman’s face before. It was +not fright. It was more an expression of horror which comes from +thought and mental vision rather than physical things. Instantly it +annoyed Alan Holt. This was the second time she had betrayed a too +susceptible reaction in matters which did not concern her. So he said, +speaking to the silent young men a few steps away: + +“He was mistaken, gentlemen. John Graham should not be hung. That would +be too merciful.” + +He resumed his way then, nodding at them as he passed. But he had +scarcely gone out of their vision when quick footsteps pattered behind +him, and the girl’s hand touched his arm lightly. + +“Mr. Holt, please—” + +He stopped, sensing the fact that the soft pressure of her fingers was +not altogether unpleasant. She hesitated, and when she spoke again, +only her finger-tips touched his arm. She was looking shoreward, so +that for a moment he could see only the lustrous richness of her smooth +hair. Then she was meeting his eyes squarely, a flash of challenge in +the gray depths of her own. + +“I am alone on the ship,” she said. “I have no friends here. I want to +see things and ask questions. Will you ... help me a little?” + +“You mean ... escort you?” + +“Yes, if you will. I should feel more comfortable.” + +Nettled at first, the humor of the situation began to appeal to him, +and he wondered at the intense seriousness of the girl. She did not +smile. Her eyes were very steady and very businesslike, and at the same +time very lovely. + +“The way you put it, I don’t see how I can refuse,” he said. “As for +the questions—probably Captain Rifle can answer them better than I.” + +“I don’t like to trouble him,” she replied. “He has much to think +about. And you are alone.” + +“Yes, quite alone. And with very little to think about.” + +“You know what I mean, Mr. Holt. Possibly you can not understand me, or +won’t try. But I’m going into a new country, and I have a passionate +desire to learn as much about that country as I can before I get there. +I want to know about many things. For instance—” + +“Yes.” + +“Why did you say what you did about John Graham? What did the other man +mean when he said he should be hung?” + +There was an intense directness in her question which for a moment +astonished him. She had withdrawn her fingers from his arm, and her +slim figure seemed possessed of a sudden throbbing suspense as she +waited for an answer. They had turned a little, so that in the light of +the moon the almost flowerlike whiteness of her face was clear to him. +With her smooth, shining hair, the pallor of her face under its +lustrous darkness, and the clearness of her eyes she held Alan +speechless for a moment, while his brain struggled to seize upon and +understand the something about her which made him interested in spite +of himself. Then he smiled and there was a sudden glitter in his eyes. + +“Did you ever see a dog fight?” he asked. + +She hesitated, as if trying to remember, and shuddered slightly. +“Once.” + +“What happened?” + +“It was my dog—a little dog. His throat was torn—” + +He nodded. “Exactly. And that is just what John Graham is doing to +Alaska, Miss Standish. He’s the dog—a monster. Imagine a man with a +colossal financial power behind him, setting out to strip the wealth +from a new land and enslave it to his own desires and political +ambitions. That is what John Graham is doing from his money-throne down +there in the States. It’s the financial support he represents, curse +him! Money—and a man without conscience. A man who would starve +thousands or millions to achieve his ends. A man who, in every sense of +the word, is a murderer—” + +The sharpness of her cry stopped him. If possible, her face had gone +whiter, and he saw her hands clutched suddenly at her breast. And the +look in her eyes brought the old, cynical twist back to his lips. + +“There, I’ve hurt your puritanism again, Miss Standish,” he said, +bowing a little. “In order to appeal to your finer sensibilities I +suppose I must apologize for swearing and calling another man a +murderer. Well, I do. And now—if you care to stroll about the ship—” + +From a respectful distance the three young engineers watched Alan and +Mary Standish as they walked forward. + +“A corking pretty girl,” said one of them, drawing a deep breath. “I +never saw such hair and eyes—” + +“I’m at the same table with them,” interrupted another. “I’m second on +her left, and she hasn’t spoken three words to me. And that fellow she +is with is like an icicle out of Labrador.” + +And Mary Standish was saying: “Do you know, Mr. Holt, I envy those +young engineers. I wish I were a man.” + +“I wish you were,” agreed Alan amiably. + +Whereupon Mary Standish’s pretty mouth lost its softness for an +instant. But Alan did not observe this. He was enjoying his cigar and +the sweet air. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Alan Holt was a man whom other men looked at twice. With women it was +different. He was, in no solitary sense of the word, a woman’s man. He +admired them in an abstract way, and he was ready to fight for them, or +die for them, at any time such a course became necessary. But his +sentiment was entirely a matter of common sense. His chivalry was born +and bred of the mountains and the open and had nothing in common with +the insincere brand which develops in the softer and more luxurious +laps of civilization. Years of aloneness had put their mark upon him. +Men of the north, reading the lines, understood what they meant. But +only now and then could a woman possibly understand. Yet if in any +given moment a supreme physical crisis had come, women would have +turned instinctively in their helplessness to such a man as Alan Holt. + +He possessed a vein of humor which few had been privileged to discover. +The mountains had taught him to laugh in silence. With him a chuckle +meant as much as a riotous outburst of merriment from another, and he +could enjoy greatly without any noticeable muscular disturbance of his +face. And not always was his smile a reflection of humorous thought. +There were times when it betrayed another kind of thought more +forcefully than speech. + +Because he understood fairly well and knew what he was, the present +situation amused him. He could not but see what an error in judgment +Miss Standish had made in selecting him, when compared with the +intoxicating thrill she could easily have aroused by choosing one of +the young engineers as a companion in her evening adventure. He +chuckled. And Mary Standish, hearing the smothered note of amusement, +gave to her head that swift little birdlike tilt which he had observed +once before, in the presence of Captain Rifle. But she said nothing. As +if challenged, she calmly took possession of his arm. + +Halfway round the deck, Alan began to sense the fact that there was a +decidedly pleasant flavor to the whole thing. The girl’s hand did not +merely touch his arm; it was snuggled there confidently, and she was +necessarily so close to him that when he looked down, the glossy coils +of her hair were within a few inches of his face. His nearness to her, +together with the soft pressure of her hand on his arm, was a jolt to +his stoicism. + +“It’s not half bad,” he expressed himself frankly. “I really believe I +am going to enjoy answering your questions, Miss Standish.” + +“Oh!” He felt the slim, little figure stiffen for an instant. “You +thought—possibly—I might be dangerous?” + +“A little. I don’t understand women. Collectively I think they are +God’s most wonderful handiwork. Individually I don’t care much about +them. But you—” + +She nodded approvingly. “That is very nice of you. But you needn’t say +I am different from the others. I am not. All women are alike.” + +“Possibly—except in the way they dress their hair.” + +“You like mine?” + +“Very much.” + +He was amazed at the admission, so much so that he puffed out a huge +cloud of smoke from his cigar in mental protest. + +They had come to the smoking-room again. This was an innovation aboard +the _Nome_. There was no other like it in the Alaskan service, with its +luxurious space, its comfortable hospitality, and the observation +parlor built at one end for those ladies who cared to sit with their +husbands while they smoked their after-dinner cigars. + +“If you want to hear about Alaska and see some of its human make-up, +let’s go in,” he suggested. “I know; of no better place. Are you afraid +of smoke?” + +“No. If I were a man, I would smoke.” + +“Perhaps you do?” + +“I do not. When I begin that, if you please, I shall bob my hair.” + +“Which would be a crime,” he replied so earnestly that again he was +surprised at himself. + +Two or three ladies, with their escorts, were in the parlor when they +entered. The huge main room, covering a third of the aft deck, was blue +with smoke. A score of men were playing cards at round tables. Twice as +many were gathered in groups, talking, while others walked aimlessly up +and down the carpeted floor. Here and there were men who sat alone. A +few were asleep, which made Alan look at his watch. Then he observed +Mary Standish studying the innumerable bundles of neatly rolled +blankets that lay about. One of them was at her feet. She touched it +with her toe. + +“What do they mean?” she asked. + +“We are overloaded,” he explained. “Alaskan steam-ships have no +steerage passengers as we generally know them. It isn’t poverty that +rides steerage when you go north. You can always find a millionaire or +two on the lower deck. When they get sleepy, most of the men you see in +there will unroll blankets and sleep on the floor. Did you ever see an +earl?” + +He felt it his duty to make explanations now that he had brought her +in, and directed her attention to the third table on their left. Three +men were seated at this table. + +“The man facing us, the one with a flabby face and pale mustache, is an +earl—I forget his name,” he said. “He doesn’t look it, but he is a real +sport. He is going up to shoot Kadiak bears, and sleeps on the floor. +The group beyond them, at the fifth table, are Treadwell mining men, +and that fellow you see slouched against the wall, half asleep, with +whiskers nearly to his waist, is Stampede Smith, an old-time partner of +George Carmack, who discovered gold on Bonanza Creek in Ninety-six. The +thud of Carmack’s spade, as it hit first pay, was the ‘sound heard +round the world,’ Miss Standish. And the gentleman with crumpled +whiskers was the second-best man at Bonanza, excepting Skookum Jim and +Taglish Charlie, two Siwah Indians who were with Carmack when the +strike was made. Also, if you care for the romantic, he was in love +with Belinda Mulrooney, the most courageous woman who ever came into +the north.” + +“Why was she courageous?” + +“Because she came alone into a man’s land, without a soul to fight for +her, determined to make a fortune along with the others. And she did. +As long as there is a Dawson sour-dough alive, he will remember Belinda +Mulrooney.” + +“She proved what a woman could do, Mr. Holt.” + +“Yes, and a little later she proved how foolish a woman can be, Miss +Standish. She became the richest woman in Dawson. Then came a man who +posed as a count, Belinda married him, and they went to Paris. _Finis_, +I think. Now, if she had married Stampede Smith over there, with his +big whiskers—” + +He did not finish. Half a dozen paces from them a man had risen from a +table and was facing them. There was nothing unusual about him, except +his boldness as he looked at Mary Standish. It was as if he knew her +and was deliberately insulting her in a stare that was more than +impudent in its directness. Then a sudden twist came to his lips; he +shrugged his shoulders slightly and turned away. + +Alan glanced swiftly at his companion. Her lips were compressed, and +her cheeks were flaming hotly. Even then, as his own blood boiled, he +could not but observe how beautiful anger made her. + +“If you will pardon me a moment,” he said quietly, “I shall demand an +explanation.” + +Her hand linked itself quickly through his arm. + +“Please don’t,” she entreated. “It is kind of you, and you are just the +sort of man I should expect to resent a thing like that. But it would +be absurd to notice it. Don’t you think so?” + +In spite of her effort to speak calmly, there was a tremble in her +voice, and Alan was puzzled at the quickness with which the color went +from her face, leaving it strangely white. + +“I am at your service,” he replied with a rather cold inclination of +his head. “But if you were my sister, Miss Standish, I would not allow +anything like that to go unchallenged.” + +He watched the stranger until he disappeared through a door out upon +the deck. + +“One of John Graham’s men,” he said. “A fellow named Rossland, going up +to get a final grip on the salmon fishing, I understand. They’ll choke +the life out of it in another two years. Funny what this filthy stuff +we call money can do, isn’t it? Two winters ago I saw whole Indian +villages starving, and women and little children dying by the score +because of this John Graham’s money. Over-fishing did it, you +understand. If you could have seen some of those poor little devils, +just skin and bones, crying for a rag to eat—” + +Her hand clutched at his arm. “How could John Graham—do that?” she +whispered. + +He laughed unpleasantly. “When you have been a year in Alaska you won’t +ask that question, Miss Standish. _How_? Why, simply by glutting his +canneries and taking from the streams the food supply which the natives +have depended upon for generations. In other words, the money he +handles represents the fish trust—and many other things. Please don’t +misunderstand me. Alaska needs capital for its development. Without it +we will not only cease to progress; we will die. No territory on the +face of the earth offers greater opportunities for capital than Alaska +does today. Ten thousand fortunes are waiting to be made here by men +who have money to invest. + +“But John Graham does not represent the type we want. He is a +despoiler, one of those whose only desire is to turn original resource +into dollars as fast as he can, even though those operations make both +land and water barren. You must remember until recently the government +of Alaska as manipulated by Washington politicians was little better +than that against which the American colonies rebelled in 1776. A hard +thing for one to say about the country he loves, isn’t it? And John +Graham stands for the worst—he and the money which guarantees his +power. + +“As a matter of fact, big and legitimate capital is fighting shy of +Alaska. Conditions are such, thanks to red-tapeism and bad politics, +that capital, big and little, looks askance at Alaska and cannot be +interested. Think of it, Miss Standish! There are thirty-eight separate +bureaus at Washington operating on Alaska, five thousand miles away. Is +it a wonder the patient is sick? And is it a wonder that a man like +John Graham, dishonest and corrupt to the soul, has a fertile field to +work in? + +“But we are progressing. We are slowly coming out from under the shadow +which has so long clouded Alaska’s interests. There is now a growing +concentration of authority and responsibility. Both the Department of +the Interior and the Department of Agriculture now realize that Alaska +is a mighty empire in itself, and with their help we are bound to go +ahead in spite of all our handicaps. It is men like John Graham I fear. +Some day—” + +Suddenly he caught himself. “There—I’m talking politics, and I should +entertain you with pleasanter and more interesting things,” he +apologized. “Shall we go to the lower decks?” + +“Or the open air,” she suggested. “I am afraid this smoke is upsetting +me.” + +He could feel the change in her and did not attribute it entirely to +the thickness of the air. Rossland’s inexplicable rudeness had +disturbed her more deeply than she had admitted, he believed. + +“There are a number of Thlinkit Indians and a tame bear down in what we +should ordinarily call the steerage. Would you like to see them?” he +asked, when they were outside. “The Thlinkit girls are the prettiest +Indian women in the world, and there are two among those below who +are—well—unusually good-looking, the Captain says.” + +“And he has already made me acquainted with them,” she laughed softly. +“Kolo and Haidah are the girls. They are sweet, and I love them. I had +breakfast with them this morning long before you were awake.” + +“The deuce you say! And that is why you were not at table? And the +morning before—” + +“You noticed my absence?” she asked demurely. + +“It was difficult for me not to see an empty chair. On second thought, +I think the young engineer called my attention to it by wondering if +you were ill.” + +“Oh!” + +“He is very much interested in you, Miss Standish. It amuses me to see +him torture the corners of his eyes to look at you. I have thought it +would be only charity and good-will to change seats with him.” + +“In which event, of course, your eyes would not suffer.” + +“Probably not.” + +“Have they ever suffered?” + +“I think not.” + +“When looking at the Thlinkit girls, for instance?” + +“I haven’t seen them.” + +She gave her shoulders a little shrug. + +“Ordinarily I would think you most uninteresting, Mr. Holt. As it is I +think you unusual. And I rather like you for it. Would you mind taking +me to my cabin? It is number sixteen, on this deck.” + +She walked with her fingers touching his arm again. “What is your +room?” she asked. + +“Twenty-seven, Miss Standish.” + +“This deck?” + +“Yes.” + +Not until she had said good night, quietly and without offering him her +hand, did the intimacy of her last questions strike him. He grunted and +lighted a fresh cigar. A number of things occurred to him all at once, +as he slowly made a final round or two of the deck. Then he went to his +cabin and looked over papers which were going ashore at Juneau. These +were memoranda giving an account of his appearance with Carl Lomen +before the Ways and Means Committee at Washington. + +It was nearly midnight when he had finished. He wondered if Mary +Standish was asleep. He was a little irritated, and slightly amused, by +the recurring insistency with which his mind turned to her. She was a +clever girl, he admitted. He had asked her nothing about herself, and +she had told him nothing, while he had been quite garrulous. He was a +little ashamed when he recalled how he had unburdened his mind to a +girl who could not possibly be interested in the political affairs of +John Graham and Alaska. Well, it was not entirely his fault. She had +fairly catapulted herself upon him, and he had been decent under the +circumstances, he thought. + +He put out his light and stood with his face at the open port-hole. +Only the soft throbbing of the vessel as she made her way slowly +through the last of the Narrows into Frederick Sound came to his ears. +The ship, at last, was asleep. The moon was straight overhead, no +longer silhouetting the mountains, and beyond its misty rim of light +the world was dark. Out of this darkness, rising like a deeper shadow, +Alan could make out faintly the huge mass of Kupreanof Island. And he +wondered, knowing the perils of the Narrows in places scarcely wider +than the length of the ship, why Captain Rifle had chosen this course +instead of going around by Cape Decision. He could feel that the land +was more distant now, but the _Nome_ was still pushing ahead under slow +bell, and he could smell the fresh odor of kelp, and breathe deeply of +the scent of forests that came from both east and west. + +Suddenly his ears became attentive to slowly approaching footsteps. +They seemed to hesitate and then advanced; he heard a subdued voice, a +man’s voice—and in answer to it a woman’s. Instinctively he drew a step +back and stood unseen in the gloom. There was no longer a sound of +voices. In silence they walked past his window, clearly revealed to him +in the moonlight. One of the two was Mary Standish. The man was +Rossland, who had stared at her so boldly in the smoking-room. + +Amazement gripped Alan. He switched on his light and made his final +arrangements for bed. He had no inclination to spy upon either Mary +Standish or Graham’s agent, but he possessed an inborn hatred of fraud +and humbug, and what he had seen convinced him that Mary Standish knew +more about Rossland than she had allowed him to believe. She had not +lied to him. She had said nothing at all—except to restrain him from +demanding an apology. Evidently she had taken advantage of him, but +beyond that fact her affairs had nothing to do with his own business in +life. Possibly she and Rossland had quarreled, and now they were making +up. Quite probable, he thought. Silly of him to think over the matter +at all. + +So he put out his light again and went to bed. But he had no great +desire to sleep. It was pleasant to lie there, flat on his back, with +the soothing movement of the ship under him, listening to the musical +thrum of it. And it was pleasant to think of the fact that he was going +home. How infernally long those seven months had been, down in the +States! And how he had missed everyone he had ever known—even his +enemies! + +He closed his eyes and visualized the home that was still thousands of +miles away—the endless tundras, the blue and purple foothills of the +Endicott Mountains, and “Alan’s Range” at the beginning of them. Spring +was breaking up there, and it was warm on the tundras and the southern +slopes, and the pussy-willow buds were popping out of their coats like +corn from a hopper. + +He prayed God the months had been kind to his people—the people of the +range. It was a long time to be away from them, when one loved them as +he did. He was sure that Tautuk and Amuk Toolik, his two chief +herdsmen, would care for things as well as himself. But much could +happen in seven months. Nawadlook, the little beauty of his distant +kingdom, was not looking well when he left. He was worried about her. +The pneumonia of the previous winters had left its mark. And Keok, her +rival in prettiness! He smiled in the darkness, wondering how Tautuk’s +sometimes hopeless love affair had progressed. For Keok was a little +heart-breaker and had long reveled in Tautuk’s sufferings. An archangel +of iniquity, Alan thought, as he grinned—but worth any man’s risk of +life, if he had but a drop of brown blood in him! As for his herds, +they had undoubtedly fared well. Ten thousand head was something to be +proud of— + +Suddenly he drew in his breath and listened. Someone was at his door +and had paused there. Twice he had heard footsteps outside, but each +time they had passed. He sat up, and the springs of his berth made a +sound under him. He heard movement then, a swift, running movement—and +he switched on his light. A moment later he opened the door. No one was +there. The long corridor was empty. And then—a distance away—he heard +the soft opening and closing of another door. + +It was then that his eyes saw a white, crumpled object on the floor. He +picked it up and reentered his room. It was a woman’s handkerchief. And +he had seen it before. He had admired the pretty laciness of it that +evening in the smoking-room. Rather curious, he thought, that he should +now find it at his door. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +For a few minutes after finding the handkerchief at his door, Alan +experienced a feeling of mingled curiosity and disappointment—also a +certain resentment. The suspicion that he was becoming involved in +spite of himself was not altogether pleasant. The evening, up to a +certain point, had been fairly entertaining. It was true he might have +passed a pleasanter hour recalling old times with Stampede Smith, or +discussing Kadiak bears with the English earl, or striking up an +acquaintance with the unknown graybeard who had voiced an opinion about +John Graham. But he was not regretting lost hours, nor was he holding +Mary Standish accountable for them. It was, last of all, the +handkerchief that momentarily upset him. + +Why had she dropped it at his door? It was not a dangerous-looking +affair, to be sure, with its filmy lace edging and ridiculous +diminutiveness. As the question came to him, he was wondering how even +as dainty a nose as that possessed by Mary Standish could be much +comforted by it. But it was pretty. And, like Mary Standish, there was +something exquisitely quiet and perfect about it, like the simplicity +of her hair. He was not analyzing the matter. It was a thought that +came to him almost unconsciously, as he tossed the annoying bit of +fabric on the little table at the head of his berth. Undoubtedly the +dropping of it had been entirely unpremeditated and accidental. At +least he told himself so. And he also assured himself, with an +involuntary shrug of his shoulders, that any woman or girl had the +right to pass his door if she so desired, and that he was an idiot for +thinking otherwise. The argument was only slightly adequate. But Alan +was not interested in mysteries, especially when they had to do with +woman—and such an absurdly inconsequential thing as a handkerchief. + +A second time he went to bed. He fell asleep thinking about Keok and +Nawadlook and the people of his range. From somewhere he had been given +the priceless heritage of dreaming pleasantly, and Keok was very real, +with her swift smile and mischievous face, and Nawadlook’s big, soft +eyes were brighter than when he had gone away. He saw Tautuk, gloomy as +usual over the heartlessness of Keok. He was beating a tom-tom that +gave out the peculiar sound of bells, and to this Amuk Toolik was +dancing the Bear Dance, while Keok clapped her hands in exaggerated +admiration. Even in his dreams Alan chuckled. He knew what was +happening, and that out of the corners of her laughing eyes Keok was +enjoying Tautuk’s jealousy. Tautuk was so stupid he would never +understand. That was the funny part of it. And he beat his drum +savagely, scowling so that he almost shut his eyes, while Keok laughed +outright. + +It was then that Alan opened his eyes and heard the last of the ship’s +bells. It was still dark. He turned on the light and looked at his +watch. Tautuk’s drum had tolled eight bells, aboard the ship, and it +was four o’clock in the morning. + +Through the open port came the smell of sea and land, and with it a +chill air which Alan drank in deeply as he stretched himself for a few +minutes after awakening. The tang of it was like wine in his blood, and +he got up quietly and dressed while he smoked the stub-end of a cigar +he had laid aside at midnight. Not until he had finished dressing did +he notice the handkerchief on the table. If its presence had suggested +a significance a few hours before, he no longer disturbed himself by +thinking about it. A bit of carelessness on the girl’s part, that was +all. He would return it. Mechanically he put the crumpled bit of +cambric in his coat pocket before going on deck. + +He had guessed that he would be alone. The promenade was deserted. +Through the ghost-white mist of morning he saw the rows of empty +chairs, and lights burning dully in the wheel-house. Asian monsoon and +the drifting warmth of the Japan current had brought an early spring to +the Alexander Archipelago, and May had stolen much of the flowering +softness of June. But the dawns of these days were chilly and gray. +Mists and fogs settled in the valleys, and like thin smoke rolled down +the sides of the mountains to the sea, so that a ship traveling the +inner waters felt its way like a child creeping in darkness. + +Alan loved this idiosyncrasy of the Alaskan coast. The phantom mystery +of it was stimulating, and in the peril of it was a challenging lure. +He could feel the care with which the _Nome_ was picking her way +northward. Her engines were thrumming softly, and her movement was a +slow and cautious glide, catlike and slightly trembling, as if every +pound of steel in her were a living nerve widely alert. He knew Captain +Rifle would not be asleep and that straining eyes were peering into the +white gloom from the wheel-house. Somewhere west of them, hazardously +near, must lie the rocks of Admiralty Island; eastward were the still +more pitiless glacial sandstones and granites of the coast, with that +deadly finger of sea-washed reef between, along the lip of which they +must creep to Juneau. And Juneau could not be far ahead. + +He leaned over the rail, puffing at the stub of his cigar. He was eager +for his work. Juneau, Skagway, and Cordova meant nothing to him, except +that they were Alaska. He yearned for the still farther north, the wide +tundras, and the mighty achievement that lay ahead of him there. His +blood sang to the surety of it now, and for that reason he was not +sorry he had spent seven months of loneliness in the States. He had +proved with his own eyes that the day was near when Alaska would come +into her own. Gold! He laughed. Gold had its lure, its romance, its +thrill, but what was all the gold the mountains might possess compared +with this greater thing he was helping to build! It seemed to him the +people he had met in the south had thought only of gold when they +learned he was from Alaska. Always gold—that first, and then ice, snow, +endless nights, desolate barrens, and craggy mountains frowning +everlastingly upon a blasted land in which men fought against odds and +only the fittest survived. It was gold that had been Alaska’s doom. +When people thought of it, they visioned nothing beyond the old +stampede days, the Chilkoot, White Horse, Dawson, and Circle City. +Romance and glamor and the tragedies of dead men clung to their ribs. +But they were beginning to believe now. Their eyes were opening. Even +the Government was waking up, after proving there was something besides +graft in railroad building north of Mount St. Elias. Senators and +Congressmen at Washington had listened to him seriously, and especially +to Carl Lomen. And the beef barons, wisest of all, had tried to buy him +off and had offered a fortune for Lomen’s forty thousand head of +reindeer in the Seward Peninsula! That was proof of the awakening. +Absolute proof. + +He lighted a fresh cigar, and his mind shot through the dissolving mist +into the vast land ahead of him. Some Alaskans had cursed Theodore +Roosevelt for putting what they called “the conservation shackles” on +their country. But he, for one, did not. Roosevelt’s far-sightedness +had kept the body-snatchers at bay, and because he had foreseen what +money-power and greed would do, Alaska was not entirely stripped today, +but lay ready to serve with all her mighty resources the mother who had +neglected her for a generation. But it was going to be a struggle, this +opening up of a great land. It must be done resourcefully and with +intelligence. Once the bars were down, Roosevelt’s shadow-hand could +not hold back such desecrating forces as John Graham and the syndicate +he represented. + +Thought of Graham was an unpleasant reminder, and his face grew hard in +the sea-mist. Alaskans themselves must fight against the licensed +plunderers. And it would be a hard fight. He had seen the pillaging +work of these financial brigands in a dozen states during the past +winter—states raped of their forests, their lakes and streams robbed +and polluted, their resources hewn down to naked skeletons. He had been +horrified and a little frightened when he looked over the desolation of +Michigan, once the richest timber state in America. What if the +Government at Washington made it possible for such a thing to happen in +Alaska? Politics—and money—were already fighting for just that thing. + +He no longer heard the throb of the ship under his feet. It was _his_ +fight, and brain and muscle reacted to it almost as if it had been a +physical thing. And his end of that fight he was determined to win, if +it took every year of his life. He, with a few others, would prove to +the world that the millions of acres of treeless tundras of the north +were not the cast-off ends of the earth. They would populate them, and +the so-called “barrens” would thunder to the innumerable hoofs of +reindeer herds as the American plains had never thundered to the beat +of cattle. He was not thinking of the treasure he would find at the end +of this rainbow of success which he visioned. Money, simply as money, +he hated. It was the achievement of the thing that gripped him; the +passion to hew a trail through which his beloved land might come into +its own, and the desire to see it achieve a final triumph by feeding a +half of that America which had laughed at it and kicked it when it was +down. + +The tolling of the ship’s bell roused him from the subconscious +struggle into which he had allowed himself to be drawn. Ordinarily he +had no sympathy with himself when he fell into one of these mental +spasms, as he called them. Without knowing it, he was a little proud of +a certain dispassionate tolerance which he possessed—a philosophical +mastery of his emotions which at times was almost cold-blooded, and +which made some people think he was a thing of stone instead of flesh +and blood. His thrills he kept to himself. And a mildly disturbing +sensation passed through him now, when he found that unconsciously his +fingers had twined themselves about the little handkerchief in his +pocket. He drew it out and made a sudden movement as if to toss it +overboard. Then, with a grunt expressive of the absurdity of the thing, +he replaced it in his pocket and began to walk slowly toward the bow of +the ship. + +He wondered, as he noted the lifting of the fog, what he would have +been had he possessed a sister like Mary Standish. Or any family at +all, for that matter—even an uncle or two who might have been +interested in him. He remembered his father vividly, his mother a +little less so, because his mother had died when he was six and his +father when he was twenty. It was his father who stood out above +everything else, like the mountains he loved. The father would remain +with him always, inspiring him, urging him, encouraging him to live +like a gentleman, fight like a man, and die at last unafraid. In that +fashion the older Alan Holt had lived and died. But his mother, her +face and voice scarcely remembered in the passing of many years, was +more a hallowed memory to him than a thing of flesh and blood. And +there had been no sisters or brothers. Often he had regretted this lack +of brotherhood. But a sister.... He grunted his disapprobation of the +thought. A sister would have meant enchainment to civilization. Cities, +probably. Even the States. And slavery to a life he detested. He +appreciated the immensity of his freedom. A Mary Standish, even though +she were his sister, would be a catastrophe. He could not conceive of +her, or any other woman like her, living with Keok and Nawadlook and +the rest of his people in the heart of the tundras. And the tundras +would always be his home, because his heart was there. + +He had passed round the wheel-house and came suddenly upon an odd +figure crumpled in a chair. It was Stampede Smith. In the clearer light +that came with the dissolution of the sea-mist Alan saw that he was not +asleep. He paused, unseen by the other. Stampede stretched himself, +groaned, and stood up. He was a little man, and his fiercely bristling +red whiskers, wet with dew, were luxuriant enough for a giant. His head +of tawny hair, bristling like his whiskers, added to the piratical +effect of him above the neck, but below that part of his anatomy there +was little to strike fear into the hearts of humanity. Some people +smiled when they looked at him. Others, not knowing their man, laughed +outright. Whiskers could be funny. And they were undoubtedly funny on +Stampede Smith. But Alan neither smiled nor laughed, for in his heart +was something very near to the missing love of brotherhood for this +little man who had written his name across so many pages of Alaskan +history. + +This morning, as Alan saw him, Stampede Smith was no longer the +swiftest gunman between White Horse and Dawson City. He was a pathetic +reminder of the old days when, single-handed, he had run down Soapy +Smith and his gang—days when the going of Stampede Smith to new fields +meant a stampede behind him, and when his name was mentioned in the +same breath with those of George Carmack, and Alex McDonald, and Jerome +Chute, and a hundred men like Curley Monroe and Joe Barret set their +compasses by his. To Alan there was tragedy in his aloneness as he +stood in the gray of the morning. Twenty times a millionaire, he knew +that Stampede Smith was broke again. + +“Good morning,” he said so unexpectedly that the little man jerked +himself round like the lash of a whip, a trick of the old gun days. +“Why so much loneliness, Stampede?” + +Stampede grinned wryly. He had humorous, blue eyes, buried like an +Airedale’s under brows which bristled even more fiercely than his +whiskers. “I’m thinkin’,” said he, “what a fool thing is money. Good +mornin’, Alan!” + +He nodded and chuckled, and continued to chuckle in the face of the +lifting fog, and Alan saw the old humor which had always been +Stampede’s last asset when in trouble. He drew nearer and stood beside +him, so that their shoulders touched as they leaned over the rail. + +“Alan,” said Stampede, “it ain’t often I have a big thought, but I’ve +been having one all night. Ain’t forgot Bonanza, have you?” + +Alan shook his head. “As long as there is an Alaska, we won’t forget +Bonanza, Stampede.” + +“I took a million out of it, next to Carmack’s Discovery—an’ went +busted afterward, didn’t I?” + +Alan nodded without speaking. + +“But that wasn’t a circumstance to Gold Run Creek, over the Divide,” +Stampede continued ruminatively. “Ain’t forgot old Aleck McDonald, the +Scotchman, have you, Alan? In the ‘wash’ of Ninety-eight we took up +seventy sacks to bring our gold back in and we lacked thirty of doin’ +the job. Nine hundred thousand dollars in a single clean-up, and that +was only the beginning. Well, I went busted again. And old Aleck went +busted later on. But he had a pretty wife left. A girl from Seattle. I +had to grub-stake.” + +He was silent for a moment, caressing his damp whiskers, as he noted +the first rose-flush of the sun breaking through the mist between them +and the unseen mountain tops. + +“Five times after that I made strikes and went busted,” he said a +little proudly. “And I’m busted again!” + +“I know it,” sympathized Alan. + +“They took every cent away from me down in Seattle an’ Frisco,” +chuckled Stampede, rubbing his hands together cheerfully, “an’ then +bought me a ticket to Nome. Mighty fine of them, don’t you think? +Couldn’t have been more decent. I knew that fellow Kopf had a heart. +That’s why I trusted him with my money. It wasn’t his fault he lost +it.” + +“Of course not,” agreed Alan. + +“And I’m sort of sorry I shot him up for it. I am, for a fact.” + +“You killed him?” + +“Not quite. I clipped one ear off as a reminder, down in Chink +Holleran’s place. Mighty sorry. Didn’t think then how decent it was of +him to buy me a ticket to Nome. I just let go in the heat of the +moment. He did me a favor in cleanin’ me, Alan. He did, so help me! You +don’t realize how free an’ easy an’ beautiful everything is until +you’re busted.” + +Smiling, his odd face almost boyish behind its ambush of hair, he saw +the grim look in Alan’s eyes and about his jaws. He caught hold of the +other’s arm and shook it. + +“Alan, I mean it!” he declared. “That’s why I think money is a fool +thing. It ain’t _spendin’_ money that makes me happy. It’s _findin’_ +it—the gold in the mountains—that makes the blood run fast through my +gizzard. After I’ve found it, I can’t find any use for it in +particular. I want to go broke. If I didn’t, I’d get lazy and fat, an’ +some newfangled doctor would operate on me, and I’d die. They’re doing +a lot of that operatin’ down in Frisco, Alan. One day I had a pain, and +they wanted to cut out something from inside me. Think what can happen +to a man when he’s got money!” + +“You mean all that, Stampede?” + +“On my life, I do. I’m just aching for the open skies, Alan. The +mountains. And the yellow stuff that’s going to be my playmate till I +die. Somebody’ll grub-stake me in Nome.” + +“They won’t,” said Alan suddenly. “Not if I can help it. Stampede, I +want you. I want you with me up under the Endicott Mountains. I’ve got +ten thousand reindeer up there. It’s No Man’s Land, and we can do as we +please in it. I’m not after gold. I want another sort of thing. But +I’ve fancied the Endicott ranges are full of that yellow playmate of +yours. It’s a new country. You’ve never seen it. God only knows what +you may find. Will you come?” + +The humorous twinkle had gone out of Stampede’s eyes. He was staring at +Alan. + +“Will I _come?_ Alan, will a cub nurse its mother? Try me. Ask me. Say +it all over ag’in.” + +The two men gripped hands. Smiling, Alan nodded to the east. The last +of the fog was clearing swiftly. The tips of the cragged Alaskan ranges +rose up against the blue of a cloudless sky, and the morning sun was +flashing in rose and gold at their snowy peaks. Stampede also nodded. +Speech was unnecessary. They both understood, and the thrill of the +life they loved passed from one to the other in the grip of their +hands. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Breakfast hour was half over when Alan went into the dining-room. There +were only two empty chairs at his table. One was his own. The other +belonged to Mary Standish. There was something almost aggressively +suggestive in their simultaneous vacancy, it struck him at first. He +nodded as he sat down, a flash of amusement in his eyes when he +observed the look in the young engineer’s face. It was both envious and +accusing, and yet Alan was sure the young man was unconscious of +betraying an emotion. The fact lent to the eating of his grapefruit an +accompaniment of pleasing and amusing thought. He recalled the young +man’s name. It was Tucker. He was a clean-faced, athletic, +likable-looking chap. And an idiot would have guessed the truth, Alan +told himself. The young engineer was more than casually interested in +Mary Standish; he was in love. It was not a discovery which Alan made. +It was a decision, and as soon as possible he would remedy the +unfortunate omission of a general introduction at their table by +bringing the two together. Such an introduction would undoubtedly +relieve him of a certain responsibility which had persisted in +attaching itself to him. + +So he tried to think. But in spite of his resolution he could not get +the empty chair opposite him out of his mind. It refused to be +obliterated, and when other chairs became vacant as their owners left +the table, this one straight across from him continued to thrust itself +upon him. Until this morning it had been like other empty chairs. Now +it was persistently annoying, inasmuch as he had no desire to be so +constantly reminded of last night, and the twelve o’clock tryst of Mary +Standish with Graham’s agent, Rossland. + +He was the last at the table. Tucker, remaining until his final hope of +seeing Mary Standish was gone, rose with two others. The first two had +made their exit through the door leading from the dining salon when the +young engineer paused. Alan, watching him, saw a sudden change in his +face. In a moment it was explained. Mary Standish came in. She passed +Tucker without appearing to notice him, and gave Alan a cool little nod +as she seated herself at the table. She was very pale. He could see +nothing of the flush of color that had been in her cheeks last night. +As she bowed her head a little, arranging her dress, a pool of sunlight +played in her hair, and Alan was staring at it when she raised her +eyes. They were coolly beautiful, very direct, and without +embarrassment. Something inside him challenged their loveliness. It +seemed inconceivable that such eyes could play a part in fraud and +deception, yet he was in possession of quite conclusive proof of it. If +they had lowered themselves an instant, if they had in any way betrayed +a shadow of regret, he would have found an apology. Instead of that, +his fingers touched the handkerchief in his pocket. + +“Did you sleep well, Miss Standish?” he asked politely. + +“Not at all,” she replied, so frankly that his conviction was a bit +unsettled. “I tried to powder away the dark rings under my eyes, but I +am afraid I have failed. Is that why you ask?” + +He was holding the handkerchief in his hand. “This is the first morning +I have seen you at breakfast. I accepted it for granted you must have +slept well. Is this yours, Miss Standish?” + +He watched her face as she took the crumpled bit of cambric from his +fingers. In a moment she was smiling. The smile was not forced. It was +the quick response to a feminine instinct of pleasure, and he was +disappointed not to catch in her face a betrayal of embarrassment. + +“It is my handkerchief, Mr. Holt. Where did you find it?” + +“In front of my cabin door a little after midnight.” + +He was almost brutal in the definiteness of detail. He expected some +kind of result. But there was none, except that the smile remained on +her lips a moment longer, and there was a laughing flash back in the +clear depths of her eyes. Her level glance was as innocent as a child’s +and as he looked at her, he thought of a child—a most beautiful +child—and so utterly did he feel the discomfiture of his mental +analysis of her that he rose to his feet with a frigid bow. + +“I thank you, Mr. Holt,” she said. “You can imagine my sense of +obligation when I tell you I have only three handkerchiefs aboard the +ship with me. And this is my favorite.” + +She busied herself with the breakfast card, and as Alan left, he heard +her give the waiter an order for fruit and cereal. His blood was hot, +but the flush of it did not show in his face. He felt the uncomfortable +sensation of her eyes following him as he stalked through the door. He +did not look back. Something was wrong with him, and he knew it. This +chit of a girl with her smooth hair and clear eyes had thrown a grain +of dust into the satisfactory mechanism of his normal self, and the +grind of it was upsetting certain specific formulae which made up his +life. He was a fool. He lighted a cigar and called himself names. + +Someone brushed against him, jarring the hand that held the burning +match. He looked up. It was Rossland. The man had a mere twist of a +smile on his lips. In his eyes was a coolly appraising look as he +nodded. + +“Beg pardon.” The words were condescending, carelessly flung at him +over Rossland’s shoulder. He might as well have said, “I’m sorry, Boy, +but you must keep out of my way.” + +Alan smiled back and returned the nod. Once, in a spirit of sauciness, +Keok had told him his eyes were like purring cats when he was in a +humor to kill. They were like that now as they flashed their smile at +Rossland. The sneering twist left Rossland’s lips as he entered the +dining-room. + +A rather obvious prearrangement between Mary Standish and John Graham’s +agent, Alan thought. There were not half a dozen people left at the +tables, and the scheme was that Rossland should be served tête-à-tête +with Miss Standish, of course. That, apparently, was why she had +greeted him with such cool civility. Her anxiety for him to leave the +table before Rossland appeared upon the scene was evident, now that he +understood the situation. + +He puffed at his cigar. Rossland’s interference had spoiled a perfect +lighting of it, and he struck another match. This time he was +successful, and he was about to extinguish the burning end when he +hesitated and held it until the fire touched his flesh. Mary Standish +was coming through the door. Amazed by the suddenness of her +appearance, he made no movement except to drop the match. Her eyes were +flaming, and two vivid spots burned in her cheeks. She saw him and gave +the slightest inclination to her head as she passed. When she had gone, +he could not resist looking into the salon. As he expected, Rossland +was seated in a chair next to the one she had occupied, and was calmly +engaged in looking over the breakfast card. + +All this was rather interesting, Alan conceded, if one liked puzzles. +Personally he had no desire to become an answerer of conundrums, and he +was a little ashamed of the curiosity that had urged him to look in +upon Rossland. At the same time he was mildly elated at the freezing +reception which Miss Standish had evidently given to the dislikable +individual who had jostled him in passing. + +He went on deck. The sun was pouring in an iridescent splendor over the +snowy peaks of the mountains, and it seemed as if he could almost reach +out his arms and touch them. The _Nome_ appeared to be drifting in the +heart of a paradise of mountains. Eastward, very near, was the +mainland; so close on the other hand that he could hear the shout of a +man was Douglas Island, and ahead, reaching out like a silver-blue +ribbon was Gastineau Channel. The mining towns of Treadwell and Douglas +were in sight. + +Someone nudged him, and he found Stampede Smith at his side. + +“That’s Bill Treadwell’s place,” he said. “Once the richest gold mines +in Alaska. They’re flooded now. I knew Bill when he was worrying about +the price of a pair of boots. Had to buy a second-hand pair an’ patched +’em himself. Then he struck it lucky, got four hundred dollars +somewhere, and bought some claims over there from a man named French +Pete. They called it Glory Hole. An’ there was a time when there were +nine hundred stamps at work. Take a look, Alan. It’s worth it.” + +Somehow Stampede’s voice and information lacked appeal. The decks were +crowded with passengers as the ship picked her way into Juneau, and +Alan wandered among them with a gathering sense of disillusionment +pressing upon him. He knew that he was looking with more than casual +interest for Mary Standish, and he was glad when Stampede bumped into +an old acquaintance and permitted him to be alone. He was not pleased +with the discovery, and yet he was compelled to acknowledge the truth +of it. The grain of dust had become more than annoying. It did not wear +away, as he had supposed it would, but was becoming an obsessive factor +in his thoughts. And the half-desire it built up in him, while +aggravatingly persistent, was less disturbing than before. The little +drama in the dining-room had had its effect upon him in spite of +himself. He liked fighters. And Mary Standish, intensely feminine in +her quiet prettiness, had shown her mettle in those few moments when he +had seen her flashing eyes and blazing cheeks after leaving Rossland. +He began to look for Rossland, too. He was in a humor to meet him. + +Not until Juneau hung before him in all its picturesque beauty, +literally terraced against the green sweep of Mount Juneau, did he go +down to the lower deck. The few passengers ready to leave the ship +gathered near the gangway with their luggage. Alan was about to pass +them when he suddenly stopped. A short distance from him, where he +could see every person who disembarked, stood Rossland. There was +something grimly unpleasant in his attitude as he fumbled his watch-fob +and eyed the stair from above. His watchfulness sent an unexpected +thrill through Alan. Like a shot his mind jumped to a conclusion. He +stepped to Rossland’s side and touched his arm. + +“Watching for Miss Standish?” he asked. + +“I am.” There was no evasion in Rossland’s words. They possessed the +hard and definite quality of one who had an incontestable authority +behind him. + +“And if she goes ashore?” + +“I am going too. Is it any affair of yours, Mr. Holt? Has she asked you +to discuss the matter with me? If so—” + +“No, Miss Standish hasn’t done that.” + +“Then please attend to your own business. If you haven’t enough to take +up your time, I’ll lend you some books. I have several in my cabin.” + +Without waiting for an answer Rossland coolly moved away. Alan did not +follow. There was nothing for him to resent, nothing for him to +imprecate but his own folly. Rossland’s words were not an insult. They +were truth. He had deliberately intruded in an affair which was +undoubtedly of a highly private nature. Possibly it was a domestic +tangle. He shuddered. A sense of humiliation swept over him, and he was +glad that Rossland did not even look back at him. He tried to whistle +as he climbed back to the main-deck; Rossland, even though he detested +the man, had set him right. And he would lend him books, if he wanted +to be amused! Egad, but the fellow had turned the trick nicely. And it +was something to be remembered. He stiffened his shoulders and found +old Donald Hardwick and Stampede Smith. He did not leave them until the +_Nome_ had landed her passengers and freight and was churning her way +out of Gastineau Channel toward Skagway. Then he went to the +smoking-room and remained there until luncheon hour. + +Today Mary Standish was ahead of him at the table. She was seated with +her back toward him as he entered, so she did not see him as he came up +behind her, so near that his coat brushed her chair. He looked across +at her and smiled as he seated himself. She returned the smile, but it +seemed to him an apologetic little effort. She did not look well, and +her presence at the table struck him as being a brave front to hide +something from someone. Casually he looked over his left shoulder. +Rossland was there, in his seat at the opposite side of the room. +Indirect as his glance had been, Alan saw the girl understood the +significance of it. She bowed her head a little, and her long lashes +shaded her eyes for a moment. He wondered why he always looked at her +hair first. It had a peculiarly pleasing effect on him. He had been +observant enough to know that she had rearranged it since breakfast, +and the smooth coils twisted in mysterious intricacy at the crown of +her head were like softly glowing velvet. The ridiculous thought came +to him that he would like to see them tumbling down about her. They +must be even more beautiful when freed from their bondage. + +The pallor of her face was unusual. Possibly it was the way the light +fell upon her through the window. But when she looked across at him +again, he caught for an instant the tiniest quiver about her mouth. He +began telling her something about Skagway, quite carelessly, as if he +had seen nothing which she might want to conceal. The light in her eyes +changed, and it was almost a glow of gratitude he caught in them. He +had broken a tension, relieved her of some unaccountable strain she was +under. He noticed that her ordering of food was merely a pretense. She +scarcely touched it, and yet he was sure no other person at the table +had discovered the insincerity of her effort, not even Tucker, the +enamored engineer. It was likely Tucker placed a delicate halo about +her lack of appetite, accepting daintiness of that sort as an angelic +virtue. + +Only Alan, sitting opposite her, guessed the truth. She was making a +splendid effort, but he felt that every nerve in her body was at the +breaking-point. When she arose from her seat, he thrust back his own +chair. At the same time he saw Rossland get up and advance rather +hurriedly from the opposite side of the room. The girl passed through +the door first, Rossland followed a dozen steps behind, and Alan came +last, almost shoulder to shoulder with Tucker. It was amusing in a way, +yet beyond the humor of it was something that drew a grim line about +the corners of his mouth. + +At the foot of the luxuriously carpeted stair leading from the dining +salon to the main deck Miss Standish suddenly stopped and turned upon +Rossland. For only an instant her eyes were leveled at him. Then they +flashed past him, and with a swift movement she came toward Alan. A +flush had leaped into her cheeks, but there was no excitement in her +voice when she spoke. Yet it was distinct, and clearly heard by +Rossland. + +“I understand we are approaching Skagway, Mr. Holt,” she said. “Will +you take me on deck, and tell me about it?” + +Graham’s agent had paused at the foot of the stair and was slowly +preparing to light a cigarette. Recalling his humiliation of a few +hours before at Juneau, when the other had very clearly proved him a +meddler, words refused to form quickly on Alan’s lips. Before he was +ready with an answer Mary Standish had confidently taken his arm. He +could see the red flush deepening in her upturned face. She was +amazingly unexpected, bewilderingly pretty, and as cool as ice except +for the softly glowing fire in her cheeks. He saw Rossland staring with +his cigarette half poised. It was instinctive for him to smile in the +face of danger, and he smiled now, without speaking. The girl laughed +softly. She gave his arm a gentle tug, and he found himself moving past +Rossland, amazed but obedient, her eyes looking at him in a way that +sent a gentle thrill through him. + +At the head of the wide stair she whispered, with her lips close to his +shoulder: “You are splendid! I thank you, Mr. Holt.” + +Her words, along with the decisive relaxing of her hand upon his arm, +were like a dash of cold water in his face. Rossland could no longer +see them, unless he had followed. The girl had played her part, and a +second time he had accepted the role of a slow-witted fool. But the +thought did not anger him. There was a remarkable element of humor +about it for him, viewing himself in the matter, and Mary Standish +heard him chuckling as they came out on deck. + +Her fingers tightened resentfully upon his arm. “It isn’t funny,” she +reproved. “It is tragic to be bored by a man like that.” + +He knew she was politely lying to anticipate the question he might ask, +and he wondered what would happen if he embarrassed her by letting her +know he had seen her alone with Rossland at midnight. He looked down at +her, and she met his scrutiny unflinchingly. She even smiled at him, +and her eyes, he thought, were the loveliest liars he had ever looked +into. He felt the stir of an unusual sentiment—a sort of pride in her, +and he made up his mind to say nothing about Rossland. He was still +absurdly convinced that he had not the smallest interest in affairs +which were not entirely his own. Mary Standish evidently believed he +was blind, and he would make no effort to spoil her illusion. Such a +course would undoubtedly be most satisfactory in the end. + +Even now she seemed to have forgotten the incident at the foot of the +stair. A softer light was in her eyes when they came to the bow of the +ship, and Alan fancied he heard a strange little cry on her lips as she +looked about her upon the paradise of Taiya Inlet. Straight ahead, like +a lilac ribbon, ran the narrow waterway to Skagway’s door, while on +both sides rose high mountains, covered with green forests to the snowy +crests that gleamed like white blankets near the clouds. In this +melting season there came to them above the slow throb of the ship’s +engines the liquid music of innumerable cascades, and from a mountain +that seemed to float almost directly over their heads fell a stream of +water a sheer thousand feet to the sea, smoking and twisting in the +sunshine like a living thing at play. And then a miracle happened which +even Alan wondered at, for the ship seemed to stand still and the +mountain to swing slowly, as if some unseen and mighty force were +opening a guarded door, and green foothills with glistening white +cottages floated into the picture, and Skagway, heart of romance, +monument to brave men and thrilling deeds, drifted out slowly from its +hiding-place. Alan turned to speak, but what he saw in the girl’s face +held him silent. Her lips were parted, and she was staring as if an +unexpected thing had risen before her eyes, something that bewildered +her and even startled her. + +And then, as if speaking to herself and not to Alan Holt, she said in a +tense whisper: “I have seen this place before. It was a long time ago. +Maybe it was a hundred years or a thousand. But I have been here. I +have lived under that mountain with the waterfall creeping down it—” + +A tremor ran through her, and she remembered Alan. She looked up at +him, and he was puzzled. A weirdly beautiful mystery lay in her eyes. + +“I must go ashore here,” she said. “I didn’t know I would find it so +soon. Please—” + +With her hand touching his arm she turned. He was looking at her and +saw the strange light fade swiftly out of her eyes. Following her +glance he saw Rossland standing half a dozen paces behind them. + +In another moment Mary Standish was facing the sea, and again her hand +was resting confidently in the crook of Alan’s arm. “Did you ever feel +like killing a man, Mr. Holt?” she asked with an icy little laugh. + +“Yes,” he answered rather unexpectedly. “And some day, if the right +opportunity comes, I am going to kill a certain man—the man who +murdered my father.” + +She gave a little gasp of horror. “Your father—was—murdered—” + +“Indirectly—yes. It wasn’t done with knife or gun, Miss Standish. Money +was the weapon. Somebody’s money. And John Graham was the man who +struck the blow. Some day, if there is justice, I shall kill him. And +right now, if you will allow me to demand an explanation of this man +Rossland—” + +“_No_.” Her hand tightened on his arm. Then, slowly, she drew it away. +“I don’t want you to ask an explanation of him,” she said. “If he +should make it, you would hate me. Tell me about Skagway, Mr. Holt. +That will be pleasanter.” + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +Not until early twilight came with the deep shadows of the western +mountains, and the _Nome_ was churning slowly back through the narrow +water-trails to the open Pacific, did the significance of that +afternoon fully impress itself upon Alan. For hours he had surrendered +himself to an impulse which he could not understand, and which in +ordinary moments he would not have excused. He had taken Mary Standish +ashore. For two hours she had walked at his side, asking him questions +and listening to him as no other had ever questioned him or listened to +him before. He had shown her Skagway. Between the mountains he pictured +the wind-racked cañon where Skagway grew from one tent to hundreds in a +day, from hundreds to thousands in a week; he visioned for her the old +days of romance, adventure, and death; he told her of Soapy Smith and +his gang of outlaws, and side by side they stood over Soapy’s sunken +grave as the first somber shadows of the mountains grew upon them. + +But among it all, and through it all, she had asked him about +_himself_. And he had responded. Until now he did not realize how much +he had confided in her. It seemed to him that the very soul of this +slim and beautiful girl who had walked at his side had urged him on to +the indiscretion of personal confidence. He had seemed to feel her +heart beating with his own as he described his beloved land under the +Endicott Mountains, with its vast tundras, his herds, and his people. +There, he had told her, a new world was in the making, and the glow in +her eyes and the thrilling something in her voice had urged him on +until he forgot that Rossland was waiting at the ship’s gangway to see +when they returned. He had built up for her his castles in the air, and +the miracle of it was that she had helped him to build them. He had +described for her the change that was creeping slowly over Alaska, the +replacement of mountain trails by stage and automobile highways, the +building of railroads, the growth of cities where tents had stood a few +years before. It was then, when he had pictured progress and +civilization and the breaking down of nature’s last barriers before +science and invention, that he had seen a cloud of doubt in her gray +eyes. + +And now, as they stood on the deck of the _Nome_ looking at the white +peaks of the mountains dissolving into the lavender mist of twilight, +doubt and perplexity were still deeper in her eyes, and she said: + +“I would always love tents and old trails and nature’s barriers. I envy +Belinda Mulrooney, whom you told me about this afternoon. I hate cities +and railroads and automobiles, and all that goes with them, and I am +sorry to see those things come to Alaska. And I, too, hate this +man—John Graham!” + +Her words startled him. + +“And I want you to tell me what he is doing—with his money—now.” Her +voice was cold, and one little hand, he noticed, was clenched at the +edge of the rail. + +“He has stripped Alaskan waters of fish resources which will never be +replaced, Miss Standish. But that is not all. I believe I state the +case well within fact when I say he has killed many women and little +children by robbing the inland waters of the food supplies upon which +the natives have subsisted for centuries. I know. I have seen them +die.” + +It seemed to him that she swayed against him for an instant. + +“And that—is all?” + +He laughed grimly. “Possibly some people would think it enough, Miss +Standish. But the tentacles of his power are reaching everywhere in +Alaska. His agents swarm throughout the territory, and Soapy Smith was +a gentleman outlaw compared with these men and their master. If men +like John Graham are allowed to have their way, in ten years greed and +graft will despoil what two hundred years of Rooseveltian conservation +would not be able to replace.” + +She raised her head, and in the dusk her pale face looked up at the +ghost-peaks of the mountains still visible through the thickening gloom +of evening. “I am glad you told me about Belinda Mulrooney,” she said. +“I am beginning to understand, and it gives me courage to think of a +woman like her. She could fight, couldn’t she? She could make a man’s +fight?” + +“Yes, and did make it.” + +“And she had no money to give her power. Her last dollar, you told me, +she flung into the Yukon for luck.” + +“Yes, at Dawson. It was the one thing between her and hunger.” + +She raised her hand, and on it he saw gleaming faintly the single ring +which she wore. Slowly she drew it from her finger. + +“Then this, too, for luck—the luck of Mary Standish,” she laughed +softly, and flung the ring into the sea. + +She faced him, as if expecting the necessity of defending what she had +done. “It isn’t melodrama,” she said. “I mean it. And I believe in it. +I want something of mine to lie at the bottom of the sea in this +gateway to Skagway, just as Belinda Mulrooney wanted her dollar to rest +forever at the bottom of the Yukon.” + +She gave him the hand from which she had taken the ring, and for a +moment the warm thrill of it lay in his own. “Thank you for the +wonderful afternoon you have given me, Mr. Holt. I shall never forget +it. It is dinner time. I must say good night.” + +He followed her slim figure with his eyes until she disappeared. In +returning to his cabin he almost bumped into Rossland. The incident was +irritating. Neither of the men spoke or nodded, but Rossland met Alan’s +look squarely, his face rock-like in its repression of emotion. Alan’s +impression of the man was changing in spite of his prejudice. There was +a growing something about him which commanded attention, a certainty of +poise which could not be mistaken for sham. A scoundrel he might be, +but a cool brain was at work inside his head—a brain not easily +disturbed by unimportant things, he decided. He disliked the man. As an +agent of John Graham Alan looked upon him as an enemy, and as an +acquaintance of Mary Standish he was as much of a mystery as the girl +herself. And only now, in his cabin, was Alan beginning to sense the +presence of a real authority behind Rossland’s attitude. + +He was not curious. All his life he had lived too near the raw edge of +practical things to dissipate in gossipy conjecture. He cared nothing +about the relationship between Mary Standish and Rossland except as it +involved himself, and the situation had become a trifle too delicate to +please him. He could see no sport in an adventure of the kind it +suggested, and the possibility that he had been misjudged by both +Rossland and Mary Standish sent a flush of anger into his cheeks. He +cared nothing for Rossland, except that he would like to wipe him out +of existence with all other Graham agents. And he persisted in the +conviction that he thought of the girl only in a most casual sort of +way. He had made no effort to discover her history. He had not +questioned her. At no time had he intimated a desire to intrude upon +her personal affairs, and at no time had she offered information about +herself, or an explanation of the singular espionage which Rossland had +presumed to take upon himself. He grimaced as he reflected how +dangerously near that hazard he had been—and he admired her for the +splendid judgment she had shown in the matter. She had saved him the +possible alternative of apologizing to Rossland or throwing him +overboard! + +There was a certain bellicose twist to his mind as he went down to the +dining salon, an obstinate determination to hold himself aloof from any +increasing intimacy with Mary Standish. No matter how pleasing his +experience had been, he resented the idea of being commandeered at +unexpected moments. Had Mary Standish read his thoughts, her bearing +toward him during the dinner hour could not have been more satisfying. +There was, in a way, something seductively provocative about it. She +greeted him with the slightest inclination of her head and a cool +little smile. Her attitude did not invite spoken words, either from him +or from his neighbors, yet no one would have accused her of deliberate +reserve. + +Her demure unapproachableness was a growing revelation to him, and he +found himself interested in spite of the new law of self-preservation +he had set down for himself. He could not keep his eyes from stealing +glimpses at her hair when her head was bowed a little. She had smoothed +it tonight until it was like softest velvet, with rich glints in it, +and the amazing thought came to him that it would be sweetly pleasant +to touch with one’s hand. The discovery was almost a shock. Keok and +Nawadlook had beautiful hair, but he had never thought of it in this +way. And he had never thought of Keok’s pretty mouth as he was thinking +of the girl’s opposite him. He shifted uneasily and was glad Mary +Standish did not look at him in these moments of mental unbalance. + +When he left the table, the girl scarcely noticed his going. It was as +if she had used him and then calmly shuttled him out of the way. He +tried to laugh as he hunted up Stampede Smith. He found him, half an +hour later, feeding a captive bear on the lower deck. It was odd, he +thought, that a captive bear should be going north. Stampede explained. +The animal was a pet and belonged to the Thlinkit Indians. There were +seven, getting off at Cordova. Alan observed that the two girls watched +him closely and whispered together. They were very pretty, with large, +dark eyes and pink in their cheeks. One of the men did not look at him +at all, but sat cross-legged on the deck, with his face turned away. + +With Stampede he went to the smoking-room, and until a late hour they +discussed the big range up under the Endicott Mountains, and Alan’s +plans for the future. Once, early in the evening, Alan went to his +cabin to get maps and photographs. Stampede’s eyes glistened as his +mind seized upon the possibilities of the new adventure. It was a vast +land. An unknown country. And Alan was its first pioneer. The old +thrill ran in Stampede’s blood, and its infectiousness caught Alan, so +that he forgot Mary Standish, and all else but the miles that lay +between them and the mighty tundras beyond the Seward Peninsula. It was +midnight when Alan went to his cabin. + +He was happy. Love of life swept in an irresistible surge through his +body, and he breathed in deeply of the soft sea air that came in +through his open port from the west. In Stampede Smith he had at last +found the comradeship which he had missed, and the responsive note to +the wild and half-savage desires always smoldering in his heart. He +looked out at the stars and smiled up at them, and his soul was filled +with an unspoken thankfulness that he was not born too late. Another +generation and there would be no last frontier. Twenty-five years more +and the world would lie utterly in the shackles of science and +invention and what the human race called progress. + +So God had been good to him. He was helping to write the last page in +that history which would go down through the eons of time, written in +the red blood of men who had cut the first trails into the unknown. +After him, there would be no more frontiers. No more mysteries of +unknown lands to solve. No more pioneering hazards to make. The earth +would be tamed. And suddenly he thought of Mary Standish and of what +she had said to him in the dusk of evening. Strange that it had been +_her_ thought, too—that she would always love tents and old trails and +nature’s barriers, and hated to see cities and railroads and +automobiles come to Alaska. He shrugged his shoulders. Probably she had +guessed what was in his own mind, for she was clever, very clever. + +A tap at his door drew his eyes from the open watch in his hand. It was +a quarter after twelve o’clock, an unusual hour for someone to be +tapping at his door. + +It was repeated—a bit hesitatingly, he thought. Then it came again, +quick and decisive. Replacing his watch in his pocket, he opened the +door. + +It was Mary Standish who stood facing him. + +He saw only her eyes at first, wide-open, strange, frightened eyes. And +then he saw the pallor of her face as she came slowly in, without +waiting for him to speak or give her permission to enter. And it was +Mary Standish herself who closed the door, while he stared at her in +stupid wonderment—and stood there with her back against it, straight +and slim and deathly pale. + +“May I come in?” she asked. + +“My God, you’re in!” gasped Alan. “_You’re in_.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +That it was past midnight, and Mary Standish had deliberately come to +his room, entering it and closing the door without a word or a nod of +invitation from him, seemed incredible to Alan. After his first +explosion of astonishment he stood mute, while the girl looked at him +steadily and her breath came a little quickly. But she was not excited. +Even in his amazement he could see that. What he had thought was fright +had gone out of her eyes. But he had never seen her so white, and never +had she appeared quite so slim and childish-looking as while she stood +there in these astounding moments with her back against the door. + +The pallor of her face accentuated the rich darkness of her hair. Even +her lips were pale. But she was not embarrassed. Her eyes were clear +and unafraid now, and in the poise of her head and body was a sureness +of purpose that staggered him. A feeling of anger, almost of personal +resentment, began to possess him as he waited for her to speak. This, +at last, was the cost of his courtesies to her, The advantage she was +taking of him was an indignity and an outrage, and his mind flashed to +the suspicion that Rossland was standing just outside the door. + +In another moment he would have brushed her aside and opened it, but +her quiet face held him. The tenseness was fading out of it. He saw her +lips tremble, and then a miracle happened. In her wide-open, beautiful +eyes tears were gathering. Even then she did not lower her glance or +bury her face in her hands, but looked at him bravely while the +tear-drops glistened like diamonds on her cheeks. He felt his heart +give way. She read his thoughts, had guessed his suspicion, and he was +wrong. + +“You—you will have a seat, Miss Standish?” he asked lamely, inclining +his head toward the cabin chair. + +“No. Please let me stand.” She drew in a deep breath. “It is late, Mr. +Holt?” + +“Rather an irregular hour for a visit such as this,” he assured her. +“Half an hour after midnight, to be exact. It must be very important +business that has urged you to make such a hazard aboard ship, Miss +Standish.” + +For a moment she did not answer him, and he saw the little heart-throb +in her white throat. + +“Would Belinda Mulrooney have considered this a very great hazard, Mr. +Holt? In a matter of life and death, do you not think she would have +come to your cabin at midnight—even aboard ship? And it is that with +me—a matter of life and death. Less than an hour ago I came to that +decision. I could not wait until morning. I had to see you tonight.” + +“And why me?” he asked. “Why not Rossland, or Captain Rifle, or some +other? Is it because—” + +He did not finish. He saw the shadow of something gather in her eyes, +as if for an instant she had felt a stab of humiliation or of pain, but +it was gone as quickly as it came. And very quietly, almost without +emotion, she answered him. + +“I know how you feel. I have tried to place myself in your position. It +is all very irregular, as you say. But I am not ashamed. I have come to +you as I would want anyone to come to me under similar circumstances, +if I were a man. If watching you, thinking about you, making up my mind +about you is taking an advantage—then I have been unfair, Mr. Holt. But +I am not sorry. I trust you. I know you will believe me good until I am +proved bad. I have come to ask you to help me. Would you make it +possible for another human being to avert a great tragedy if you found +it in your power to do so?” + +He felt his sense of judgment wavering. Had he been coolly analyzing +such a situation in the detached environment of the smoking-room, he +would have called any man a fool who hesitated to open his cabin door +and show his visitor out. But such a thought did not occur to him now. +He was thinking of the handkerchief he had found the preceding +midnight. Twice she had come to his cabin at a late hour. + +“It would be my inclination to make such a thing possible,” he said, +answering her question. “Tragedy is a nasty thing.” + +She caught the hint of irony in his voice. If anything, it added to her +calmness. He was to suffer no weeping entreaties, no feminine play of +helplessness and beauty. Her pretty mouth was a little firmer and the +tilt of her dainty chin a bit higher. + +“Of course, I can’t pay you,” she said. “You are the sort of man who +would resent an offer of payment for what I am about to ask you to do. +But I must have help. If I don’t have it, and quickly”—she shuddered +slightly and tried to smile—“something very unpleasant will happen, Mr. +Holt,” she finished. + +“If you will permit me to take you to Captain Rifle—” + +“No. Captain Rifle would question me. He would demand explanations. You +will understand when I tell you what I want. And I will do that if I +may have your word of honor to hold in confidence what I tell you, +whether you help me or not. Will you give me that pledge?” + +“Yes, if such a pledge will relieve your mind, Miss Standish.” + +He was almost brutally incurious. As he reached for a cigar, he did not +see the sudden movement she made, as if about to fly from his room, or +the quicker throb that came in her throat. When he turned, a faint +flush was gathering in her cheeks. + +“I want to leave the ship,” she said. + +The simplicity of her desire held him silent. + +“And I must leave it tonight, or tomorrow night—before we reach +Cordova.” + +“Is that—your problem?” he demanded, astonished. + +“No. I must leave it in such a way that the world will believe I am +dead. I can not reach Cordova alive.” + +At last she struck home and he stared at her, wondering if she were +insane. Her quiet, beautiful eyes met his own with unflinching +steadiness. His brain all at once was crowded with questioning, but no +word of it came to his lips. + +“You can help me,” he heard her saying in the same quiet, calm voice, +softened so that one could not have heard it beyond the cabin door. “I +haven’t a plan. But I know you can arrange one—if you will. It must +appear to be an accident. I must disappear, fall overboard, anything, +just so the world will believe I am dead. It is necessary. And I can +not tell you why. I can not. Oh, I _can not_.” + +A note of passion crept into her voice, but it was gone in an instant, +leaving it cold and steady again. A second time she tried to smile. He +could see courage, and a bit of defiance, shining in her eyes. + +“I know what you are thinking, Mr. Holt. You are asking yourself if I +am mad, if I am a criminal, what my reason can be, and why I haven’t +gone to Rossland, or Captain Rifle, or some one else. And the only +answer I can make is that I have come to you because you are the only +man in the world—in this hour—that I have faith in. Some day you will +understand, if you help me. If you do not care to help me—” + +She stopped, and he made a gesture. + +“Yes, if I don’t? What will happen then?” + +“I shall be forced to the inevitable,” she said. “It is rather unusual, +isn’t it, to be asking for one’s life? But that is what I mean.” + +“I’m afraid—I don’t quite understand.” + +“Isn’t it clear, Mr. Holt? I don’t like to appear spectacular, and I +don’t want you to think of me as theatrical—even now. I hate that sort +of thing. You must simply believe me when I tell you it is impossible +for me to reach Cordova alive. If you do not help me to disappear, help +me to live—and at the same time give all others the impression that I +am dead—then I must do the other thing. I must really die.” + +For a moment his eyes blazed angrily. He felt like taking her by the +shoulders and shaking her, as he would have shaken the truth out of a +child. + +“You come to me with a silly threat like that, Miss Standish? A threat +of suicide?” + +“If you want to call it that—yes.” + +“And you expect me to believe you?” + +“I had hoped you would.” + +She had his nerves going. There was no doubt of that. He half believed +her and half disbelieved. If she had cried, if she had made the +smallest effort to work upon his sentiment, he would have disbelieved +utterly. But he was not blind to the fact that she was making a brave +fight, even though a lie was behind it, and with a consciousness of +pride that bewildered him. + +She was not humiliating herself. Even when she saw the struggle going +on within him she made no effort to turn the balance in her favor. She +had stated the facts, as she claimed them to be. Now she waited. Her +long lashes glistened a little. But her eyes were clear, and her hair +glowed softly, so softly that he would never forget it, as she stood +there with her back against the door, nor the strange desire that came +to him—even then—to touch it with his hand. + +He nipped off the end of his cigar and lighted a match. “It is +Rossland,” he said. “You’re afraid of Rossland?” + +“In a way, yes; in a large way, no. I would laugh at Rossland if it +were not for the other.” + +The _other_! Why the deuce was she so provokingly ambiguous? And she +had no intention of explaining. She simply waited for him to decide. + +“What other?” he demanded. + +“I can not tell you. I don’t want you to hate me. And you would hate me +if I told you the truth.” + +“Then you confess you are lying,” he suggested brutally. + +Even this did not stir her as he had expected it might. It did not +anger her or shame her. But she raised a pale hand and a little +handkerchief to her eyes, and he turned toward the open port, puffing +at his cigar, knowing she was fighting to keep the tears back. And she +succeeded. + +“No, I am not lying. What I have told you is true. It is because I will +not lie that I have not told you more. And I thank you for the time you +have given me, Mr. Holt. That you have not driven me from your cabin is +a kindness which I appreciate. I have made a mistake, that is all. I +thought—” + +“How could I bring about what you ask?” he interrupted. + +“I don’t know. You are a man. I believed you could plan a way, but I +see now how foolish I have been. It is impossible.” Her hand reached +slowly for the knob of the door. + +“Yes, you are foolish,” he agreed, and his voice was softer. “Don’t let +such thoughts overcome you, Miss Standish. Go back to your cabin and +get a night’s sleep. Don’t let Rossland worry you. If you want me to +settle with that man—” + +“Good night, Mr. Holt.” + +She was opening the door. And as she went out she turned a little and +looked at him, and now she was smiling, and there were tears in her +eyes. + +“Good night.” + +“Good night.” + +The door closed behind her. He heard her retreating footsteps. In half +a minute he would have called her back. But it was too late. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +For half an hour Alan sat smoking his cigar. Mentally he was not at +ease. Mary Standish had come to him like a soldier, and she had left +him like a soldier. But in that last glimpse of her face he had caught +for an instant something which she had not betrayed in his cabin—a stab +of what he thought was pain in her tear-wet eyes as she smiled, a proud +regret, possibly a shadow of humiliation at last—or it may have been a +pity for him. He was not sure. But it was not despair. Not once had she +whimpered in look or word, even when the tears were in her eyes, and +the thought was beginning to impress itself upon him that it was he—and +not Mary Standish—who had shown a yellow streak this night. A half +shame fell upon him as he smoked. For it was clear he had not come up +to her judgment of him, or else he was not so big a fool as she had +hoped he might be. In his own mind, for a time, he was at a loss to +decide. + +It was possibly the first time he had ever deeply absorbed himself in +the analysis of a woman. It was outside his business. But, born and +bred of the open country, it was as natural for him to recognize +courage as it was for him to breathe. And the girl’s courage was +unusual, now that he had time to think about it. It was this thought of +her coolness and her calm refusal to impose her case upon him with +greater warmth that comforted him after a little. A young and beautiful +woman who was actually facing death would have urged her necessity with +more enthusiasm, it seemed to him. Her threat, when he debated it +intelligently, was merely thrown in, possibly on the spur of the +moment, to give impetus to his decision. She had not meant it. The idea +of a girl like Mary Standish committing suicide was stupendously +impossible. Her quiet and wonderful eyes, her beauty and the exquisite +care which she gave to herself emphasized the absurdity of such a +supposition. She had come to him bravely. There was no doubt of that. +She had merely exaggerated the importance of her visit. + +Even after he had turned many things over in his mind to bolster up +this conclusion, he was still not at ease. Against his will he recalled +certain unpleasant things which had happened within his knowledge under +sudden and unexpected stress of emotion. He tried to laugh the absurd +stuff out of his thoughts and to the end that he might add a new color +to his visionings he exchanged his half-burned cigar for a black-bowled +pipe, which he filled and lighted. Then he began walking back and forth +in his cabin, like a big animal in a small cage, until at last he stood +with his head half out of the open port, looking at the clear stars and +setting the perfume of his tobacco adrift with the soft sea wind. + +He felt himself growing comforted. Reason seated itself within him +again, with sentiment shuttled under his feet. If he had been a little +harsh with Miss Standish tonight, he would make up for it by +apologizing tomorrow. She would probably have recovered her balance by +that time, and they would laugh over her excitement and their little +adventure. That is, he would. “I’m not at all curious in the matter,” +some persistent voice kept telling him, “and I haven’t any interest in +knowing what irrational whim drove her to my cabin.” But he smoked +viciously and smiled grimly as the voice kept at him. He would have +liked to obliterate Rossland from his mind. But Rossland persisted in +bobbing up, and with him Mary Standish’s words, “If I should make an +explanation, you would hate me,” or something to that effect. He +couldn’t remember exactly. And he didn’t want to remember exactly, for +it was none of his business. + +In this humor, with half of his thoughts on one side of the fence and +half on the other, he put out his light and went to bed. And he began +thinking of the Range. That was pleasanter. For the tenth time he +figured out how long it would be before the glacial-twisted ramparts of +the Endicott Mountains rose up in first welcome to his home-coming. +Carl Lomen, following on the next ship, would join him at Unalaska. +They would go on to Nome together. After that he would spend a week or +so in the Peninsula, then go up the Kobuk, across the big portage to +the Koyukuk and the far headwaters of the north, and still +farther—beyond the last trails of civilized men—to his herds and his +people. And Stampede Smith would be with him. After a long winter of +homesickness it was all a comforting inducement to sleep and pleasant +dreams. But somewhere there was a wrong note in his anticipations +tonight. Stampede Smith slipped away from him, and Rossland took his +place. And Keok, laughing, changed into Mary Standish with tantalizing +deviltry. It was like Keok, Alan thought drowsily—she was always +tormenting someone. + +He felt better in the morning. The sun was up, flooding the wall of his +cabin, when he awoke, and under him he could feel the roll of the open +sea. Eastward the Alaskan coast was a deep blue haze, but the white +peaks of the St. Elias Range flung themselves high up against the +sun-filled sky behind it, like snowy banners. The _Nome_ was pounding +ahead at full speed, and Alan’s blood responded suddenly to the +impelling thrill of her engines, beating like twin hearts with the +mighty force that was speeding them on. This was business. It meant +miles foaming away behind them and a swift biting off of space between +him and Unalaska, midway of the Aleutians. He was sorry they were +losing time by making the swing up the coast to Cordova. And with +Cordova he thought of Mary Standish. + +He dressed and shaved and went down to breakfast, still thinking of +her. The thought of meeting her again was rather discomforting, now +that the time of that possibility was actually at hand, for he dreaded +moments of embarrassment even when he was not directly accountable for +them. But Mary Standish saved him any qualms of conscience which he +might have had because of his lack of chivalry the preceding night. She +was at the table. And she was not at all disturbed when he seated +himself opposite her. There was color in her cheeks, a fragile touch of +that warm glow in the heart of the wild rose of the tundras. And it +seemed to him there was a deeper, more beautiful light in her eyes than +he had ever seen before. + +She nodded, smiled at him, and resumed a conversation which she had +evidently broken for a moment with a lady who sat next to her. It was +the first time Alan had seen her interested in this way. He had no +intention of listening, but something perverse and compelling overcame +his will. He discovered the lady was going up to teach in a native +school at Noorvik, on the Kobuk River, and that for many years she had +taught in Dawson and knew well the story of Belinda Mulrooney. He +gathered that Mary Standish had shown a great interest, for Miss +Robson, the teacher, was offering to send her a photograph she +possessed of Belinda Mulrooney; if Miss Standish would give her an +address. The girl hesitated, then said she was not certain of her +destination, but would write Miss Robson at Noorvik. + +“You will surely keep your promise?” urged Miss Robson. + +“Yes, I will keep my promise.” + +A sense of relief swept over Alan. The words were spoken so softly that +he thought she had not wanted him to hear. It was evident that a few +hours’ sleep and the beauty of the morning had completely changed her +mental attitude, and he no longer felt the suspicion of responsibility +which had persisted in attaching itself to him. Only a fool, he assured +himself, could possibly see a note of tragedy in her appearance now. +Nor was she different at luncheon or at dinner. During the day he saw +nothing of her, and he was growing conscious of the fact that she was +purposely avoiding contact with him. This did not displease him. It +allowed him to pick up the threads of other interests in a normal sort +of way. He discussed Alaskan politics in the smoking-room, smoked his +black pipe without fear of giving offense, and listened to the talk of +the ship with a freedom of mind which he had not experienced since his +first meeting with Miss Standish. Yet, as night drew on, and he walked +his two-mile promenade about the deck, he felt gathering about him a +peculiar impression of aloneness. Something was missing. He did not +acknowledge to himself what it was until, as if to convict him, he saw +Mary Standish come out of the door leading from her cabin passageway, +and stand alone at the rail of the ship. For a moment he hesitated, +then quietly he came up beside her. + +“It has been a wonderful day, Miss Standish,” he said, “and Cordova is +only a few hours ahead of us.” + +She scarcely turned her face and continued to look off into the +shrouding darkness of the sea. “Yes, a wonderful day, Mr. Holt,” she +repeated after him, “and Cordova is only a few hours ahead.” Then, in +the same soft, unemotional voice, she added: “I want to thank you for +last night. You brought me to a great decision.” + +“I fear I did not help you.” + +It may have been fancy of the gathering dusk, that made him believe he +caught a shuddering movement of her slim shoulders. + +“I thought there were two ways,” she said, “but you made me see there +was only _one_.” She emphasized that word. It seemed to come with a +little tremble in her voice. “I was foolish. But please let us forget. +I want to think of pleasanter things. I am about to make a great +experiment, and it takes all my courage.” + +“You will win, Miss Standish,” he said in a sure voice. “In whatever +you undertake you will win. I know it. If this experiment you speak of +is the adventure of coming to Alaska—seeking your fortune—finding your +life here—it will be glorious. I can assure you of that.” + +She was quiet for a moment, and then said: + +“The unknown has always held a fascination for me. When we were under +the mountains in Skagway yesterday, I almost told you of an odd faith +which I have. I believe I have lived before, a long time ago, when +America was very young. At times the feeling is so strong that I must +have faith in it. Possibly I am foolish. But when the mountain swung +back, like a great door, and we saw Skagway, I knew that +sometime—somewhere—I had seen a thing like that before. And I have had +strange visions of it. Maybe it is a touch of madness in me. But it is +that faith which gives me courage to go on with my experiment. That—and +_you_!” + +Suddenly she faced him, her eyes flaming. + +“You—and your suspicions and your brutality,” she went on, her voice +trembling a little as she drew herself up straight and tense before +him. “I wasn’t going to tell you, Mr. Holt. But you have given me the +opportunity, and it may do you good—after tomorrow. I came to you +because I foolishly misjudged you. I thought you were different, like +your mountains. I made a great gamble, and set you up on a pedestal as +clean and unafraid and believing all things good until you found them +bad—and I lost. I was terribly mistaken. Your first thoughts of me when +I came to your cabin were suspicious. You were angry and afraid. Yes, +_afraid_—fearful of something happening which you didn’t want to +happen. You thought, almost, that I was unclean. And you believed I was +a liar, and told me so. It wasn’t fair, Mr. Holt. It wasn’t _fair_. +There were things which I couldn’t explain to you, but I told you +Rossland knew. I didn’t keep everything back. And I believed you were +big enough to think that I was not dishonoring you with my—friendship, +even though I came to your cabin. Oh, I had that much faith in myself—I +didn’t think I would be mistaken for something unclean and lying!” + +“Good God!” he cried. “Listen to me—Miss Standish—” + +She was gone, so suddenly that his movement to intercept her was +futile, and she passed through the door before he could reach her. +Again he called her name, but her footsteps were almost running up the +passageway. He dropped back, his blood cold, his hands clenched in the +darkness, and his face as white as the girl’s had been. Her words had +held him stunned and mute. He saw himself stripped naked, as she +believed him to be, and the thing gripped him with a sort of horror. +And she was wrong. He had followed what he believed to be good judgment +and common sense. If, in doing that, he had been an accursed fool— + +Determinedly he started for her cabin, his mind set upon correcting her +malformed judgment of him. There was no light coming under her door. +When he knocked, there was no answer from within. He waited, and tried +again, listening for a sound of movement. And each moment he waited he +was readjusting himself. He was half glad, in the end, that the door +did not open. He believed Miss Standish was inside, and she would +undoubtedly accept the reason for his coming without an apology in +words. + +He went to his cabin, and his mind became increasingly persistent in +its disapproval of the wrong viewpoint she had taken of him. He was not +comfortable, no matter how he looked at the thing. For her clear eyes, +her smoothly glorious hair, and the pride and courage with which she +had faced him remained with him overpoweringly. He could not get away +from the vision of her as she had stood against the door with tears +like diamonds on her cheeks. Somewhere he had missed fire. He knew it. +Something had escaped him which he could not understand. And she was +holding him accountable. + +The talk of the smoking-room did not interest him tonight. His efforts +to become a part of it were forced. A jazzy concert of piano and string +music in the social hall annoyed him, and a little later he watched the +dancing with such grimness that someone remarked about it. He saw +Rossland whirling round the floor with a handsome, young blonde in his +arms. The girl was looking up into his eyes, smiling, and her cheek lay +unashamed against his shoulder, while Rossland’s face rested against +her fluffy hair when they mingled closely with the other dancers. Alan +turned away, an unpleasant thought of Rossland’s association with Mary +Standish in his mind. He strolled down into the steerage. The Thlinkit +people had shut themselves in with a curtain of blankets, and from the +stillness he judged they were asleep. The evening passed slowly for him +after that, until at last he went to his cabin and tried to interest +himself in a book. It was something he had anticipated reading, but +after a little he wondered if the writing was stupid, or if it was +himself. The thrill he had always experienced with this particular +writer was missing. There was no inspiration. The words were dead. Even +the tobacco in his pipe seemed to lack something, and he changed it for +a cigar—and chose another book. The result was the same. His mind +refused to function, and there was no comfort in his cigar. + +He knew he was fighting against a new thing, even as he subconsciously +lied to himself. And he was obstinately determined to win. It was a +fight between himself and Mary Standish as she had stood against his +door. Mary Standish—the slim beauty of her—her courage—a score of +things that had never touched his life before. He undressed and put on +his smoking-gown and slippers, repudiating the honesty of the emotions +that were struggling for acknowledgment within him. He was a bit mad +and entirely a fool, he told himself. But the assurance did him no +good. + +He went to bed, propped himself up against his pillows, and made +another effort to read. He half-heartedly succeeded. At ten o’clock +music and dancing ceased, and stillness fell over the ship. After that +he found himself becoming more interested in the first book he had +started to read. His old satisfaction slowly returned to him. He +relighted his cigar and enjoyed it. Distantly he heard the ship’s +bells, eleven o’clock, and after that the half-hour and midnight. The +printed pages were growing dim, and drowsily he marked his book, placed +it on the table, and yawned. They must be nearing Cordova. He could +feel the slackened speed of the _Nome_ and the softer throb of her +engines. Probably they had passed Cape St. Elias and were drawing +inshore. + +And then, sudden and thrilling, came a woman’s scream. A piercing cry +of terror, of agony—and of something else that froze the blood in his +veins as he sprang from his berth. Twice it came, the second time +ending in a moaning wail and a man’s husky shout. Feet ran swiftly past +his window. He heard another shout and then a voice of command. He +could not distinguish the words, but the ship herself seemed to +respond. There came the sudden smoothness of dead engines, followed by +the pounding shock of reverse and the clanging alarm of a bell calling +boats’ crews to quarters. + +Alan faced his cabin door. He knew what had happened. Someone was +overboard. And in this moment all life and strength were gone out of +his body, for the pale face of Mary Standish seemed to rise for an +instant before him, and in her quiet voice she was telling him again +that _this was the other way._ His face went white as he caught up his +smoking-gown, flung open his door, and ran down the dimly lighted +corridor. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +The reversing of the engines had not stopped the momentum of the ship +when Alan reached the open deck. She was fighting, but still swept +slowly ahead against the force struggling to hold her back. He heard +running feet, voices, and the rattle of davit blocks, and came up as +the starboard boat aft began swinging over the smooth sea. Captain +Rifle was ahead of him, half-dressed, and the second officer was giving +swift commands. A dozen passengers had come from the smoking-room. +There was only one woman. She stood a little back, partly supported in +a man’s arms, her face buried in her hands. Alan looked at the man, and +he knew from his appearance that she was the woman who had screamed. + +He heard the splash of the boat as it struck water, and the rattle of +oars, but the sound seemed a long distance away. Only one thing came to +him distinctly in the sudden sickness that gripped him, and that was +the terrible sobbing of the woman. He went to them, and the deck seemed +to sway under his feet. He was conscious of a crowd gathering about the +empty davits, but he had eyes only for these two. + +“Was it a man—or a woman?” he asked. + +It did not seem to him it was his voice speaking. The words were forced +from his lips. And the other man, with the woman’s head crumpled +against his shoulder, looked into a face as emotionless as stone. + +“A woman,” he replied. “This is my wife. We were sitting here when she +climbed upon the rail and leaped in. My wife screamed when she saw her +going.” + +The woman raised her head. She was still sobbing, with no tears in her +eyes, but only horror. Her hands were clenched about her husband’s arm. +She struggled to speak and failed, and the man bowed his head to +comfort her. And then Captain Rifle stood at their side. His face was +haggard, and a glance told Alan that he knew. + +“Who was it?” he demanded. + +“This lady thinks it was Miss Standish.” + +Alan did not move or speak. Something seemed to have gone wrong for a +moment in his head. He could not hear distinctly the excitement behind +him, and before him things were a blur. The sensation came and passed +swiftly, with no sign of it in the immobility of his pale face. + +“Yes, the girl at your table. The pretty girl. I saw her clearly, and +then—then—” + +It was the woman. The captain broke in, as she caught herself with a +choking breath: + +“It is possible you are mistaken. I can not believe Miss Standish would +do that. We shall soon know. Two boats are gone, and a third lowering.” +He was hurrying away, throwing the last words over his shoulder. + +Alan made no movement to follow. His brain cleared itself of shock, and +a strange calmness began to possess him. “You are quite sure it was the +girl at my table?” he found himself saying. “Is it possible you might +be mistaken?” + +“No,” said the woman. “She was so quiet and pretty that I have noticed +her often. I saw her clearly in the starlight. And she saw me just +before she climbed to the rail and jumped. I’m almost sure she smiled +at me and was going to speak. And then—then—she was gone!” + +“I didn’t know until my wife screamed,” added the man. “I was seated +facing her at the time. I ran to the rail and could see nothing behind +but the wash of the ship. I think she went down instantly.” + +Alan turned. He thrust himself silently through a crowd of excited and +questioning people, but he did not hear their questions and scarcely +sensed the presence of their voices. His desire to make great haste had +left him, and he walked calmly and deliberately to the cabin where Mary +Standish would be if the woman was mistaken, and it was not she who had +leaped into the sea. He knocked at the door only once. Then he opened +it. There was no cry of fear or protest from within, and he knew the +room was empty before he turned on the electric light. He had known it +from the beginning, from the moment he heard the woman’s scream. Mary +Standish was gone. + +He looked at her bed. There was the depression made by her head in the +pillow. A little handkerchief lay on the coverlet, crumpled and +twisted. Her few possessions were arranged neatly on the reading table. +Then he saw her shoes and her stockings, and a dress on the bed, and he +picked up one of the shoes and held it in a cold, steady hand. It was a +little shoe. His fingers closed about it until it crushed like paper. + +He was holding it when he heard someone behind him, and he turned +slowly to confront Captain Rifle. The little man’s face was like gray +wax. For a moment neither of them spoke. Captain Rifle looked at the +shoe crumpled in Alan’s hand. + +“The boats got away quickly,” he said in a husky voice. “We stopped +inside the third-mile. If she can swim—there is a chance.” + +“She won’t swim,” replied Alan. “She didn’t jump in for that. She is +gone.” + +In a vague and detached sort of way he was surprised at the calmness of +his own voice. Captain Rifle saw the veins standing out on his clenched +hands and in his forehead. Through many years he had witnessed tragedy +of one kind and another. It was not strange to him. But a look of +wonderment shot into his eyes at Alan’s words. It took only a few +seconds to tell what had happened the preceding night, without going +into details. The captain’s hand was on Alan’s arm when he finished, +and the flesh under his fingers was rigid and hard as steel. + +“We’ll talk with Rossland after the boats return,” he said. + +He drew Alan from the room and closed the door. + +Not until he had reentered his own cabin did Alan realize he still held +the crushed shoe in his hand. He placed it on his bed and dressed. It +took him only a few minutes. Then he went aft and found the captain. +Half an hour later the first boat returned. Five minutes after that, a +second came in. And then a third. Alan stood back, alone, while the +passengers crowded the rail. He knew what to expect. And the murmur of +it came to him—failure! It was like a sob rising softly out of the +throats of many people. He drew away. He did not want to meet their +eyes, or talk with them, or hear the things they would be saying. And +as he went, a moan came to his lips, a strangled cry filled with an +agony which told him he was breaking down. He dreaded that. It was the +first law of his kind to stand up under blows, and he fought against +the desire to reach out his arms to the sea and entreat Mary Standish +to rise up out of it and forgive him. + +He drove himself on like a mechanical thing. His white face was a mask +through which burned no sign of his grief, and in his eyes was a deadly +coldness. Heartless, the woman who had screamed might have said. And +she would have been right. His heart was gone. + +Two people were at Rossland’s door when he came up. One was Captain +Rifle, the other Marston, the ship’s doctor. The captain was knocking +when Alan joined them. He tried the door. It was locked. + +“I can’t rouse him,” he said. “And I did not see him among the +passengers.” + +“Nor did I,” said Alan. + +Captain Rifle fumbled with his master key. + +“I think the circumstances permit,” he explained. In a moment he looked +up, puzzled. “The door is locked on the inside, and the key is in the +lock.” + +He pounded with his fist on the panel. He continued to pound until his +knuckles were red. There was still no response. + +“Odd,” he muttered. + +“Very odd,” agreed Alan. + +His shoulder was against the door. He drew back and with a single crash +sent it in. A pale light filtered into the room from a corridor lamp, +and the men stared. Rossland was in bed. They could see his face dimly, +upturned, as if staring at the ceiling. But even now he made no +movement and spoke no word. Marston entered and turned on the light. + +After that, for ten seconds, no man moved. Then Alan heard Captain +Rifle close the door behind them, and from Marston’s lips came a +startled whisper: + +“Good God!” + +Rossland was not covered. He was undressed and flat on his back. His +arms were stretched out, his head thrown back, his mouth agape. And the +white sheet under him was red with blood. It had trickled over the +edges and to the floor. His eyes were loosely closed. After the first +shock Doctor Marston reacted swiftly. He bent over Rossland, and in +that moment, when his back was toward them, Captain Rifle’s eyes met +Alan’s. The same thought—and in another instant disbelief—flashed from +one to the other. + +Marston was speaking, professionally cool now. “A knife stab, close to +the right lung, if not in it. And an ugly bruise over his eye. He is +not dead. Let him lie as he is until I return with instruments and +dressing.” + +“The door was locked on the inside,” said Alan, as soon as the doctor +was gone. “And the window is closed. It looks like—suicide. It is +possible—there was an understanding between them—and Rossland chose +this way instead of the sea?” + +Captain Rifle was on his knees. He looked under the berth, peered into +the corners, and pulled back the blanket and sheet. “There is no +knife,” he said stonily. And in a moment he added: “There are red +stains on the window. It was not attempted suicide. It was—” + +“Murder.” + +“Yes, if Rossland dies. It was done through the open window. Someone +called Rossland to the window, struck him, and then closed the window. +Or it is possible, if he were sitting or standing here, that a +long-armed man might have reached him. It was a man, Alan. We’ve got to +believe that. It was a _man_.” + +“Of course, a man,” Alan nodded. + +They could hear Marston returning, and he was not alone. Captain Rifle +made a gesture toward the door. “Better go,” he advised. “This is a +ship’s matter, and you won’t want to be unnecessarily mixed up in it. +Come to my cabin in half an hour. I shall want to see you.” + +The second officer and the purser were with Doctor Marston when Alan +passed them, and he heard the door of Rossland’s room close behind him. +The ship was trembling under his feet again. They were moving away. He +went to Mary Standish’s cabin and deliberately gathered her belongings +and put them in the small hand-bag with which she had come aboard. +Without any effort at concealment he carried the bag to his room and +packed his own dunnage. After that he hunted up Stampede Smith and +explained to him that an unexpected change in his plans compelled them +to stop at Cordova. He was five minutes late in his appointment with +the captain. + +Captain Rifle was seated at his desk when Alan entered his cabin. He +nodded toward a chair. + +“We’ll reach Cordova inside of an hour,” he said. “Doctor Marston says +Rossland will live, but of course we can not hold the _Nome_ in port +until he is able to talk. He was struck through the window. I will make +oath to that. Have you anything—in mind?” + +“Only one thing,” replied Alan, “a determination to go ashore as soon +as I can. If it is possible, I shall recover her body and care for it. +As for Rossland, it is not a matter of importance to me whether he +lives or dies. Mary Standish had nothing to do with the assault upon +him. It was merely coincident with her own act and nothing more. Will +you tell me our location when she leaped into the sea.” + +He was fighting to retain his calmness, his resolution not to let +Captain Rifle see clearly what the tragedy of her death had meant to +him. + +“We were seven miles off the Eyak River coast, a little south and west. +If her body goes ashore, it will be on the island, or the mainland east +of Eyak River. I am glad you are going to make an effort. There is a +chance. And I hope you will find her.” + +Captain Rifle rose from his chair and walked nervously back and forth. +“It’s a bad blow for the ship—her first trip,” he said. “But I’m not +thinking of the _Nome_. I’m thinking of Mary Standish. My God, it is +terrible! If it had been anyone else—_anyone_—” His words seemed to +choke him, and he made a despairing gesture with his hands. “It is hard +to believe—almost impossible to believe she would deliberately kill +herself. Tell me again what happened in your cabin.” + +Crushing all emotion out of his voice, Alan repeated briefly certain +details of the girl’s visit. But a number of things which she had +trusted to his confidence he did not betray. He did not dwell upon +Rossland’s influence or her fear of him. Captain Rifle saw his effort, +and when he had finished, he gripped his hand, understanding in his +eyes. + +“You’re not responsible—not so much as you believe,” he said. “Don’t +take it too much to heart, Alan. But find her. Find her if you can, and +let me know. You will do that—you will let me know?” + +“Yes, I shall let you know.” + +“And Rossland. He is a man with many enemies. I am positive his +assailant is still on board.” + +“Undoubtedly.” + +The captain hesitated. He did not look at Alan as he said: “There is +nothing in Miss Standish’s room. Even her bag is gone. I thought I saw +things in there when I was with you. I thought I saw something in your +hand. But I must have been mistaken. She probably flung everything into +the sea—before she went.” + +“Such a thought is possible,” agreed Alan evasively. + +Captain Rifle drummed the top of his desk with his finger-tips. His +face looked haggard and old in the shaded light of the cabin. “That’s +all, Alan. God knows I’d give this old life of mine to bring her back +if I could. To me she was much like—someone—a long time dead. That’s +why I broke ship’s regulations when she came aboard so strangely at +Seattle, without reservation. I’m sorry now. I should have sent her +ashore. But she is gone, and it is best that you and I keep to +ourselves a little of what we guess. I hope you will find her, and if +you do—” + +“I shall send you word.” + +They shook hands, and Captain Rifle’s fingers still held to Alan’s as +they went to the door and opened it. A swift change had come in the +sky. The stars were gone, and a moaning whisper hovered over the +darkened sea. + +“A thunder-storm,” said the captain. + +His mastery was gone, his shoulders bent, and there was a tremulous +note in his voice that compelled Alan to look straight out into +darkness. And then he said, + +“Rossland will be sent to the hospital in Cordova, if he lives.” + +Alan made no answer. The door closed softly behind him, and slowly he +went through gloom to the rail of the ship, and stood there, with the +whispered moaning of the sea coming to him out of a pit of darkness. A +vast distance away he heard a low intonation of thunder. + +He struggled to keep hold of himself as he returned to his cabin. +Stampede Smith was waiting for him, his dunnage packed in an oilskin +bag. Alan explained the unexpected change in his plans. Business in +Cordova would make him miss a boat and would delay him at least a month +in reaching the tundras. It was necessary for Stampede to go on to the +range alone. He could make a quick trip by way of the Government +railroad to Tanana. After that he would go to Allakakat, and thence +still farther north into the Endicott country. It would be easy for a +man like Stampede to find the range. He drew a map, gave him certain +written instructions, money, and a final warning not to lose his head +and take up gold-hunting on the way. While it was necessary for him to +go ashore at once, he advised Stampede not to leave the ship until +morning. And Stampede swore on oath he would not fail him. + +Alan did not explain his own haste and was glad Captain Rifle had not +questioned him too closely. He was not analyzing the reasonableness of +his action. He only knew that every muscle in his body was aching for +physical action and that he must have it immediately or break. The +desire was a touch of madness in his blood, a thing which he was +holding back by sheer force of will. He tried to shut out the vision of +a pale face floating in the sea; he fought to keep a grip on the +dispassionate calmness which was a part of him. But the ship itself was +battering down his stoic resistance. In an hour—since he had heard the +scream of the woman—he had come to hate it. He wanted the feel of solid +earth under his feet. He wanted, with all his soul, to reach that +narrow strip of coast where Mary Standish was drifting in. + +But even Stampede saw no sign of the fire that was consuming him. And +not until Alan’s feet touched land, and Cordova lay before him like a +great hole in the mountains, did the strain give way within him. After +he had left the wharf, he stood alone in the darkness, breathing deeply +of the mountain smell and getting his bearings. It was more than +darkness about him. An occasional light burning dimly here and there +gave to it the appearance of a sea of ink threatening to inundate him. +The storm had not broken, but it was close, and the air was filled with +a creeping warning. The moaning of thunder was low, and yet very near, +as if smothered by the hand of a mighty force preparing to take the +earth unaware. + +Through the pit of gloom Alan made his way. He was not lost. Three +years ago he had walked a score of times to the cabin of old Olaf +Ericksen, half a mile up the shore, and he knew Ericksen would still be +there, where he had squatted for twenty years, and where he had sworn +to stay until the sea itself was ready to claim him. So he felt his way +instinctively, while a crash of thunder broke over his head. The forces +of the night were unleashing. He could hear a gathering tumult in the +mountains hidden beyond the wall of blackness, and there came a sudden +glare of lightning that illumined his way. It helped him. He saw a +white reach of sand ahead and quickened his steps. And out of the sea +he heard more distinctly an increasing sound. It was as if he walked +between two great armies that were setting earth and sea atremble as +they advanced to deadly combat. + +The lightning came again, and after it followed a discharge of thunder +that gave to the ground under his feet a shuddering tremor. It rolled +away, echo upon echo, through the mountains, like the booming of +signal-guns, each more distant than the other. A cold breath of air +struck Alan in the face, and something inside him rose up to meet the +thrill of storm. + +He had always loved the rolling echoes of thunder in the mountains and +the fire of lightning among their peaks. On such a night, with the +crash of the elements about his father’s cabin and the roaring voices +of the ranges filling the darkness with tumult, his mother had brought +him into the world. Love of it was in his blood, a part of his soul, +and there were times when he yearned for this “talk of the mountains” +as others yearn for the coming of spring. He welcomed it now as his +eyes sought through the darkness for a glimmer of the light that always +burned from dusk until dawn in Olaf Ericksen’s cabin. + +He saw it at last, a yellow eye peering at him through a slit in an +inky wall. A moment later the darker shadow of the cabin rose up in his +face, and a flash of lightning showed him the door. In a moment of +silence he could hear the patter of huge raindrops on the roof as he +dropped his bags and began hammering with his fist to arouse the Swede. +Then he flung open the unlocked door and entered, tossing his dunnage +to the floor, and shouted the old greeting that Ericksen would not have +forgotten, though nearly a quarter of a century had passed since he and +Alan’s father had tramped the mountains together. + +[Illustration: The long, black launch nosed its way out to sea.] + +He had turned up the wick of the oil lamp on the table when into the +frame of an inner door came Ericksen himself, with his huge, bent +shoulders, his massive head, his fierce eyes, and a great gray beard +streaming over his naked chest. He stared for a moment, and Alan flung +off his hat, and as the storm broke, beating upon the cabin in a mighty +shock of thunder and wind and rain, a bellow of recognition came from +Ericksen. They gripped hands. + +The Swede’s voice rose above wind and rain and the rattle of loose +windows, and he was saying something about three years ago and rubbing +the sleep from his eyes, when the strange look in Alan’s face made him +pause to hear other words than his own. + +Five minutes later he opened a door looking out over the black sea, +bracing his arm against it. The wind tore in, beating his whitening +beard over his shoulders, and with it came a deluge of rain that +drenched him as he stood there. He forced the door shut and faced Alan, +a great, gray ghost of a man in the yellow glow of the oil lamp. + +From then until dawn they waited. And in the first break of that dawn +the long, black launch of Olaf, the Swede, nosed its way steadily out +to sea. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +The wind had died away, but the rain continued, torrential in its +downpour, and the mountains grumbled with dying thunder. The town was +blotted out, and fifty feet ahead of the hissing nose of the launch +Alan could see only a gray wall. Water ran in streams from his rubber +slicker, and Olaf’s great beard was dripping like a wet rag. He was +like a huge gargoyle at the wheel, and in the face of impenetrable +gloom he opened speed until the _Norden_ was shooting with the +swiftness of a torpedo through the sea. + +In Olaf’s cabin Alan had listened to the folly of expecting to find +Mary Standish. Between Eyak River and Katalla was a mainland of +battered reefs and rocks and an archipelago of islands in which a +pirate fleet might have found a hundred hiding-places. In his +experience of twenty years Ericksen had never known of the finding of a +body washed ashore, and he stated firmly his belief that the girl was +at the bottom of the sea. But the impulse to go on grew no less in +Alan. It quickened with the straining eagerness of the _Norden_ as the +slim craft leaped through the water. + +Even the drone of thunder and the beat of rain urged him on. To him +there was nothing absurd in the quest he was about to make. It was the +least he could do, and the only honest thing he could do, he kept +telling himself. And there was a chance that he would find her. All +through his life had run that element of chance; usually it was against +odds he had won, and there rode with him in the gray dawn a conviction +he was going to win now—that he would find Mary Standish somewhere in +the sea or along the coast between Eyak River and the first of the +islands against which the shoreward current drifted. And when he found +her— + +He had not gone beyond that. But it pressed upon him now, and in +moments it overcame him, and he saw her in a way which he was fighting +to keep out of his mind. Death had given a vivid clearness to his +mental pictures of her. A strip of white beach persisted in his mind, +and waiting for him on this beach was the slim body of the girl, her +pale face turned up to the morning sun, her long hair streaming over +the sand. It was a vision that choked him, and he struggled to keep +away from it. If he found her like that, he knew, at last, what he +would do. It was the final crumbling away of something inside him, the +breaking down of that other Alan Holt whose negative laws and +self-imposed blindness had sent Mary Standish to her death. + +Truth seemed to mock at him, flaying him for that invulnerable poise in +which he had taken such an egotistical pride. For she had come to _him_ +in her hour of trouble, and there were five hundred others aboard the +_Nome_. She had believed in him, had given him her friendship and her +confidence, and at the last had placed her life in his hands. And when +he had failed her, she had not gone to another. She had kept her word, +proving to him she was not a liar and a fraud, and he knew at last the +courage of womanhood and the truth of her words, “You will +understand—tomorrow.” + +He kept the fight within himself. Olaf did not see it as the dawn +lightened swiftly into the beginning of day. There was no change in the +tense lines of his face and the grim resolution in his eyes. And Olaf +did not press his folly upon him, but kept the _Norden_ pointed +seaward, adding still greater speed as the huge shadow of the headland +loomed up in the direction of Hinchinbrook Island. With increasing day +the rain subsided; it fell in a drizzle for a time and then stopped. +Alan threw off his slicker and wiped the water from his eyes and hair. +White mists began to rise, and through them shot faint rose-gleams of +light. Olaf grunted approbation as he wrung water from his beard. The +sun was breaking through over the mountain tops, and straight above, as +the mist dissolved, was radiant blue sky. + +The miracle of change came swiftly in the next half-hour. Storm had +washed the air until it was like tonic; a salty perfume rose from the +sea; and Olaf stood up and stretched himself and shook the wet from his +body as he drank the sweetness into his lungs. Shoreward Alan saw the +mountains taking form, and one after another they rose up like living +things, their crests catching the fire of the sun. Dark inundations of +forest took up the shimmering gleam, green slopes rolled out from +behind veils of smoking vapor, and suddenly—in a final triumph of the +sun—the Alaskan coast lay before him in all its glory. + +The Swede made a great gesture of exultation with his free arm, +grinning at his companion, pride and the joy of living in his bearded +face. But in Alan’s there was no change. Dully he sensed the wonder of +day and of sunlight breaking over the mighty ranges to the sea, but +something was missing. The soul of it was gone, and the old thrill was +dead. He felt the tragedy of it, and his lips tightened even as he met +the other’s smile, for he no longer made an effort to blind himself to +the truth. + +Olaf began to guess deeply at that truth, now that he could see Alan’s +face in the pitiless light of the day, and after a little the thing lay +naked in his mind. The quest was not a matter of duty, nor was it +inspired by the captain of the _Nome_, as Alan had given him reason to +believe. There was more than grimness in the other’s face, and a +strange sort of sickness lay in his eyes. A little later he observed +the straining eagerness with which those eyes scanned the softly +undulating surface of the sea. + +At last he said, “If Captain Rifle was right, the girl went overboard +_out there_,” and he pointed. + +Alan stood up. + +“But she wouldn’t be there now,” Olaf added. + +In his heart he believed she was, straight down—at the bottom. He +turned his boat shoreward. Creeping out from the shadow of the +mountains was the white sand of the beach three or four miles away. A +quarter of an hour later a spiral of smoke detached itself from the +rocks and timber that came down close to the sea. + +“That’s McCormick’s,” he said. + +Alan made no answer. Through Olaf’s binoculars he picked out the +Scotchman’s cabin. It was Sandy McCormick, Olaf had assured him, who +knew every eddy and drift in fifty miles of coast, and with his eyes +shut could find Mary Standish if she came ashore. And it was Sandy who +came down to greet them when Ericksen dropped his anchor in shallow +water. + +They leaped out, thigh-deep, and waded to the beach, and in the door of +the cabin beyond Alan saw a woman looking down at them wonderingly. +Sandy himself was young and ruddy-faced, more like a boy than a man. +They shook hands. Then Alan told of the tragedy aboard the _Nome_ and +what his mission was. He made a great effort to speak calmly, and +believed that he succeeded. Certainly there was no break of emotion in +his cold, even voice, and at the same time no possibility of evading +its deadly earnestness. McCormick, whose means of livelihood were +frequently more unsubstantial than real, listened to the offer of +pecuniary reward for his services with something like shock. Fifty +dollars a day for his time, and an additional five thousand dollars if +he found the girl’s body. + +To Alan the sums meant nothing. He was not measuring dollars, and if he +had said ten thousand or twenty thousand, the detail of price would not +have impressed him as important. He possessed as much money as that in +the Nome banks, and a little more, and had the thing been practicable +he would as willingly have offered his reindeer herds could they have +guaranteed him the possession of what he sought. In Olaf’s face +McCormick caught a look which explained the situation a little. Alan +Holt was not mad. He was as any other man might be who had lost the +most precious thing in the world. And unconsciously, as he pledged his +services in acceptance of the offer, he glanced in the direction of the +little woman standing in the doorway of the cabin. + +Alan met her. She was a quiet, sweet-looking girl-woman. She smiled +gravely at Olaf, gave her hand to Alan, and her blue eyes dilated when +she heard what had happened aboard the _Nome_. Alan left the three +together and returned to the beach, while between the loading and the +lighting of his pipe the Swede told what he had guessed—that this girl +whose body would never be washed ashore was the beginning and the end +of the world to Alan Holt. + +For many miles they searched the beach that day, while Sandy McCormick +skirmished among the islands south and eastward in a light +shore-launch. He was, in a way, a Paul Revere spreading intelligence, +and with Scotch canniness made a good bargain for himself. In a dozen +cabins he left details of the drowning and offered a reward of five +hundred dollars for the finding of the body, so that twenty men and +boys and half as many women were seeking before nightfall. + +“And remember,” Sandy told each of them, “the chances are she’ll wash +ashore sometime between tomorrow and three days later, if she comes +ashore at all.” + +In the dusk of that first day Alan found himself ten miles up the +coast. He was alone, for Olaf Ericksen had gone in the opposite +direction. It was a different Alan who watched the setting sun dipping +into the western sea, with the golden slopes of the mountains +reflecting its glory behind him. It was as if he had passed through a +great sickness, and up from the earth of his own beloved land had crept +slowly into his body and soul a new understanding of life. There was +despair in his face, but it was a gentler thing now. The harsh lines of +an obstinate will were gone from about his mouth, his eyes no longer +concealed their grief, and there was something in his attitude of a man +chastened by a consuming fire. He retraced his steps through deepening +twilight, and with each mile of his questing return there grew in him +that something which had come to him out of death, and which he knew +would never leave him. And with this change the droning softness of the +night itself seemed to whisper that the sea would not give up its dead. + +Olaf and Sandy McCormick and Sandy’s wife were in the cabin when he +returned at midnight. He was exhausted. Seven months in the States had +softened him, he explained. He did not inquire how successful the +others had been. He knew. The woman’s eyes told him, the almost +mothering eagerness in them when he came through the door. She had +coffee and food ready for him, and he forced himself to eat. Sandy gave +a report of what he had done, and Olaf smoked his pipe and tried to +speak cheerfully of the splendid weather that was coming tomorrow. Not +one of them spoke of Mary Standish. + +Alan felt the strain they were under and knew his presence was the +cause of it, so he lighted his own pipe after eating and talked to +Ellen McCormick about the splendor of the mountains back of Eyak River, +and how fortunate she was to have her home in this little corner of +paradise. He caught a flash of something unspoken in her eyes. It was a +lonely place for a woman, alone, without children, and he spoke about +children to Sandy, smiling. They should have children—a lot of them. +Sandy blushed, and Olaf let out a boom of laughter. But the woman’s +face was unflushed and serious; only her eyes betrayed her, something +wistful and appealing in them as she looked at Sandy. + +“We’re building a new cabin,” he said, “and there’s two rooms in it +specially for kids.” + +There was pride in his voice as he made pretense to light a pipe that +was already lighted, and pride in the look he gave his young wife. A +moment later Ellen McCormick deftly covered with her apron something +which lay on a little table near the door through which Alan had to +pass to enter his sleeping-room. Olaf’s eyes twinkled. But Alan did not +see. Only he knew there should be children here, where there was surely +love. It did not occur to him as being strange that he, Alan Holt, +should think of such a matter at all. + +The next morning the search was resumed. Sandy drew a crude map of +certain hidden places up the east coast where drifts and cross-currents +tossed the flotsam of the sea, and Alan set out for these shores with +Olaf at the wheel of the _Norden_. It was sunset when they returned, +and in the calm of a wonderful evening, with the comforting peace of +the mountains smiling down at them, Olaf believed the time had come to +speak what was in his mind. He spoke first of the weird tricks of the +Alaskan waters, and of strange forces deep down under the surface which +he had never had explained to him, and of how he had lost a cask once +upon a time, and a week later had run upon it well upon its way to +Japan. He emphasized the hide-and-seek playfulness of the undertows and +the treachery of them. + +Then he came bluntly to the point of the matter. It would be better if +Mary Standish never did come ashore. It would be days—probably weeks—if +it ever happened at all, and there would be nothing about her for Alan +to recognize. Better a peaceful resting-place at the bottom of the sea. +That was what he called it—“a peaceful resting-place”—and in his +earnestness to soothe another’s grief he blundered still more deeply +into the horror of it all, describing certain details of what flesh and +bone could and could not stand, until Alan felt like clubbing him +beyond the power of speech. He was glad when he saw the McCormick +cabin. + +Sandy was waiting for them when they waded ashore. Something unusual +was in his face, Alan thought, and for a moment his heart waited in +suspense. But the Scotchman shook his head negatively and went close to +Olaf Ericksen. Alan did not see the look that passed between them. He +went to the cabin, and Ellen McCormick put a hand on his arm when he +entered. It was an unusual thing for her to do. And there was a glow in +her eyes which had not been there last night, and a flush in her +cheeks, and a new, strange note in her voice when she spoke to him. It +was almost exultation, something she was trying to keep back. + +“You—you didn’t find her?” she asked. + +“No.” His voice was tired and a little old. “Do you think I shall ever +find her?” + +“Not as you have expected,” she answered quietly. “She will never come +like that.” She seemed to be making an effort. “You—you would give a +great deal to have her back, Mr. Holt?” + +Her question was childish in its absurdity, and she was like a child +looking at him as she did in this moment. He forced a smile to his lips +and nodded. + +“Of course. Everything I possess.” + +“You—you—loved her—” + +Her voice trembled. It was odd she should ask these questions. But the +probing did not sting him; it was not a woman’s curiosity that inspired +them, and the comforting softness in her voice did him good. He had not +realized before how much he wanted to answer that question, not only +for himself, but for someone else—aloud. + +“Yes, I did.” + +The confession almost startled him. It seemed an amazing confidence to +be making under any circumstances, and especially upon such brief +acquaintance. But he said no more, though in Ellen McCormick’s face and +eyes was a tremulous expectancy. He stepped into the little room which +had been his sleeping place, and returned with his dunnage-sack. Out of +this he took the bag in which were Mary Standish’s belongings, and gave +it to Sandy’s wife. It was a matter of business now, and he tried to +speak in a businesslike way. + +“Her things are inside. I got them in her cabin. If you find her, after +I am gone, you will need them. You understand, of course. And if you +don’t find her, keep them for me. I shall return some day.” It seemed +hard for him to give his simple instructions. He went on: “I don’t +think I shall stay any longer, but I will leave a certified check at +Cordova, and it will be turned over to your husband when she is found. +And if you do find her, you will look after her yourself, won’t you, +Mrs. McCormick?” + +Ellen McCormick choked a little as she answered him, promising to do +what he asked. He would always remember her as a sympathetic little +thing, and half an hour later, after he had explained everything to +Sandy, he wished her happiness when he took her hand in saying good-by. +Her hand was trembling. He wondered at it and said something to Sandy +about the priceless value of a happiness such as his, as they went down +to the beach. + +The velvety darkness of the sky was athrob with the heart-beat of +stars, when the _Norden’s_ shimmering trail led once more out to sea. +Alan looked up at them, and his mind groped strangely in the infinity +that lay above him. He had never measured it before. Life had been too +full. But now it seemed so vast, and his range in the tundras so far +away, that a great loneliness seized upon him as he turned his eyes to +look back at the dimly white shore-line dissolving swiftly in the gloom +that lay beneath the mountains. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +That night, in Olaf’s cabin, Alan put himself back on the old track +again. He made no effort to minimize the tragedy that had come into his +life, and he knew its effect upon him would never be wiped away, and +that Mary Standish would always live in his thoughts, no matter what +happened in the years to come. But he was not the sort to let any part +of himself wither up and die because of a blow that had darkened his +mental visions of things. His plans lay ahead of him, his old ambitions +and his dreams of achievement. They seemed pulseless and dead now, but +he knew it was because his own fire had temporarily burned out. And he +realized the vital necessity of building it up again. So he first wrote +a letter to Ellen McCormick, and in this placed a second +letter—carefully sealed—which was not to be opened unless they found +Mary Standish, and which contained something he had found impossible to +put into words in Sandy’s cabin. It was trivial and embarrassing when +spoken to others, but it meant a great deal to him. Then he made the +final arrangements for Olaf to carry him to Seward in the _Norden_, for +Captain Rifle’s ship was well on her way to Unalaska. Thought of +Captain Rifle urged him to write another letter in which he told +briefly the disappointing details of his search. + +He was rather surprised the next morning to find he had entirely +forgotten Rossland. While he was attending to his affairs at the bank, +Olaf secured information that Rossland was resting comfortably in the +hospital and had not one chance in ten of dying. It was not Alan’s +intention to see him. He wanted to hear nothing he might have to say +about Mary Standish. To associate them in any way, as he thought of her +now, was little short of sacrilege. He was conscious of the change in +himself, for it was rather an amazing upsetting of the original Alan +Holt. That person would have gone to Rossland with the deliberate and +businesslike intention of sifting the matter to the bottom that he +might disprove his own responsibility and set himself right in his own +eyes. In self-defense he would have given Rossland an opportunity to +break down with cold facts the disturbing something which his mind had +unconsciously built up. But the new Alan revolted. He wanted to carry +the thing away with him, he wanted it to live, and so it went with him, +uncontaminated by any truths or lies which Rossland might have told +him. + +They left Cordova early in the afternoon, and at sunset that evening +camped on the tip of a wooded island a mile or two from the mainland. +Olaf knew the island and had chosen it for reasons of his own. It was +primitive and alive with birds. Olaf loved the birds, and the cheer of +their vesper song and bedtime twitter comforted Alan. He seized an ax, +and for the first time in seven months his muscles responded to the +swing of it. And Ericksen, old as his years in the way of the north, +whistled loudly and rumbled a bit of crude song through his beard as he +lighted a fire, knowing the medicine of the big open was getting its +hold on Alan again. To Alan it was like coming to the edge of home once +more. It seemed an age, an infinity, since he had heard the sputtering +of bacon in an open skillet and the bubbling of coffee over a bed of +coals with the mysterious darkness of the timber gathering in about +him. He loaded his pipe after his chopping, and sat watching Olaf as he +mothered the half-baked bannock loaf. It made him think of his father. +A thousand times the two must have camped like this in the days when +Alaska was new and there were no maps to tell them what lay beyond the +next range. + +Olaf felt resting upon him something of the responsibility of a doctor, +and after supper he sat with his back to a tree and talked of the old +days as if they were yesterday and the day before, with tomorrow always +the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow which he had pursued for +thirty years. He was sixty just a week ago this evening, he said, and +he was beginning to doubt if he would remain on the beach at Cordova +much longer. Siberia was dragging him—that forbidden world of adventure +and mystery and monumental opportunity which lay only a few miles +across the strait from the Seward Peninsula. In his enthusiasm he +forgot Alan’s tragedy. He cursed Cossack law and the prohibitory +measures to keep Americans out. More gold was over there than had ever +been dreamed of in Alaska; even the mountains and rivers were unnamed; +and he was going if he lived another year or two—going to find his +fortune or his end in the Stanovoi Mountains and among the Chukchi +tribes. Twice he had tried it since his old comrade had died, and twice +he had been driven out. The next time he would know how to go about it, +and he invited Alan to go with him. + +There was a thrill in this talk of a land so near, scarcely a night +ride across the neck of Bering Sea, and yet as proscribed as the sacred +plains of Tibet. It stirred old desires in Alan’s blood, for he knew +that of all frontiers the Siberian would be the last and the greatest, +and that not only men, but nations, would play their part in the +breaking of it. He saw the red gleam of firelight in Olaf’s eyes. + +“And if we don’t go in first from _this side_, Alan, the yellow fellows +will come out some day from _that,”_ rumbled the old sour-dough, +striking his pipe in the hollow of his hand. “And when they do, they +won’t come over to us in ones an’ twos an’ threes, but in millions. +That’s what the yellow fellows will do when they once get started, an’ +it’s up to a few Alaska Jacks an’ Tough-Nut Bills to get their feet +planted first on the other side. Will you go?” + +Alan shook his head. “Some day—but not now.” The old flash was in his +eyes and he was seeing the fight ahead of him again—the fight to do his +bit in striking the shackles of misgovernment from Alaska and rousing +the world to an understanding of the menace which hung over her like a +smoldering cloud. “But you’re right about the danger,” he said. “It +won’t come from Japan to California. It will pour like a flood through +Siberia and jump to Alaska in a night. It isn’t the danger of the +yellow man alone, Olaf. You’ve got to combine that with Bolshevism, the +menace of blackest Russia. A disease which, if it crosses the little +neck of water and gets hold of Alaska, will shake the American +continent to bed-rock. It may be a generation from now, maybe a +century, but it’s coming sure as God makes light—if we let Alaska go +down and out. And my way of preventing it is different from yours.” + +He stared into the fire, watching the embers flare up and die. “I’m not +proud of the States,” he went on, as if speaking to something which he +saw in the flames. “I can’t be, after the ruin their unintelligent +propaganda and legislation have brought upon Alaska. But they’re our +salvation and conditions are improving. I concede we have factions in +Alaska and we are not at all unanimous in what we want. It’s going to +be largely a matter of education. We can’t take Alaska down to the +States—we’ve got to bring them up to us. We must make a large part of a +hundred and ten million Americans understand. We must bring a million +of them up here before that danger-flood we speak of comes beyond the +Gulf of Anadyr. It’s God’s own country we have north of Fifty-eight, +Olaf. And we have ten times the wealth of California. We can care for a +million people easily. But bad politics and bad judgment both here in +Alaska and at Washington won’t let them come. With coal enough under +our feet to last a thousand years, we are buying fuel from the States. +We’ve got billions in copper and oil, but can’t touch them. We should +have some of the world’s greatest manufacturing plants, but we can not, +because everything up here is locked away from us. I repeat that isn’t +conservation. If they had applied a little of it to the salmon +industry—but they didn’t. And the salmon are going, like the buffalo of +the plains. + +“The destruction of the salmon shows what will happen to us if the bars +are let down all at once to the financial banditti. Understanding and +common sense must guard the gates. The fight we must win is to bring +about an honest and reasonable adjustment, Olaf. And that fight will +take place right here—in Alaska—and not in Siberia. And if we don’t +win—” + +He raised his eyes from the fire and smiled grimly into Olaf’s bearded +face. + +“Then we can count on that thing coming across the neck of sea from the +Gulf of Anadyr,” he finished. “And if it ever does come, the people of +the States will at last face the tragic realization of what Alaska +could have meant to the nation.” + +The force of the old spirit surged uppermost in Alan again, and after +that, for an hour or more, something lived for him in the glow of the +fire which Olaf kept burning. It was the memory of Mary Standish, her +quiet, beautiful eyes gazing at him, her pale face taking form in the +lacy wisps of birch-smoke. His mind pictured her in the flame-glow as +she had listened to him that day in Skagway, when he had told her of +this fight that was ahead. And it pleased him to think she would have +made this same fight for Alaska if she had lived. It was a thought +which brought a painful thickening in his breath, for always these +visions which Olaf could not see ended with Mary Standish as she had +faced him in his cabin, her back against the door, her lips trembling, +and her eyes softly radiant with tears in the broken pride of that last +moment of her plea for life. + +He could not have told how long he slept that night. Dreams came to him +in his restless slumber, and always they awakened him, so that he was +looking at the stars again and trying not to think. In spite of the +grief in his soul they were pleasant dreams, as though some gentle +force were at work in him subconsciously to wipe away the shadows of +tragedy. Mary Standish was with him again, between the mountains at +Skagway; she was at his side in the heart of the tundras, the sun in +her shining hair and eyes, and all about them the wonder of wild roses +and purple iris and white seas of sedge-cotton and yellow-eyed daisies, +and birds singing in the gladness of summer. He heard the birds. And he +heard the girl’s voice, answering them in her happiness and turning +that happiness from the radiance of her eyes upon him. When he awoke, +it was with a little cry, as if someone had stabbed him; and Olaf was +building a fire, and dawn was breaking in rose-gleams over the +mountains. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +This first night and dawn in the heard of his wilderness, with the new +import of life gleaming down at him from the mighty peaks of the +Chugach and Kenai ranges, marked the beginning of that uplift which +drew Alan out of the pit into which he had fallen. He understood, now, +how it was that through many long years his father had worshiped the +memory of a woman who had died, it seemed to him, an infinity ago. +Unnumbered times he had seen the miracle of her presence in his +father’s eyes, and once, when they had stood overlooking a sun-filled +valley back in the mountains, the elder Holt had said: + +“Twenty-seven years ago the twelfth day of last month, mother went with +me through this valley, Alan. Do you see the little bend in the creek, +with the great rock in the sun? We rested there—before you were born!” + +He had spoken of that day as if it had been but yesterday. And Alan +recalled the strange happiness in his father’s face as he had looked +down upon something in the valley which no other but himself could see. + +And it was happiness, the same strange, soul-aching happiness, that +began to build itself a house close up against the grief in Alan’s +heart. It would never be a house quite empty. Never again would he be +alone. He knew at last it was an undying part of him, as it had been a +part of his father, clinging to him in sweet pain, encouraging him, +pressing gently upon him the beginning of a great faith that somewhere +beyond was a place to meet again. In the many days that followed, it +grew in him, but in a way no man or woman could see. It was a secret +about which he built a wall, setting it apart from that stoical +placidity of his nature which some people called indifference. Olaf +could see farther than others, because he had known Alan’s father as a +brother. It had always been that way with the elder Holt—straight, +clean, deep-breathing, and with a smile on his lips in times of hurt. +Olaf had seen him face death like that. He had seen him rise up with +awesome courage from the beautiful form that had turned to clay under +his eyes, and fight forth again into a world burned to ashes. Something +of that look which he had seen in the eyes of the father he saw in +Alan’s, in these days when they nosed their way up the Alaskan coast +together. Only to himself did Alan speak the name of Mary Standish, +just as his father had kept Elizabeth Holt’s name sacred in his own +heart. Olaf, with mildly casual eyes and strong in the possession of +memories, observed how much alike they were, but discretion held his +tongue, and he said nothing to Alan of many things that ran in his +mind. + +He talked of Siberia—always of Siberia, and did not hurry on the way to +Seward. Alan himself felt no great urge to make haste. The days were +soft with the premature breath of summer. The nights were cold, and +filled with stars. Day after day mountains hung about them like mighty +castles whose battlements reached up into the cloud-draperies of the +sky. They kept close to the mainland and among the islands, camping +early each evening. Birds were coming northward by the thousand, and +each night Olaf’s camp-fire sent up the delicious aroma of flesh-pots +and roasts. When at last they reached Seward, and the time came for +Olaf to turn back, there was an odd blinking in the old Swede’s eyes, +and as a final comfort Alan told him again that the day would probably +come when he would go to Siberia with him. After that, he watched the +_Norden_ until the little boat was lost in the distance of the sea. + +Alone, Alan felt once more a greater desire to reach his own country. +And he was fortunate. Two days after his arrival at Seward the steamer +which carried mail and the necessities of life to the string of +settlements reaching a thousand miles out into the Pacific left +Resurrection Bay, and he was given passage. Thereafter the countless +islands of the North Pacific drifted behind, while always northward +were the gray cliffs of the Alaskan Peninsula, with the ramparted +ranges beyond, glistening with glaciers, smoking with occasional +volcanoes, and at times so high their snowy peaks were lost in the +clouds. First touching the hatchery at Karluk and then the canneries at +Uyak and Chignik, the mail boat visited the settlements on the Island +of Unga, and thence covered swiftly the three hundred miles to Dutch +Harbor and Unalaska. Again he was fortunate. Within a week he was +berthed on a freighter, and on the twelfth day of June set foot in +Nome. + +His home-coming was unheralded, but the little, gray town, with its +peculiar, black shadowings, its sea of stove-pipes, and its two +solitary brick chimneys, brought a lump of joy into his throat as he +watched its growing outlines from the small boat that brought him +ashore. He could see one of the only two brick chimneys in northern +Alaska gleaming in the sun; beyond it, fifty miles away, were the +ragged peaks of the Saw-Tooth Range, looking as if one might walk to +them in half an hour, and over all the world between seemed to hover a +misty gloom. But it was where he had lived, where happiness and tragedy +and unforgetable memories had come to him, and the welcoming of its +frame buildings, its crooked streets, and what to others might have +been ugliness, was a warm and thrilling thing. For here were his +_people_. Here were the men and women who were guarding the northern +door of the world, an epic place, filled with strong hearts, courage, +and a love of country as inextinguishable as one’s love of life. From +this drab little place, shut out from all the world for half the year, +young men and women went down to southern universities, to big cities, +to the glamor and lure of “outside.” But they always came back. Nome +called them. Its loneliness in winter. Its gray gloom in springtime. +Its glory in summer and autumn. It was the breeding-place of a new race +of men, and they loved it as Alan loved it. To him the black wireless +tower meant more than the Statue of Liberty, the three weather-beaten +church spires more than the architectural colossi of New York and +Washington. Beside one of the churches he had played as a boy. He had +seen the steeples painted. He had helped make the crooked streets. And +his mother had laughed and lived and died here, and his father’s +footprints had been in the white sands of the beach when tents dotted +the shore like gulls. + +When he stepped ashore, people stared at him and then greeted him. He +was unexpected. And the surprise of his arrival added strength to the +grip which men’s hands gave him. He had not heard voices like theirs +down in the States, with a gladness in them that was almost excitement. +Small boys ran up to his side, and with white men came the Eskimo, +grinning and shaking his hands. Word traveled swiftly that Alan Holt +had come back from the States. Before the day was over, it was on its +way to Shelton and Candle and Keewalik and Kotzebue Sound. Such was the +beginning of his home-coming. But ahead of the news of his arrival Alan +walked up Front Street, stopped at Bahlke’s restaurant for a cup of +coffee, and then dropped casually into Lomen’s offices in the Tin Bank +Building. + +For a week Alan remained in Nome. Carl Lomen had arrived a few days +before, and his brothers were “in” from the big ranges over on the +Choris Peninsula. It had been a good winter and promised to be a +tremendously successful summer. The Lomen herds would exceed forty +thousand head, when the final figures were in. A hundred other herds +were prospering, and the Eskimo and Lapps were full-cheeked and plump +with good feeding and prosperity. A third of a million reindeer were on +the hoof in Alaska, and the breeders were exultant. Pretty good, when +compared with the fact that in 1902 there were less than five thousand! +In another twenty years there would be ten million. + +But with this prosperity of the present and still greater promise for +the future Alan sensed the undercurrent of unrest and suspicion in +Nome. After waiting and hoping through another long winter, with their +best men fighting for Alaska’s salvation at Washington, word was +traveling from mouth to mouth, from settlement to settlement, and from +range to range, that the Bureaucracy which misgoverned them from +thousands of miles away was not lifting a hand to relieve them. Federal +office-holders refused to surrender their deadly power, and their +strangling methods were to continue. Coal, which should cost ten +dollars a ton if dug from Alaskan mines, would continue to cost forty +dollars; cold storage from Nome would continue to be fifty-two dollars +a ton, when it should be twenty. Commercial brigandage was still given +letters of marque. Bureaus were fighting among themselves for greater +power, and in the turmoil Alaska was still chained like a starving man +just outside the reach of all the milk and honey in a wonderful land. +Pauperizing, degrading, actually killing, the political misrule that +had already driven 25 per cent of Alaska’s population from their homes +was to continue indefinitely. A President of the United States had +promised to visit the mighty land of the north and see with his own +eyes. But would he come? There had been other promises, many of them, +and promises had always been futile. But it was a hope that crept +through Alaska, and upon this hope men whose courage never died began +to build. Freedom was on its way, even if slowly. Justice must triumph +ultimately, as it always triumphed. Rusty keys would at last be turned +in the locks which had kept from Alaskans all the riches and resources +of their country, and these men were determined to go on building +against odds that they might be better prepared for that freedom of +human endeavor when it came. + +In these days, when the fires of achievement needed to be encouraged, +and not smothered, neither Alan nor Carl Lomen emphasized the menace of +gigantic financial interests like that controlled by John +Graham—interests fighting to do away with the best friend Alaska ever +had, the Biological Survey, and backing with all their power the +ruinous legislation to put Alaska in the control of a group of five men +that an aggrandizement even more deadly than a suffocating policy of +conservation might be more easily accomplished. Instead, they spread +the optimism of men possessed of inextinguishable faith. The blackest +days were gone. Rifts were breaking in the clouds. Intelligence was +creeping through, like rays of sunshine. The end of Alaska’s serfdom +was near at hand. So they preached, and knew they were preaching truth, +for what remained of Alaska’s men after years of hopelessness and +distress were fighting men. And the women who had remained with them +were the mothers and wives of a new nation in the making. + +These mothers and wives Alan met during his week in Nome. He would have +given his life if a few million people in the States could have known +these women. Something would have happened then, and the sisterhood of +half a continent—possessing the power of the ballot—would have opened +their arms to them. Men like John Graham would have gone out of +existence; Alaska would have received her birthright. For these women +were of the kind who greeted the sun each day, and the gloom of winter, +with something greater than hope in their hearts. They, too, were +builders. Fear of God and love of land lay deep in their souls, and +side by side with their men-folk they went on in this epic struggle for +the building of a nation at the top of the world. + +Many times during this week Alan felt it in his heart to speak of Mary +Standish. But in the end, not even to Carl Lomen did word of her escape +his lips. The passing of each day had made her more intimately a part +of him, and a secret part. He could not tell people about her. He even +made evasions when questioned about his business and experiences at +Cordova and up the coast. Curiously, she seemed nearer to him when he +was away from other men and women. He remembered it had been that way +with his father, who was always happiest when in the deep mountains or +the unending tundras. And so Alan thrilled with an inner gladness when +his business was finished and the day came for him to leave Nome. + +Carl Lomen went with him as far as the big herd on Choris Peninsula. +For one hundred miles, up to Shelton, they rode over a narrow-gauge, +four-foot railway on a hand-car drawn by dogs. And it seemed to Alan, +at times, as though Mary Standish were with him, riding in this strange +way through a great wilderness. He could _see_ her. That was the +strange thing which began to possess him. There were moments when her +eyes were shining softly upon him, her lips smiling, her presence so +real he might have spoken to her if Lomen had not been at his side. He +did not fight against these visionings. It pleased him to think of her +going with him into the heart of Alaska, riding the picturesque +“pup-mobile,” losing herself in the mountains and in his tundras, with +all the wonder and glory of a new world breaking upon her a little at a +time, like the unfolding of a great mystery. For there was both wonder +and glory in these countless miles running ahead and drifting behind, +and the miracle of northward-sweeping life. The days were long. Night, +as Mary Standish had always known night, was gone. On the twentieth of +June there were twenty hours of day, with a dim and beautiful twilight +between the hours of eleven and one. Sleep was no longer a matter of +the rising and setting of the sun, but was regulated by the hands of +the watch. A world frozen to the core for seven months was bursting +open like a great flower. + +From Shelton, Alan and his companion visited the eighty or ninety +people at Candle, and thence continued down the Keewalik River to +Keewalik, on Kotzebue Sound. A Lomen power-boat, run by Lapps, carried +them to Choris Peninsula, where for a week Alan remained with Lomen and +his huge herd of fifteen thousand reindeer. He was eager to go on, but +tried to hide his impatience. Something was urging him, whipping him on +to greater haste. For the first time in months he heard the crackling +thunder of reindeer hoofs, and the music of it was like a wild call +from his own herds hurrying him home. He was glad when the week-end +came and his business was done. The power-boat took him to Kotzebue. It +was night, as his watch went, when Paul Davidovich started up the delta +of the Kobuk River with him in a lighterage company’s boat. But there +was no darkness. In the afternoon of the fourth day they came to the +Redstone, two hundred miles above the mouth of the Kobuk as the river +winds. They had supper together on the shore. After that Paul +Davidovich turned back with the slow sweep of the current, waving his +hand until he was out of sight. + +Not until the sound of the Russian’s motor-boat was lost in distance +did Alan sense fully the immensity of the freedom that swept upon him. +At last, after months that had seemed like so many years, he was +_alone_. North and eastward stretched the unmarked trail which he knew +so well, a hundred and fifty miles straight as a bird might fly, almost +unmapped, unpeopled, right up to the doors of his range in the slopes +of the Endicott Mountains. A little cry from his own lips gave him a +start. It was as if he had called out aloud to Tautuk and Amuk Toolik, +and to Keok and Nawadlook, telling them he was on his way home and +would soon be there. Never had this hidden land which he had found for +himself seemed so desirable as it did in this hour. There was something +about it that was all-mothering, all-good, all-sweetly-comforting to +that other thing which had become a part of him now. It was holding out +its arms to him, understanding, welcoming, inspiring him to travel +strongly and swiftly the space between. And he was ready to answer its +call. + +He looked at his watch. It was five o’clock in the afternoon. He had +spent a long day with the Russian, but he felt no desire for rest or +sleep. The musk-tang of the tundras, coming to him through the thin +timber of the river-courses, worked like an intoxicant in his blood. It +was the tundra he wanted, before he lay down upon his back with his +face to the stars. He was eager to get away from timber and to feel the +immeasurable space of the big country, the open country, about him. +What fool had given to it the name of _Barren Lands_? What idiots +people were to lie about it in that way on the maps! He strapped his +pack over his shoulders and seized his rifle. Barren Lands! + +He set out, walking like a man in a race. And long before the twilight +hours of sleep they were sweeping out ahead of him in all their +glory—the Barren Lands of the map-makers, _his_ paradise. On a knoll he +stood in the golden sun and looked about him. He set his pack down and +stood with bared head, a whispering of cool wind in his hair. If Mary +Standish could have lived to see _this_! He stretched out his arms, as +if pointing for her eyes to follow, and her name was in his heart and +whispering on his silent lips. Immeasurable the tundras reached ahead +of him—rolling, sweeping, treeless, green and golden and a glory of +flowers, athrill with a life no forest land had ever known. Under his +feet was a crush of forget-me-nots and of white and purple violets, +their sweet perfume filling his lungs as he breathed. Ahead of him lay +a white sea of yellow-eyed daisies, with purple iris high as his knees +in between, and as far as he could see, waving softly in the breeze, +was the cotton-tufted sedge he loved. The pods were green. In a few +days they would be opening, and the tundras would be white carpets. + +He listened to the call of life. It was about him everywhere, a melody +of bird-life subdued and sleepy even though the sun was still warmly +aglow in the sky. A hundred times he had watched this miracle of bird +instinct, the going-to-bed of feathered creatures in the weeks and +months when there was no real night. He picked up his pack and went on. +From a pool hidden in the lush grasses of a distant hollow came to him +the twilight honking of nesting geese and the quacking content of wild +ducks. He heard the reed-like, musical notes of a lone “organ-duck” and +the plaintive cries of plover, and farther out, where the shadows +seemed deepening against the rim of the horizon, rose the harsh, +rolling notes of cranes and the raucous cries of the loons. And then, +from a clump of willows near him, came the chirping twitter of a thrush +whose throat was tired for the day, and the sweet, sleepy evening song +of a robin. _Night!_ Alan laughed softly, the pale flush of the sun in +his face. _Bedtime!_ He looked at his watch. + +It was nine o’clock. Nine o’clock, and the flowers still answering to +the glow of the sun! And the people down there—in the States—called it +a frozen land, a hell of ice and snow at the end of the earth, a place +of the survival of the fittest! Well, to just such extremes had +stupidity and ignorance gone through all the years of history, even +though men called themselves super-creatures of intelligence and +knowledge. It was humorous. And it was tragic. + +At last he came to a shining pool between two tufted ridges, and in +this velvety hollow the twilight was gathering like a shadow in a cup. +A little creek ran out of the pool, and here Alan gathered soft grass +and spread out his blankets. A great stillness drew in about him, +broken only by the old squaws and the loons. At eleven o’clock he could +still see clearly the sleeping water-fowl on the surface of the pool. +But the stars were appearing. It grew duskier, and the rose-tint of the +sun faded into purple gloom as pale night drew near—four hours of rest +that was neither darkness nor day. With a pillow of sedge and grass +under his head he slept. + +The song and cry of bird-life wakened him, and at dawn he bathed in the +pool, with dozens of fluffy, new-born ducks dodging away from him among +the grasses and reeds. That day, and the next, and the day after that +he traveled steadily into the heart of the tundra country, swiftly and +almost without rest. It seemed to him, at last, that he must be in that +country where all the bird-life of the world was born, for wherever +there was water, in the pools and little streams and the hollows +between the ridges, the voice of it in the morning was a babel of +sound. Out of the sweet breast of the earth he could feel the +irresistible pulse of motherhood filling him with its strength and its +courage, and whispering to him its everlasting message that because of +the glory and need and faith of life had God created this land of +twenty-hour day and four-hour twilight. In it, in these days of summer, +was no abiding place for gloom; yet in his own heart, as he drew nearer +to his home, was a place of darkness which its light could not quite +enter. + +The tundras had made Mary Standish more real to him. In the treeless +spaces, in the vast reaches with only the sky shutting out his vision, +she seemed to be walking nearer to him, almost with her hand in his. At +times it was like a torture inflicted upon him for his folly, and when +he visioned what might have been, and recalled too vividly that it was +he who had stilled with death that living glory which dwelt with him in +spirit now, a crying sob of which he was not ashamed came from his +lips. For when he thought too deeply, he knew that Mary Standish would +have lived if he had said other things to her that night aboard the +ship. She had died, not for him, but _because_ of him—because, in his +failure to live up to what she believed she had found in him, he had +broken down what must have been her last hope and her final faith. If +he had been less blind, and God had given him the inspiration of a +greater wisdom, she would have been walking with him now, laughing in +the rose-tinted dawn, growing tired amid the flowers, sleeping under +the clear stars—happy and unafraid, and looking to him for all things. +At least so he dreamed, in his immeasurable loneliness. + +He did not tolerate the thought that other forces might have called her +even had she lived, and that she might not have been his to hold and to +fight for. He did not question the possibility of shackles and chains +that might have bound her, or other inclinations that might have led +her. He claimed her, now that she was dead, and knew that living he +would have possessed her. Nothing could have kept him from that. But +she was gone. And for that he was accountable, and the fifth night he +lay sleepless under the stars, and like a boy he cried for her with his +face upon his arm, and when morning came, and he went on, never had the +world seemed so vast and empty. + +His face was gray and haggard, a face grown suddenly old, and he +traveled slowly, for the desire to reach his people was dying within +him. He could not laugh with Keok and Nawadlook, or give the old tundra +call to Amuk Toolik and his people, who would be riotous in their +happiness at his return. They loved him. He knew that. Their love had +been a part of his life, and the knowledge that his response to this +love would be at best a poor and broken thing filled him with dread. A +strange sickness crept through his blood; it grew in his head, so that +when noon came, he did not trouble himself to eat. + +It was late in the afternoon when he saw far ahead of him the clump of +cottonwoods near the warm springs, very near his home. Often he had +come to these old cottonwoods, an oasis of timber lost in the great +tundras, and he had built himself a little camp among them. He loved +the place. It had seemed to him that now and then he must visit the +forlorn trees to give them cheer and comradeship. His father’s name was +carved in the bole of the greatest of them all, and under it the date +and day when the elder Holt had discovered them in a land where no man +had gone before. And under his father’s name was his mother’s, and +under that, his own. He had made of the place a sort of shrine, a green +and sweet-flowered tabernacle of memories, and its bird-song and peace +in summer and the weird aloneness of it in winter had played their +parts in the making of his soul. Through many months he had anticipated +this hour of his home-coming, when in the distance he would see the +beckoning welcome of the old cottonwoods, with the rolling foothills +and frosted peaks of the Endicott Mountains beyond. And now he was +looking at the trees and the mountains, and something was lacking in +the thrill of them. He came up from the west, between two willow ridges +through which ran the little creek from the warm springs, and he was +within a quarter of a mile of them when something stopped him in his +tracks. + +At first he thought the sound was the popping of guns, but in a moment +he knew it could not be so, and the truth flashed suddenly upon him. +This day was the Fourth of July, and someone in the cottonwoods was +shooting firecrackers! + +A smile softened his lips. He recalled Keok’s mischievous habit of +lighting a whole bunch at one time, for which apparent wastefulness +Nawadlook never failed to scold her. They had prepared for his +home-coming with a celebration, and Tautuk and Amuk Toolik had probably +imported a supply of “bing-bangs” from Allakakat or Tanana. The +oppressive weight inside him lifted, and the smile remained on his +lips. And then as if commanded by a voice, his eyes turned to the dead +cottonwood stub which had sentineled the little oasis of trees for many +years. At the very crest of it, floating bravely in the breeze that +came with the evening sun, was an American flag! + +He laughed softly. These were the people who loved him, who thought of +him, who wanted him back. His heart beat faster, stirred by the old +happiness, and he drew himself quickly into a strip of willows that +grew almost up to the cottonwoods. He would surprise them! He would +walk suddenly in among them, unseen and unheard. That was the sort of +thing that would amaze and delight them. + +He came to the first of the trees and concealed himself carefully. He +heard the popping of individual firecrackers and the louder bang of one +of the “giants” that always made Nawadlook put her fingers in her +pretty ears. He crept stealthily over a knoll, down through a hollow, +and then up again to the opposite crest. It was as he had thought. He +could see Keok a hundred yards away, standing on the trunk of a fallen +tree, and as he looked, she tossed another bunch of sputtering crackers +away from her. The others were probably circled about her, out of his +sight, watching her performance. He continued cautiously, making his +way so that he could come up behind a thick growth of bush unseen, +within a dozen paces of them. At last he was as near as that to her, +and Keok was still standing on the log with her back toward him. + +It puzzled him that he could not see or hear the others. And something +about Keok puzzled him, too. And then his heart gave a sudden throb and +seemed to stop its beating. It was not Keok on the log. And it was not +Nawadlook! He stood up and stepped out from his hiding-place. The +slender figure of the girl on the log turned a little, and he saw the +glint of golden sunshine in her hair. He called out. + +“Keok!” + +Was he mad? Had the sickness in his head turned his brain? + +And then: + +“Mary!” he called. “_Mary Standish_!” + +She turned. And in that moment Alan Holt’s face was the color of gray +rock. It was the dead he had been thinking of, and it was the dead that +had risen before him now. For it was Mary Standish who stood there on +the old cottonwood log, shooting firecrackers in this evening of his +home-coming. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +After that one calling of her name Alan’s voice was dead, and he made +no movement. He could not disbelieve. It was not a mental illusion or a +temporary upsetting of his sanity. It was truth. The shock of it was +rending every nerve in his body, even as he stood as if carved out of +wood. And then a strange relaxation swept over him. Some force seemed +to pass out of his flesh, and his arms hung limp. She was there, +_alive!_ He could see the whiteness leave her face and a flush of color +come into it, and he heard a little cry as she jumped down from the log +and came toward him. It had all happened in a few seconds, but it +seemed a long time to Alan. + +He saw nothing about her or beyond her. It was as if she were floating +up to him out of the cold mists of the sea. And she stopped only a step +away from him, when she saw more clearly what was in his face. It must +have been something that startled her. Vaguely he realized this and +made an effort to recover himself. + +“You almost frightened me,” she said. “We have been expecting you and +watching for you, and I was out there a few minutes ago looking back +over the tundra. The sun was in my eyes, and I didn’t see you.” + +It seemed incredible that he should be hearing her voice, the same +voice, unexcited, sweet, and thrilling, speaking as if she had seen him +yesterday and with a certain reserved gladness was welcoming him again +today. It was impossible for him to realize in these moments the +immeasurable distance that lay between their viewpoints. He was simply +Alan Holt—she was the dead risen to life. Many times in his grief he +had visualized what he would do if some miracle could bring her back to +him like this; he had thought of taking her in his arms and never +letting her go. But now that the miracle had come to pass, and she was +within his reach, he stood without moving, trying only to speak. + +“You—Mary Standish!” he said at last. “I thought—” + +He did not finish. It was not himself speaking. It was another +individual within him, a detached individual trying to explain his lack +of physical expression. He wanted to cry out his gladness, to shout +with joy, yet the directing soul of action in him was stricken. She +touched his arm hesitatingly. + +“I didn’t think you would care,” she said. “I thought you wouldn’t +mind—if I came up here.” + +Care! The word was like an explosion setting things loose in his brain, +and the touch of her hand sent a sweep of fire through him. He heard +himself cry out, a strange, unhuman sort of cry, as he swept her to his +breast. He held her close, crushing kisses upon her mouth, his fingers +buried in her hair, her slender body almost broken in his arms. She was +alive—she had come back to him—and he forgot everything in these blind +moments but that great truth which was sweeping over him in a glorious +inundation. Then, suddenly, he found that she was fighting him, +struggling to free herself and putting her hands against his face in +her efforts. She was so close that he seemed to see nothing but her +eyes, and in them he did not see what he had dreamed of finding—but +horror. It was a stab that went into his heart, and his arms relaxed. +She staggered back, trembling and swaying a little as she got her +breath, her face very white. + +He had hurt her. The hurt was in her eyes, in the way she looked at +him, as if he had become a menace from which she would run if he had +not taken the strength from her. As she stood there, her parted lips +showing the red of his kisses, her shining hair almost undone, he held +out his hands mutely. + +“You think—I came here for _that?_” she panted. + +“No,” he said. “Forgive me. I am sorry.” + +It was not anger that he saw in her face. It was, instead, a mingling +of shock and physical hurt; a measurement of him now, as she looked at +him, which recalled her to him as she had stood that night with her +back against his cabin door. Yet he was not trying to piece things +together. Even subconsciously that was impossible, for all life in him +was centered in the one stupendous thought that she was not dead, but +living, and he did not wonder why. There was no question in his mind as +to the manner in which she had been saved from the sea. He felt a +weakness in his limbs; he wanted to laugh, to cry out, to give himself +up to strange inclinations for a moment or two, like a woman. Such was +the shock of his happiness. It crept in a living fluid through his +flesh. She saw it in the swift change of the rock-like color in his +face, and his quicker breathing, and was a little amazed, but Alan was +too completely possessed by the one great thing to discover the +astonishment growing in her eyes. + +“You are alive,” he said, giving voice again to the one thought +pounding in his brain. “_Alive!_” + +It seemed to him that word wanted to utter itself an impossible number +of times. Then the truth that was partly dawning came entirely to the +girl. + +“Mr. Holt, you did not receive my letter at Nome?” she asked. + +“Your letter? At Nome?” He repeated the words, shaking his head. “No.” + +“And all this time—you have been thinking—I was dead?” + +He nodded, because the thickness in his throat made it the easier form +of speech. + +“I wrote you there,” she said. “I wrote the letter before I jumped into +the sea. It went to Nome with Captain Rifle’s ship.” + +“I didn’t get it.” + +“You didn’t get it?” There was wonderment in her voice, and then, if he +had observed it, understanding. + +“Then you didn’t mean that just now? You didn’t intend to do it? It was +because you had blamed yourself for my death, and it was a great relief +to find me alive. That was it, wasn’t it?” + +Stupidly he nodded again. “Yes, it was a great relief.” + +“You see, I had faith in you even when you wouldn’t help me,” she went +on. “So much faith that I trusted you with my secret in the letter I +wrote. To all the world but you I am dead—to Rossland, Captain Rifle, +everyone. In my letter I told you I had arranged with the young +Thlinkit Indian. He smuggled the canoe over the side just before I +leaped in, and picked me up. I am a good swimmer. Then he paddled me +ashore while the boats were making their search.” + +In a moment she had placed a gulf between them again, on the other side +of which she stood unattainable. It was inconceivable that only a few +moments ago he had crushed her in his arms. The knowledge that he had +done this thing, and that she was looking at him now as if it had never +happened, filled him with a smothering sense of humiliation. She made +it impossible for him to speak about it, even to apologize more fully. + +“Now I am here,” she was saying in a quiet, possessive sort of way. “I +didn’t think of coming when I jumped into the sea. I made up my mind +afterward. I think it was because I met a little man with red whiskers +whom you once pointed out to me in the smoking salon on the _Nome_. And +so—I am your guest, Mr. Holt.” + +There was not the slightest suspicion of apology in her voice as she +smoothed back her hair where he had crumpled it. It was as if she +belonged here, and had always belonged here, and was giving him +permission to enter her domain. Shock was beginning to pass away from +him, and he could feel his feet upon the earth once more. His +spirit-visions of her as she had walked hand in hand with him during +the past weeks, her soft eyes filled with love, faded away before the +reality of Mary Standish in flesh and blood, her quiet mastery of +things, her almost omniscient unapproachableness. He reached out his +hands, but there was a different light in his eyes, and she placed her +own in them confidently. + +“It was like a bolt of lightning,” he said, his voice free at last and +trembling. “Day and night I have been thinking of you, dreaming of you, +and cursing myself because I believed I had killed you. And now I find +you alive. And _here!_” + +She was so near that the hands he clasped lay against his breast. But +reason had returned to him, and he saw the folly of dreams. + +“It is difficult to believe. Out there I thought I was sick. Perhaps I +am. But if I am not sick, and you are really you, I am glad. If I wake +up and find I have imagined it all, as I imagined so many of the other +things—” + +He laughed, freeing her hands and looking into eyes shining half out of +tears at him. But he did not finish. She drew away from him, with a +lingering of her finger-tips on his arm, and the little heart-beat in +her throat revealed itself clearly again as on that night in his cabin. + +“I have been thinking of you back there, every hour, every step,” he +said, making a gesture toward the tundras over which he had come. “Then +I heard the firecrackers and saw the flag. It is almost as if I had +created you!” + +A quick answer was on her lips, but she stopped it. + +“And when I found you here, and you didn’t fade away like a ghost, I +thought something was wrong with my head. Something must have been +wrong, I guess, or I wouldn’t have done _that_. You see, it puzzled me +that a ghost should be setting off firecrackers—and I suppose that was +the first impulse I had of making sure you were real.” + +A voice came from the edge of the cottonwoods beyond them. It was a +clear, wild voice with a sweet trill in it. “_Maa-rie!_” it called. +“_Maa-rie!_” + +“Supper,” nodded the girl. “You are just in time. And then we are going +home in the twilight.” + +It made his heart thump, that casual way in which she spoke of his +place as home. She went ahead of him, with the sun glinting in the soft +coils of her hair, and he picked up his rifle and followed, eyes and +soul filled only with the beauty of her slim figure—a glory of life +where for a long time he had fashioned a spirit of the dead. They came +into an open, soft with grass and strewn with flowers, and in this open +a man was kneeling beside a fire no larger than his two hands, and at +his side, watching him, stood a girl with two braids of black hair +rippling down her back. It was Nawadlook who turned first and saw who +it was with Mary Standish, and from his right came an odd little +screech that only one person in the world could make, and that was +Keok. She dropped the armful of sticks she had gathered for the fire +and made straight for him, while Nawadlook, taller and less like a wild +creature in the manner of her coming, was only a moment behind. And +then he was shaking hands with Stampede, and Keok had slipped down +among the flowers and was crying. That was like Keok. She always cried +when he went away, and cried when he returned; and then, in another +moment, it was Keok who was laughing first, and Alan noticed she no +longer wore her hair in braids, as the quieter Nawadlook persisted in +doing, but had it coiled about her head just as Mary Standish wore her +own. + +These details pressed themselves upon him in a vague and unreal sort of +way. No one, not even Mary Standish, could understand how his mind and +nerves were fighting to recover themselves. His senses were swimming +back one by one to a vital point from which they had been swept by an +unexpected sea, gripping rather incoherently at unimportant realities +as they assembled themselves. In the edge of the tundra beyond the +cottonwoods he noticed three saddle-deer grazing at the ends of ropes +which were fastened to cotton-tufted nigger-heads. He drew off his pack +as Mary Standish went to help Keok pick up the fallen sticks. Nawadlook +was pulling a coffee-pot from the tiny fire. Stampede began to fill a +pipe. He realized that because they had expected him, if not today then +tomorrow or the next day or a day soon after that, no one had +experienced shock but himself, and with a mighty effort he reached back +and dragged the old Alan Holt into existence again. It was like +bringing an intelligence out of darkness into light. + +It was difficult for him—afterward—to remember just what happened +during the next half-hour. The amazing thing was that Mary Standish sat +opposite him, with the cloth on which Nawadlook had spread the supper +things between them, and that she was the same clear-eyed, beautiful +Mary Standish who had sat across the table from him in the dining-salon +of the _Nome_. + +Not until later, when he stood alone with Stampede Smith in the edge of +the cottonwoods, and the three girls were riding deer back over the +tundra in the direction of the Range, did the sea of questions which +had been gathering begin to sweep upon him. It had been Keok’s +suggestion that she and Mary and Nawadlook ride on ahead, and he had +noticed how quickly Mary Standish had caught at the idea. She had +smiled at him as she left, and a little farther out had waved her hand +at him, as Keok and Nawadlook both had done, but not another word had +passed between them alone. And as they rode off in the warm glow of +sunset Alan stood watching them, and would have stared without speech +until they were out of sight, if Stampede’s fingers had not gripped his +arm. + +“Now, go to it, Alan,” he said. “I’m ready. Give me hell!” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +It was thus, with a note of something inevitable in his voice, that +Stampede brought Alan back solidly to earth. There was a practical and +awakening inspiration in the manner of the little red-whiskered man’s +invitation. + +“I’ve been a damn fool,” he confessed. “And I’m waiting.” + +The word was like a key opening a door through which a flood of things +began to rush in upon Alan. There were other fools, and evidently he +had been one. His mind went back to the _Nome_. It seemed only a few +hours ago—only yesterday—that the girl had so artfully deceived them +all, and he had gone through hell because of that deception. The +trickery had been simple, and exceedingly clever because of its +simplicity; it must have taken a tremendous amount of courage, now that +he clearly understood that at no time had she wanted to die. + +“I wonder,” he said, “why she did a thing like that?” + +Stampede shook his head, misunderstanding what was in Alan’s mind. “I +couldn’t keep her back, not unless I tied her to a tree.” And he added, +“The little witch even threatened to shoot me!” + +A flash of exultant humor filled his eyes. “Begin, Alan. I’m waiting. +Go the limit.” + +“For what?” + +“For letting her ride over me, of course. For bringing her up. For not +shufflin’ her in the bush. You can’t take it out of _her_ hide, can +you?” + +He twisted his red whiskers, waiting for an answer. Alan was silent. +Mary Standish was leading the way up out of a dip in the tundra a +quarter of a mile away, with Nawadlook and Keok close behind her. They +trotted up a low ridge and disappeared. + +“It’s none of my business,” persisted Stampede, “but you didn’t seem to +expect her—” + +“You’re right,” interrupted Alan, turning toward his pack. “I didn’t +expect her. I thought she was dead.” + +A low whistle escaped Stampede’s lips. He opened his mouth to speak and +closed it again. Alan observed him as he slipped the pack over his +shoulders. Evidently his companion did not know Mary Standish was the +girl who had jumped overboard from the _Nome_, and if she had kept her +secret, it was not his business just now to explain, even though he +guessed that Stampede’s quick wits would readily jump at the truth. A +light was beginning to dispel the little man’s bewilderment as they +started toward the Range. He had seen Mary Standish frequently aboard +the _Nome_; a number of times he had observed her in Alan’s company, +and he knew of the hours they had spent together in Skagway. Therefore, +if Alan had believed her dead when they went ashore at Cordova, a few +hours after the supposed tragedy, it must have been she who jumped into +the sea. He shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of his failure to +discover this amazing fact in his association with Mary Standish. + +“It beats the devil!” he exclaimed suddenly. + +“It does,” agreed Alan. + +Cold, hard reason began to shoulder itself inevitably against the +happiness that possessed him, and questions which he had found no +interest in asking when aboard ship leaped upon him with compelling +force. Why was it so tragically important to Mary Standish that the +world should believe her dead? What was it that had driven her to +appeal to him and afterward to jump into the sea? What was her +mysterious association with Rossland, an agent of Alaska’s deadliest +enemy, John Graham—the one man upon whom he had sworn vengeance if +opportunity ever came his way? Over him, clubbing other emotions with +its insistence, rode a demand for explanations which it was impossible +for him to make. Stampede saw the tense lines in his face and remained +silent in the lengthening twilight, while Alan’s mind struggled to +bring coherence and reason out of a tidal wave of mystery and doubt. +Why had she come to _his_ cabin aboard the _Nome_? Why had she played +him with such conspicuous intent against Rossland, and why—in the +end—had she preceded him to his home in the tundras? It was this +question which persisted, never for an instant swept aside by the +others. She had not come because of love for him. In a brutal sort of +way he had proved that, for when he had taken her in his arms, he had +seen distress and fear and a flash of horror in her face. Another and +more mysterious force had driven her. + +The joy in him was a living flame even as this realization pressed upon +him. He was like a man who had found life after a period of something +that was worse than death, and with his happiness he felt himself +twisted upon an upheaval of conflicting sensations and half convictions +out of which, in spite of his effort to hold it back, suspicion began +to creep like a shadow. But it was not the sort of suspicion to cool +the thrill in his blood or frighten him, for he was quite ready to +concede that Mary Standish was a fugitive, and that her flight from +Seattle had been in the face of a desperate necessity. What had +happened aboard ship was further proof, and her presence at his range a +final one. Forces had driven her which it had been impossible for her +to combat, and in desperation she had come to him for refuge. She had +chosen him out of all the world to help her; she believed in him; she +had faith that with him no harm could come, and his muscles tightened +with sudden desire to fight for her. + +In these moments he became conscious of the evening song of the tundras +and the soft splendor of the miles reaching out ahead of them. He +strained his eyes to catch another glimpse of the mounted figures when +they came up out of hollows to the clough-tops, but the lacy veils of +evening were drawing closer, and he looked in vain. Bird-song grew +softer; sleepy cries rose from the grasses and pools; the fire of the +sun itself died out, leaving its radiance in a mingling of vivid rose +and mellow gold over the edge of the world. It was night and yet day, +and Alan wondered what thoughts were in the heart of Mary Standish. +What had driven her to the Range was of small importance compared with +the thrilling fact that she was just ahead of him. The mystery of her +would be explained tomorrow. He was sure of that. She would confide in +him. Now that she had so utterly placed herself under his protection, +she would tell him what she had not dared to disclose aboard the +_Nome_. So he thought only of the silvery distance of twilight that +separated them, and spoke at last to Stampede. + +“I’m rather glad you brought her,” he said. + +“I didn’t bring her,” protested Stampede. “She _came_.” He shrugged his +shoulders with a grunt. “And furthermore I didn’t manage it. She did +that herself. She didn’t come with me. I came with _her_.” + +He stopped and struck a match to light his pipe. Over the tiny flame he +glared fiercely at Alan, but in his eyes was something that betrayed +him. Alan saw it and felt a desire to laugh out of sheer happiness. His +keen vision and sense of humor were returning. + +“How did it happen?” + +Stampede puffed loudly at his pipe, then took it from his mouth and +drew in a deep breath. + +“First I remember was the fourth night after we landed at Cordova. +Couldn’t get a train on the new line until then. Somewhere up near +Chitina we came to a washout. It didn’t rain. You couldn’t call it +that, Alan. It was the Pacific Ocean falling on us, with two or three +other oceans backing it up. The stage came along, horses swimming, +coach floating, driver half drowned in his seat. I was that hungry I +got in for Chitina. There was one other climbed in after me, and I +wondered what sort of fool he was. I said something about being starved +or I’d have hung to the train. The other didn’t answer. Then I began to +swear. I did, Alan. I cursed terrible. Swore at the Government for +building such a road, swore at the rain, an’ I swore at myself for not +bringin’ along grub. I said my belly was as empty as a shot-off +cartridge, and I said it good an’ loud. I was mad. Then a big flash of +lightning lit up the coach. Alan, it was _her_ sittin’ there with a box +in her lap, facing me, drippin’ wet, her eyes shining—and she was +smiling at me! Yessir, _smiling_.” + +Stampede paused to let the shock sink in. He was not disappointed. + +Alan stared at him in amazement. “The fourth night—after—” He caught +himself. “Go on, Stampede!” + +“I began hunting for the latch on the door, Alan. I was goin’ to sneak +out, drop in the mud, disappear before the lightnin’ come again. But it +caught me. An’ there she was, undoing the box, and I heard her saying +she had plenty of good stuff to eat. An’ she called me Stampede, like +she’d known me all her life, and with that coach rolling an’ rocking +and the thunder an’ lightning an’ rain piling up against each other +like sin, she came over and sat down beside me and began to feed me. +She did that, Alan—_fed_ me. When the lightning fired up, I could see +her eyes shining and her lips smilin’ as if all that hell about us made +her happy, and I thought she was plumb crazy. Before I knew it she was +telling me how you pointed me out to her in the smoking-room, and how +happy she was that I was goin’ her way. _Her_ way, mind you, Alan, not +_mine._ And that’s just the way she’s kept me goin’ up to the minute +you hove in sight back there in the cottonwoods!” + +He lighted his pipe again. “Alan, how the devil did she know I was +hitting the trail for your place?” + +“She didn’t,” replied Alan. + +“But she did. She said that meeting with me in the coach was the +happiest moment of her life, because _she_ was on her way up to your +range, and I’d be such jolly good company for her. ‘Jolly good’—them +were the words she used! When I asked her if you knew she was coming +up, she said no, of course not, and that it was going to be a grand +surprise. Said it was possible she’d buy your range, and she wanted to +look it over before you arrived. An’ it seems queer I can’t remember +anything more about the thunder and lightning between there and +Chitina. When we took the train again, she began askin’ a million +questions about you and the Range and Alaska. Soak me if you want to, +Alan—but everything I knew she got out of me between Chitina and +Fairbanks, and she got it in such a sure-fire nice way that I’d have +eat soap out of her hand if she’d offered it to me. Then, sort of sly +and soft-like, she began asking questions about John Graham—and I woke +up.” + +“John Graham!” Alan repeated the name. + +“Yes, John Graham. And I had a lot to tell. After that I tried to get +away from her. But she caught me just as I was sneakin’ aboard a +down-river boat, and cool as you please—with her hand on my arm—she +said she wasn’t quite ready to go yet, and would I please come and help +her carry some stuff she was going to buy. Alan, it ain’t a lie what +I’m going to tell you! She led me up the street, telling me what a +wonderful idea she had for surprisin’ _you_. Said she knew you would +return to the Range by the Fourth of July and we sure must have some +fireworks. Said you was such a good American you’d be disappointed if +you didn’t have ’em. So she took me in a store an’ bought it out. Asked +the man what he’d take for everything in his joint that had powder in +it. Five hundred dollars, that was what she paid. She pulled a silk +something out of the front of her dress with a pad of hundred-dollar +bills in it an inch think. Then she asked _me_ to get them firecrackers +’n’ wheels ’n’ skyrockets ’n’ balloons ’n’ other stuff down to the +boat, and she asked me just as if I was a sweet little boy who’d be +tickled to death to do it!” + +In the excitement of unburdening himself of a matter which he had borne +in secret for many days, Stampede did not observe the effect of his +words upon his companion. Incredulity shot into Alan’s eyes, and the +humorous lines about his mouth vanished when he saw clearly that +Stampede was not drawing upon his imagination. Yet what he had told him +seemed impossible. Mary Standish had come aboard the _Nome_ a fugitive. +All her possessions she had brought with her in a small hand-bag, and +these things she had left in her cabin when she leaped into the sea. +How, then, could she logically have had such a sum of money at +Fairbanks as Stampede described? Was it possible the Thlinkit Indian +had also become her agent in transporting the money ashore on the night +she played her desperate game by making the world believe she had died? +And was this money—possibly the manner in which she had secured it in +Seattle—the cause of her flight and the clever scheme she had put into +execution a little later? + +He had been thinking crime, and his face grew hot at the sin of it. It +was like thinking it of another woman, who was dead, and whose name was +cut under his father’s in the old cottonwood tree. + +Stampede, having gained his wind, was saying: “You don’t seem +interested, Alan. But I’m going on, or I’ll bust. I’ve got to tell you +what happened, and then if you want to lead me out and shoot me, I +won’t say a word. I say, curse a firecracker anyway!” + +“Go on,” urged Alan. “I’m interested.” + +“I got ’em on the boat,” continued Stampede viciously. “And she with me +every minute, smiling in that angel way of hers, and not letting me out +of her sight a flick of her eyelash, unless there was only one hole to +go in an’ come out at. And then she said she wanted to do a little +shopping, which meant going into every shack in town and buyin’ +something, an’ I did the lugging. At last she bought a gun, and when I +asked her what she was goin’ to do with it, she said, ‘Stampede, that’s +for you,’ an’ when I went to thank her, she said: ‘No, I don’t mean it +that way. I mean that if you try to run away from me again I’m going to +fill you full of holes.’ She said that! Threatened me. Then she bought +me a new outfit from toe to summit—boots, pants, shirt, hat _and_ a +necktie! And I didn’t say a word, not a word. She just led me in an’ +bought what she wanted and made me put ’em on.” + +Stampede drew in a mighty breath, and a fourth time wasted a match on +his pipe. “I was getting used to it by the time we reached Tanana,” he +half groaned. “Then the hell of it begun. She hired six Indians to tote +the luggage, and we set out over the trail for your place. ‘You’re +goin’ to have a rest, Stampede,’ she says to me, smiling so cool and +sweet like you wanted to eat her alive. ‘All you’ve got to do is show +us the way and carry the bums.’ ‘Carry the what?’ I asks. ‘The bums,’ +she says, an’ then she explains that a bum is a thing filled with +powder which makes a terrible racket when it goes off. So I took the +bums, and the next day one of the Indians sprained a leg, and dropped +out. He had the firecrackers, pretty near a hundred pounds, and we +whacked up his load among us. I couldn’t stand up straight when we +camped. We had crooks in our backs every inch of the way to the Range. +And _would_ she let us cache some of that junk? Not on your life she +wouldn’t! And all the time while they was puffing an’ panting them +Indians was worshipin’ her with their eyes. The last day, when we +camped with the Range almost in sight, she drew ’em all up in a circle +about her and gave ’em each a handful of money above their pay. ‘That’s +because I love you,’ she says, and then she begins asking them funny +questions. Did they have wives and children? Were they ever hungry? Did +they ever know about any of their people starving to death? And just +_why_ did they starve? And, Alan, so help me thunder if them Indians +didn’t talk! Never heard Indians tell so much. And in the end she asked +them the funniest question of all, asked them if they’d heard of a man +named John Graham. One of them had, and afterward I saw her talking a +long time with him alone, and when she come back to me, her eyes were +sort of burning up, and she didn’t say good night when she went into +her tent. That’s all, Alan, except—” + +“Except what, Stampede?” said Alan, his heart throbbing like a drum +inside him. + +Stampede took his time to answer, and Alan heard him chuckling and saw +a flash of humor in the little man’s eyes. + +“Except that she’s done with everyone on the Range just what she did +with me between Chitina and here,” he said. “Alan, if she wants to say +the word, why, _you_ ain’t boss any more, that’s all. She’s been there +ten days, and you won’t know the place. It’s all done up in flags, +waiting for you. She an’ Nawadlook and Keok are running everything but +the deer. The kids would leave their mothers for her, and the men—” He +chuckled again. “Why, the men even go to the Sunday school she’s +started! I went. Nawadlook sings.” + +For a moment he was silent. Then he said in a subdued voice, “Alan, +you’ve been a big fool.” + +“I know it, Stampede.” + +“She’s a—a flower, Alan. She’s worth more than all the gold in the +world. And you could have married her. I know it. But it’s too late +now. I’m warnin’ you.” + +“I don’t quite understand, Stampede. Why is it too late?” + +“Because she likes me,” declared Stampede a bit fiercely. “I’m after +her myself, Alan. You can’t butt in now.” + +“Great Scott!” gasped Alan. “You mean that Mary Standish—” + +“I’m not talking about Mary Standish,” said Stampede. “It’s Nawadlook. +If it wasn’t for my whiskers—” + +His words were broken by a sudden detonation which came out of the pale +gloom ahead of them. It was like the explosion of a cannon a long +distance away. + +“One of them cussed bums,” he explained. “That’s why they hurried on +ahead of us, Alan. _She_ says this Fourth of July celebration is going +to mean a lot for Alaska. Wonder what she means?” + +“I wonder,” said Alan. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +Half an hour more of the tundra and they came to what Alan had named +Ghost Kloof, a deep and jagged scar in the face of the earth, running +down from the foothills of the mountains. It was a sinister thing, and +in the depths lay abysmal darkness as they descended a rocky path worn +smooth by reindeer and caribou hoofs. At the bottom, a hundred feet +below the twilight of the plains, Alan dropped on his knees beside a +little spring that he groped for among the stones, and as he drank he +could hear the weird whispering and gurgling of water up and down the +kloof, choked and smothered in the moss of the rock walls and eternally +dripping from the crevices. Then he saw Stampede’s face in the glow of +another match, and the little man’s eyes were staring into the black +chasm that reached for miles up into the mountains. + +“Alan, you’ve been up this gorge?” + +“It’s a favorite runway for the lynx and big brown bears that kill our +fawns,” replied Alan. “I hunt alone, Stampede. The place is supposed to +be haunted, you know. Ghost Kloof, I call it, and no Eskimo will enter +it. The bones of dead men lie up there.” + +“Never prospected it?” persisted Stampede. + +“Never.” + +Alan heard the other’s grunt of disgust. + +“You’re reindeer-crazy,” he grumbled. “There’s gold in this canyon. +Twice I’ve found it where there were dead men’s bones. They bring me +good luck.” + +“But these were Eskimos. They didn’t come for gold.” + +“I know it. The Boss settled that for me. When she heard what was the +matter with this place, she made me take her into it. Nerve? Say, I’m +telling you there wasn’t any of it left out of her when she was born!” +He was silent for a moment, and then added: “When we came to that +dripping, slimy rock with the big yellow skull layin’ there like a +poison toadstool, she didn’t screech and pull back, but just gave a +little gasp and stared at it hard, and her fingers pinched my arm until +it hurt. It was a devilish-looking thing, yellow as a sick orange and +soppy with the drip of the wet moss over it. I wanted to blow it to +pieces, and I guess I would if she hadn’t put a hand on my gun. An’ +with a funny little smile she says: ‘Don’t do it, Stampede. It makes me +think of someone I know—and I wouldn’t want you to shoot him.’ Darned +funny thing to say, wasn’t it? Made her think of someone she knew! Now, +who the devil could look like a rotten skull?” + +Alan made no effort to reply, except to shrug his shoulders. They +climbed up out of gloom into the light of the plain. Smoothness of the +tundra was gone on this side of the crevasse. Ahead of them rolled up a +low hill, and mountainward hills piled one upon another until they were +lost in misty distance. From the crest of the ridge they looked out +into a vast sweep of tundra which ran in among the out-guarding billows +and hills of the Endicott Mountains in the form of a wide, semicircular +bay. Beyond the next swell in the tundra lay the range, and scarcely +had they reached this when Stampede drew his big gun from its holster. +Twice he blazed in the air. + +“Orders,” he said a little sheepishly. “Orders, Alan!” + +Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when a yell came to them from +beyond the light-mists that hovered like floating lace over the tundra. +It was joined by another, and still another, until there was such a +sound that Alan knew Tautuk and Amuk Toolik and Topkok and Tatpan and +all the others were splitting their throats in welcome, and with it +very soon came a series of explosions that set the earth athrill under +their feet. + +“Bums!” growled Stampede. “She’s got Chink lanterns hanging up all +about, too. You should have seen her face, Alan, when she found there +was sunlight all night up here on July Fourth!” + +From the range a pale streak went sizzling into the air, mounting until +it seemed to pause for a moment to look down upon the gray world, then +burst into innumerable little balls of puffy smoke. Stampede blazed +away with his forty-five, and Alan felt the thrill of it and emptied +the magazine of his gun, the detonations of revolver and rifle drowning +the chorus of sound that came from the range. A second rocket answered +them. Two columns of flame leaped up from the earth as huge fires +gained headway, and Alan could hear the shrill chorus of children’s +voices mingling with the vocal tumult of men. All the people of his +range were there. They had come in from the timber-naked plateaux and +high ranges where the herds were feeding, and from the outlying shacks +of the tundras to greet him. Never had there been such a concentration +of effort on the part of his people. And Mary Standish was behind it +all! He knew he was fighting against odds when he tried to keep that +fact from choking up his heart a little. + +He had not heard what Stampede was saying—that he and Amuk Toolik and +forty kids had labored a week gathering dry moss and timber fuel for +the big fires. There were three of these fires now, and the tom-toms +were booming their hollow notes over the tundra as Alan quickened his +steps. Over a little knoll, and he was looking at the buildings of the +range, wildly excited figures running about, women and children +flinging moss on the fires, the tom-tom beaters squatted in a +half-circle facing the direction from which he would come, and fifty +Chinese lanterns swinging in the soft night-breeze. + +He knew what they were expecting of him, for they were children, all of +them. Even Tautuk and Amuk Toolik, his chief herdsmen, were children. +Nawadlook and Keok were children. Strong and loyal and ready to die for +him in any fight or stress, they were still children. He gave Stampede +his rifle and hastened on, determined to keep his eyes from questing +for Mary Standish in these first minutes of his return. He sounded the +tundra call, and men, women, and little children came running to meet +him. The drumming of the tom-toms ceased, and the beaters leaped to +their feet. He was inundated. There was a shrill crackling of voice, +laughter, children’s squeals, a babel of delight. He gripped hands with +both his own—hard, thick, brown hands of men; little, softer, brown +hands of women; he lifted children up in his arms, slapped his palm +affectionately against the men’s shoulders, and talked, talked, talked, +calling each by name without a slip of memory, though there were fifty +around him counting the children. First, last, and always these were +_his people_. The old pride swept over him, a compelling sense of power +and possession. They loved him, crowding in about him like a great +family, and he shook hands twice and three times with the same men and +women, and lifted the same children from the arms of delighted mothers, +and cried out greetings and familiarities with an abandon which a few +minutes ago knowledge of Mary Standish’s presence would have tempered. +Then, suddenly, he saw her under the Chinese lanterns in front of his +cabin. Sokwenna, so old that he hobbled double and looked like a witch, +stood beside her. In a moment Sokwenna’s head disappeared, and there +came the booming of a tom-tom. As quickly as the crowd had gathered +about him, it fell away. The beaters squatted themselves in their +semicircle again. Fireworks began to go off. Dancers assembled. Rockets +hissed through the air. Roman candles popped. From the open door of his +cabin came the sound of a phonograph. It was aimed directly at him, the +one thing intended for his understanding alone. It was playing “When +Johnny Comes Marching Home.” + +Mary Standish had not moved. He saw her laughing at him, and she was +alone. She was not the Mary Standish he had known aboard ship. Fear, +the quiet pallor of her face, and the strain and repression which had +seemed to be a part of her were gone. She was aflame with life, yet it +was not with voice or action that she revealed herself. It was in her +eyes, the flush of her cheeks and lips, the poise of her slim body as +she waited for him. A thought flashed upon him that for a space she had +forgotten herself and the shadow which had driven her to leap into the +sea. + +“It is splendid!” she said when he came up to her, and her voice +trembled a little. “I didn’t guess how badly they wanted you back. It +must be a great happiness to have people think of you like that.” + +“And I thank you for your part,” he replied. “Stampede has told me. It +was quite a bit of trouble, wasn’t it, with nothing more than the hope +of Americanizing a pagan to inspire you?” He nodded at the half-dozen +flags over his cabin. “They’re rather pretty.” + +“It was no trouble. And I hope you don’t mind. It has been great fun.” + +He tried to look casually out upon his people as he answered her. It +seemed to him there was only one thing to say, and that it was a duty +to speak what was in his mind calmly and without emotion. + +“Yes, I do mind,” he said. “I mind so much that I wouldn’t trade what +has happened for all the gold in these mountains. I’m sorry because of +what happened back in the cottonwoods, but I wouldn’t trade that, +either. I’m glad you’re alive. I’m glad you’re here. But something is +missing. You know what it is. You must tell me about yourself. It is +the only fair thing for you to do now.” + +She touched his arm with her hand. “Let us wait for tomorrow. +Please—let us wait.” + +“And then—tomorrow—” + +“It is your right to question me and send me back if I am not welcome. +But not tonight. All this is too fine—just you—and your people—and +their happiness.” He bent his head to catch her words, almost drowned +by the hissing of a sky-rocket and the popping of firecrackers. She +nodded toward the buildings beyond his cabin. “I am with Keok and +Nawadlook. They have given me a home.” And then swiftly she added, “I +don’t think you love your people more than I do, Alan Holt!” + +Nawadlook was approaching, and with a lingering touch of her fingers on +his arm she drew away from him. His face did not show his +disappointment, nor did he make a movement to keep her with him. + +“Your people are expecting things of you,” she said. “A little later, +if you ask me, I may dance with you to the music of the tom-toms.” + +He watched her as she went away with Nawadlook. She looked back at him +and smiled, and there was something in her face which set his heart +beating faster. She had been afraid aboard the ship, but she was not +afraid of tomorrow. Thought of it and the questions he would ask did +not frighten her, and a happiness which he had persistently held away +from himself triumphed in a sudden, submerging flood. It was as if +something in her eyes and voice had promised him that the dreams he had +dreamed through weeks of torture and living death were coming true, and +that possibly in her ride over the tundra that night she had come a +little nearer to the truth of what those weeks had meant to him. Surely +he would never quite be able to tell her. And what she said to him +tomorrow would, in the end, make little difference. She was alive, and +he could not let her go away from him again. + +He joined the tom-tom beaters and the dancers. It rather amazed him to +discover himself doing things which he had never done before. His +nature was an aloof one, observing and sympathetic, but always more or +less detached. At his people’s dances it was his habit to stand on the +side-line, smiling and nodding encouragement, but never taking a part. +His habit of reserve fell from him now, and he seemed possessed of a +new sense of freedom and a new desire to give physical expression to +something within him. Stampede was dancing. He was kicking his feet and +howling with the men, while the women dancers went through the muscular +movements of arms and bodies. A chorus of voices invited Alan. They had +always invited him. And tonight he accepted, and took his place between +Stampede and Amuk Toolik and the tom-tom beaters almost burst their +instruments in their excitement. Not until he dropped out, half +breathless, did he see Mary Standish and Keok in the outer circle. Keok +was frankly amazed. Mary Standish’s eyes were shining, and she clapped +her hands when she saw that he had observed her. He tried to laugh, and +waved his hand, but he felt too foolish to go to her. And then the +balloon went up, a big, six-foot balloon, and with all its fire made +only a pale glow in the sky, and after another hour of hand-shaking, +shoulder-clapping, and asking of questions about health and domestic +matters, Alan went to his cabin. + +He looked about the one big room that was his living-room, and it never +had seemed quite so comforting as now. At first he thought it was as he +had left it, for there was his desk where it should be, the big table +in the middle of the room, the same pictures on the walls, his gun-rack +filled with polished weapons, his pipes, the rugs on the floor—and +then, one at a time, he began to observe things that were different. In +place of dark shades there were soft curtains at his windows, and new +covers on his table and the home-made couch in the corner. On his desk +were two pictures in copper-colored frames, one of George Washington +and the other of Abraham Lincoln, and behind them crisscrossed against +the wall just over the top of the desk, were four tiny American flags. +They recalled Alan’s mind to the evening aboard the _Nome_ when Mary +Standish had challenged his assertion that he was an Alaskan and not an +American. Only she would have thought of those two pictures and the +little flags. There were flowers in his room, and she had placed them +there. She must have picked fresh flowers each day and kept them +waiting the hour of his coming, and she had thought of him in Tanana, +where she had purchased the cloth for the curtains and the covers. He +went into his bedroom and found new curtains at the window, a new +coverlet on his bed, and a pair of red morocco slippers that he had +never seen before. He took them up in his hands and laughed when he saw +how she had misjudged the size of his feet. + +In the living-room he sat down and lighted his pipe, observing that +Keok’s phonograph, which had been there earlier in the evening, was +gone. Outside, the noise of the celebration died away, and the growing +stillness drew him to the window from which he could see the cabin +where lived Keok and Nawadlook with their foster-father, the old and +shriveled Sokwenna. It was there Mary Standish had said she was +staying. For a long time Alan watched it while the final sounds of the +night drifted away into utter silence. + +It was a knock at his door that turned him about at last, and in answer +to his invitation Stampede came in. He nodded and sat down. Shiftingly +his eyes traveled about the room. + +“Been a fine night, Alan. Everybody glad to see you.” + +“They seemed to be. I’m happy to be home again.” + +“Mary Standish did a lot. She fixed up this room.” + +“I guessed as much,” replied Alan. “Of course Keok and Nawadlook helped +her.” + +“Not very much. She did it. Made the curtains. Put them pictures and +flags there. Picked the flowers. Been nice an’ thoughtful, hasn’t she?” + +“And somewhat unusual,” added Alan. + +“And she is pretty.” + +“Most decidedly so.” + +There was a puzzling look in Stampede’s eyes. He twisted nervously in +his chair and waited for words. Alan sat down opposite him. + +“What’s on your mind, Stampede?” + +“Hell, mostly,” shot back Stampede with sudden desperation. “I’ve come +loaded down with a dirty job, and I’ve kept it back this long because I +didn’t want to spoil your fun tonight. I guess a man ought to keep to +himself what he knows about a woman, but I’m thinking this is a little +different. I hate to do it. I’d rather take the chance of a snake-bite. +But you’d shoot me if you knew I was keeping it to myself.” + +“Keeping what to yourself?” + +“The truth, Alan. It’s up to me to tell you what I know about this +young woman who calls herself Mary Standish.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +The physical sign of strain in Stampede’s face, and the stolid effort +he was making to say something which it was difficult for him to put +into words, did not excite Alan as he waited for his companion’s +promised disclosure. Instead of suspense he felt rather a sense of +anticipation and relief. What he had passed through recently had burned +out of him a certain demand upon human ethics which had been almost +callous in its insistence, and while he believed that something very +real and very stern in the way of necessity had driven Mary Standish +north, he was now anxious to be given the privilege of gripping with +any force of circumstance that had turned against her. He wanted to +know the truth, yet he had dreaded the moment when the girl herself +must tell it to him, and the fact that Stampede had in some way +discovered this truth, and was about to make disclosure of it, was a +tremendous lightening of the situation. + +“Go on,” he said at last. “What do you know about Mary Standish?” + +Stampede leaned over the table, a gleam of distress in his eyes. “It’s +rotten. I know it. A man who backslides on a woman the way I’m goin’ to +oughta be shot, and if it was anything else—_anything_—I’d keep it to +myself. But you’ve got to know. And you can’t understand just how +rotten it is, either; you haven’t ridden in a coach with her during a +storm that was blowing the Pacific outa bed, an’ you haven’t hit the +trail with her all the way from Chitina to the Range as I did. If you’d +done that, Alan, you’d feel like killing a man who said anything +against her.” + +“I’m not inquiring into your personal affairs,” reminded Alan. “It’s +your own business.” + +“That’s the trouble,” protested Stampede. “It’s not my business. It’s +yours. If I’d guessed the truth before we hit the Range, everything +would have been different. I’d have rid myself of her some way. But I +didn’t find out what she was until this evening, when I returned Keok’s +music machine to their cabin. I’ve been trying to make up my mind what +to do ever since. If she was only making her get-away from the States, +a pickpocket, a coiner, somebody’s bunco pigeon chased by the +police—almost anything—we could forgive her. Even if she’d shot up +somebody—” He made a gesture of despair. “But she didn’t. She’s worse +than that!” + +He leaned a little nearer to Alan. + +“She’s one of John Graham’s tools sent up here to sneak and spy on +you,” he finished desperately. “I’m sorry—but I’ve got the proof.” + +His hand crept over the top of the table; slowly the closed palm +opened, and when he drew it back, a crumpled paper lay between them. +“Found it on the floor when I took the phonograph back,” he explained. +“It was twisted up hard. Don’t know why I unrolled it. Just chance.” + +He waited until Alan had read the few words on the bit of paper, +watching closely the slight tensing of the other’s face. After a moment +Alan dropped the paper, rose to his feet, and went to the window. There +was no longer a light in the cabin where Mary Standish had been +accepted as a guest. Stampede, too, had risen from his seat. He saw the +sudden and almost imperceptible shrug of Alan’s shoulders. + +It was Alan who spoke, after a half-mixture of silence. “Rather a +missing link, isn’t it? Adds up a number of things fairly well. And I’m +grateful to you, Stampede. Almost—you didn’t tell me.” + +“Almost,” admitted Stampede. + +“And I wouldn’t have blamed you. She’s that kind—the kind that makes +you feel anything said against her is a lie. And I’m going to believe +that paper is a lie—until tomorrow. Will you take a message to Tautuk +and Amuk Toolik when you go out? I’m having breakfast at seven. Tell +them to come to my cabin with their reports and records at eight. Later +I’m going up into the foothills to look over the herds.” + +Stampede nodded. It was a good fight on Alan’s part, and it was just +the way he had expected him to take the matter. It made him rather +ashamed of the weakness and uncertainty to which he had confessed. Of +course they could do nothing with a woman; it wasn’t a shooting +business—yet. But there was a debatable future, if the gist of the note +on the table ran true to their unspoken analysis of it. Promise of +something like that was in Alan’s eyes. + +He opened the door. “I’ll have Tautuk and Amuk Toolik here at eight. +Good night, Alan!” + +“Good night!” + +Alan watched Stampede’s figure until it had disappeared before he +closed the door. + +Now that he was alone, he no longer made an effort to restrain the +anxiety which the prospector’s unexpected revealment had aroused in +him. The other’s footsteps were scarcely gone when he again had the +paper in his hand. It was clearly the lower part of a letter sheet of +ordinary business size and had been carelessly torn from the larger +part of the page, so that nothing more than the signature and half a +dozen lines of writing in a man’s heavy script remained. + +What was left of the letter which Alan would have given much to have +possessed, read as follows: + +“_—If you work carefully and guard your real identity in securing facts +and information, we should have the entire industry in our hands within +a year_.” + +Under these words was the strong and unmistakable signature of John +Graham. + +A score of times Alan had seen that signature, and the hatred he bore +for its maker, and the desire for vengeance which had entwined itself +like a fibrous plant through all his plans for the future, had made of +it an unforgetable writing in his brain. Now that he held in his hand +words written by his enemy, and the man who had been his father’s +enemy, all that he had kept away from Stampede’s sharp eyes blazed in a +sudden fury in his face. He dropped the paper as if it had been a thing +unclean, and his hands clenched until his knuckles snapped in the +stillness of the room, as he slowly faced the window through which a +few moments ago he had looked in the direction of Mary Standish’s +cabin. + +So John Graham was keeping his promise, the deadly promise he had made +in the one hour of his father’s triumph—that hour in which the elder +Holt might have rid the earth of a serpent if his hands had not +revolted in the last of those terrific minutes which he as a youth had +witnessed. And Mary Standish was the instrument he had chosen to work +his ends! + +In these first minutes Alan could not find a doubt with which to fend +the absoluteness of the convictions which were raging in his head, or +still the tumult that was in his heart and blood. He made no pretense +to deny the fact that John Graham must have written this letter to Mary +Standish; inadvertently she had kept it, had finally attempted to +destroy it, and Stampede, by chance, had discovered a small but +convincing remnant of it. In a whirlwind of thought he pieced together +things that had happened: her efforts to interest him from the +beginning, the determination with which she had held to her purpose, +her boldness in following him to the Range, and her apparent endeavor +to work herself into his confidence—and with John Graham’s signature +staring at him from the table these things seemed conclusive and +irrefutable evidence. The “industry” which Graham had referred to could +mean only his own and Carl Lomen’s, the reindeer industry which they +had built up and were fighting to perpetuate, and which Graham and his +beef-baron friends were combining to handicap and destroy. And in this +game of destruction clever Mary Standish had come to play a part! + +_But why had she leaped into the sea?_ + +It was as if a new voice had made itself heard in Alan’s brain, a voice +that rose insistently over a vast tumult of things, crying out against +his arguments and demanding order and reason in place of the mad +convictions that possessed him. If Mary Standish’s mission was to pave +the way for his ruin, and if she was John Graham’s agent sent for that +purpose, what reason could she have had for so dramatically attempting +to give the world the impression that she had ended her life at sea? +Surely such an act could in no way have been related with any plot +which she might have had against him! In building up this structure of +her defense he made no effort to sever her relationship with John +Graham; that, he knew, was impossible. The note, her actions, and many +of the things she had said were links inevitably associating her with +his enemy, but these same things, now that they came pressing one upon +another in his memory, gave to their collusion a new significance. + +Was it conceivable that Mary Standish, instead of working for John +Graham, was working _against_ him? Could some conflict between them +have been the reason for her flight aboard the _Nome_, and was it +because she discovered Rossland there—John Graham’s most trusted +servant—that she formed her desperate scheme of leaping into the sea? + +Between the two oppositions of his thought a sickening burden of what +he knew to be true settled upon him. Mary Standish, even if she hated +John Graham now, had at one time—and not very long ago—been an +instrument of his trust; the letter he had written to her was positive +proof of that. What it was that had caused a possible split between +them and had inspired her flight from Seattle, and, later, her effort +to bury a past under the fraud of a make-believe death, he might never +learn, and just now he had no very great desire to look entirely into +the whole truth of the matter. It was enough to know that of the past, +and of the things that happened, she had been afraid, and it was in the +desperation of this fear, with Graham’s cleverest agent at her heels, +that she had appealed to him in his cabin, and, failing to win him to +her assistance, had taken the matter so dramatically into her own +hands. And within that same hour a nearly successful attempt had been +made upon Rossland’s life. Of course the facts had shown that she could +not have been directly responsible for his injury, but it was a +haunting thing to remember as happening almost simultaneously with her +disappearance into the sea. + +He drew away from the window and, opening the door, went out into the +night. Cool breaths of air gave a crinkly rattle to the swinging paper +lanterns, and he could hear the soft whipping of the flags which Mary +Standish had placed over his cabin. There was something comforting in +the sound, a solace to the dishevelment of nerves he had suffered, a +reminder of their day in Skagway when she had walked at his side with +her hand resting warmly in his arm and her eyes and face filled with +the inspiration of the mountains. + +No matter what she was, or had been, there was something tenaciously +admirable about her, a quality which had risen even above her feminine +loveliness. She had proved herself not only clever; she was inspired by +courage—a courage which he would have been compelled to respect even in +a man like John Graham, and in this slim and fragile girl it appealed +to him as a virtue to be laid up apart and aside from any of the +motives which might be directing it. From the beginning it had been a +bewildering part of her—a clean, swift, unhesitating courage that had +leaped bounds where his own volition and judgment would have hung +waveringly; that one courage in all the world—a woman’s courage—which +finds in the effort of its achievement no obstacle too high and no +abyss too wide though death waits with outreaching arms on the other +side. And, surely, where there had been all this, there must also have +been some deeper and finer impulse than one of destruction, of physical +gain, or of mere duty in the weaving of a human scheme. + +The thought and the desire to believe brought words half aloud from +Alan’s lips, as he looked up again at the flags beating softly above +his cabin. Mary Standish was not what Stampede’s discovery had +proclaimed her to be; there was some mistake, a monumental stupidity of +reasoning on their part, and tomorrow would reveal the littleness and +the injustice of their suspicions. He tried to force the conviction +upon himself, and reentering the cabin he went to bed, still telling +himself that a great lie had built itself up out of nothing, and that +the God of all things was good to him because Mary Standish was alive, +and not dead. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +Alan slept soundly for several hours, but the long strain of the +preceding day did not make him overreach the time he had set for +himself, and he was up at six o’clock. Wegaruk had not forgotten her +old habits, and a tub filled with cold water was waiting for him. He +bathed, shaved himself, put on fresh clothes, and promptly at seven was +at breakfast. The table at which he ordinarily sat alone was in a +little room with double windows, through which, as he enjoyed his +meals, he could see most of the habitations of the range. Unlike the +average Eskimo dwellings they were neatly built of small timber brought +down from the mountains, and were arranged in orderly fashion like the +cottages of a village, strung out prettily on a single street. A sea of +flowers lay in front of them, and at the end of the row, built on a +little knoll that looked down into one of the watered hollows of the +tundra, was Sokwenna’s cabin. Because Sokwenna was the “old man” of the +community and therefore the wisest—and because with him lived his +foster-daughters, Keok and Nawadlook, the loveliest of Alan’s tribal +colony—Sokwenna’s cabin was next to Alan’s in size. And Alan, looking +at it now and then as he ate his breakfast, saw a thin spiral of smoke +rising from the chimney, but no other sign of life. + +The sun was already up almost to its highest point, a little more than +half-way between the horizon and the zenith, performing the apparent +miracle of rising in the north and traveling east instead of west. Alan +knew the men-folk of the village had departed hours ago for the distant +herds. Always, when the reindeer drifted into the higher and cooler +feeding-grounds of the foothills, there was this apparent abandonment, +and after last night’s celebration the women and children were not yet +awake to the activities of the long day, where the rising and setting +of the sun meant so little. + +As he rose from the table, he glanced again toward Sokwenna’s cabin. A +solitary figure had climbed up out of the ravine and stood against the +sun on the clough-top. Even at that distance, with the sun in his eyes, +he knew it was Mary Standish. + +He turned his back stoically to the window and lighted his pipe. For +half an hour after that he sorted out his papers and range-books in +preparation for the coming of Tautuk and Amuk Toolik, and when they +arrived, the minute hand of his watch was at the hour of eight. + +That the months of his absence had been prosperous ones he perceived by +the smiling eagerness in the brown faces of his companions as they +spread out the papers on which they had, in their own crude fashion, +set down a record of the winter’s happenings. Tautuk’s voice, slow and +very deliberate in its unfailing effort to master English without a +slip, had in it a subdued note of satisfaction and triumph, while Amuk +Toolik, who was quick and staccato in his manner of speech, using +sentences seldom of greater length than three or four words, and who +picked up slang and swear-words like a parrot, swelled with pride as he +lighted his pipe, and then rubbed his hands with a rasping sound that +always sent a chill up Alan’s back. + +“A ver’ fine and prosper’ year,” said Tautuk in response to Alan’s +first question as to general conditions. “We bean ver’ fortunate.” + +“One hell-good year,” backed up Amuk Toolik with the quickness of a +gun. “Plenty calf. Good hoof. Moss. Little wolf. Herds fat. This +year—she peach!” + +After this opening of the matter in hand Alan buried himself in the +affairs of the range, and the old thrill, the glow which comes through +achievement, and the pioneer’s pride in marking a new frontier with the +creative forces of success rose uppermost in him, and he forgot the +passing of time. A hundred questions he had to ask, and the tongues of +Tautuk and Amuk Toolik were crowded with the things they desired to +tell him. Their voices filled the room with a paean of triumph. His +herds had increased by a thousand head during the fawning months of +April and May, and interbreeding of the Asiatic stock with wild, +woodland caribou had produced a hundred calves of the super-animal +whose flesh was bound to fill the markets of the States within a few +years. Never had the moss been thicker under the winter snow; there had +been no destructive fires; soft-hoof had escaped them; breeding records +had been beaten, and dairying in the edge of the Arctic was no longer +an experiment, but an established fact, for Tautuk now had seven deer +giving a pint and a half of milk each twice a day, nearly as rich as +the best of cream from cattle, and more than twenty that were +delivering from a cupful to a pint at a milking. And to this Amuk +Toolik added the amazing record of their running-deer, Kauk, the +three-year-old, had drawn a sledge five miles over unbeaten snow in +thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds; Kauk and Olo, in team, had +drawn the same sledge ten miles in twenty-six minutes and forty +seconds, and one day he had driven the two ninety-eight miles in a +mighty endurance test; and with Eno and Sutka, the first of their +inter-breed with the wild woodland caribou, and heavier beasts, he had +drawn a load of eight hundred pounds for three consecutive days at the +rate of forty miles a day. From Fairbanks, Tanana, and the ranges of +the Seward Peninsula agents of the swiftly spreading industry had +offered as high as a hundred and ten dollars a head for breeding stock +with the blood of the woodland caribou, and of these native and larger +caribou of the tundras and forests seven young bulls and nine female +calves had been captured and added to their own propagative forces. + +For Alan this was triumph. He saw nothing of what it all meant in the +way of ultimate personal fortune. It was the earth under his feet, the +vast expanse of unpeopled waste traduced and scorned in the blindness +of a hundred million people, which he saw fighting itself on the glory +and reward of the conqueror through such achievement as this; a land +betrayed rising at last out of the slime of political greed and +ignorance; a giant irresistible in its awakening, that was destined in +his lifetime to rock the destiny of a continent. It was Alaska rising +up slowly but inexorably out of its eternity of sleep, mountain-sealed +forces of a great land that was once the cradle of the earth coming +into possession of life and power again; and his own feeble efforts in +that long and fighting process of planting the seeds which meant its +ultimate ascendancy possessed in themselves their own reward. + +Long after Tautuk and Amuk Toolik had gone, his heart was filled with +the song of success. + +He was surprised at the swiftness with which time had gone, when he +looked at his watch. It was almost dinner hour when he had finished +with his papers and books and went outside. He heard Wegaruk’s voice +coming from the dark mouth of the underground icebox dug into the +frozen subsoil of the tundra, and pausing at the glimmer of his old +housekeeper’s candle, he turned aside, descended the few steps, and +entered quietly into the big, square chamber eight feet under the +surface, where the earth had remained steadfastly frozen for some +hundreds of thousands of years. Wegaruk had a habit of talking when +alone, but Alan thought it odd that she should be explaining to herself +that the tundra-soil, in spite of its almost tropical summer richness +and luxuriance, never thawed deeper than three or four feet, below +which point remained the icy cold placed there so long ago that “even +the spirits did not know.” He smiled when he heard Wegaruk measuring +time and faith in terms of “spirits,” which she had never quite given +up for the missionaries, and was about to make his presence known when +a voice interrupted him, so close at his side that the speaker, +concealed in the shadow of the wall, could have reached out a hand and +touched him. + +“Good morning, Mr. Holt!” + +It was Mary Standish, and he stared rather foolishly to make her out in +the gloom. + +“Good morning,” he replied. “I was on my way to your place when +Wegaruk’s voice brought me here. You see, even this icebox seems like a +friend after my experience in the States. Are you after a steak, +Mammy?” he called. + +Wegaruk’s strong, squat figure turned as she answered him, and the +light from her candle, glowing brightly in a split tomato can, fell +clearly upon Mary Standish as the old woman waddled toward them. It was +as if a spotlight had been thrown upon the girl suddenly out of a pit +of darkness, and something about her, which was not her prettiness or +the beauty that was in her eyes and hair, sent a sudden and +unaccountable thrill through Alan. It remained with him when they drew +back out of gloom and chill into sunshine and warmth, leaving Wegaruk +to snuff her tomato-can lantern and follow with the steak, and it did +not leave him when they walked over the tundra together toward +Sokwenna’s cabin. It was a puzzling thrill, stirring an emotion which +it was impossible for him to subdue or explain; something which he knew +he should understand but could not. And it seemed to him that knowledge +of this mystery was in the girl’s face, glowing in a gentle +embarrassment, as she told him she had been expecting him, and that +Keok and Nawadlook had given up the cabin to them, so that he might +question her uninterrupted. But with this soft flush of her uneasiness, +revealing itself in her eyes and cheeks, he saw neither fear nor +hesitation. + +In the “big room” of Sokwenna’s cabin, which was patterned after his +own, he sat down amid the color and delicate fragrance of masses of +flowers, and the girl seated herself near him and waited for him to +speak. + +“You love flowers,” he said lamely. “I want to thank you for the +flowers you placed in my cabin. And the other things.” + +“Flowers are a habit with me,” she replied, “and I have never seen such +flowers as these. Flowers—and birds. I never dreamed that there were so +many up here.” + +“Nor the world,” he added. “It is ignorant of Alaska.” + +He was looking at her, trying to understand the inexplicable something +about her. She knew what was in his mind, because the strangely +thrilling emotion that possessed him could not keep its betrayal from +his eyes. The color was fading slowly out of her cheeks; her lips grew +a little tense, yet in her attitude of suspense and of waiting there +was no longer a suspicion of embarrassment, no trace of fear, and no +sign that a moment was at hand when her confidence was on the ebb. In +this moment Alan did not think of John Graham. It seemed to him that +she was like a child again, the child who had come to him in his cabin, +and who had stood with her back against his cabin door, entreating him +to achieve the impossible; an angel, almost, with her smooth, shining +hair, her clear, beautiful eyes, her white throat which waited with its +little heart-throb for him to beat down the fragile defense which now +lay in the greater power of his own hands. The inequality of it, and +the pitilessness of what had been in his mind to say and do, together +with an inundating sense of his own brute mastery, swept over him, and +in sudden desperation he reached out his hands toward her and cried: + +“Mary Standish, in God’s name tell me the truth. Tell me why you have +come up here!” + +“I have come,” she said, looking at him steadily, “because I know that +a man like you, when he loves a woman, will fight for her and protect +her even though he may not possess her.” + +“But you didn’t know that—not until—the cottonwoods!” he protested. + +“Yes, I did. I knew it in Ellen McCormick’s cabin.” + +She rose slowly before him, and he, too, rose to his feet, staring at +her like a man who had been struck, while intelligence—a dawning +reason—an understanding of the strange mystery of her that morning, +sent the still greater thrill of its shock through him. He gave an +exclamation of amazement. + +“You were at Ellen McCormick’s! She gave you—_that!_” + +She nodded. “Yes, the dress you brought from the ship. Please don’t +scold me, Mr. Holt. Be a little kind with me when you have heard what I +am going to tell you. I was in the cabin that last day, when you +returned from searching for me in the sea. Mr. McCormick didn’t know. +But _she_ did. I lied a little, just a little, so that she, being a +woman, would promise not to tell you I was there. You see, I had lost a +great deal of my faith, and my courage was about gone, and I was afraid +of you.” + +“Afraid of me?” + +“Yes, afraid of everybody. I was in the room behind Ellen McCormick +when she asked you—that question; and when you answered as you did, I +was like stone. I was amazed and didn’t believe, for I was certain that +after what had happened on the ship you despised me, and only through a +peculiar sense of honor were making the search for me. Not until two +days later, when your letters came to Ellen McCormick, and we read +them—” + +“You opened both?” + +“Of course. One was to be read immediately, the other when I was +found—and I had found myself. Maybe it wasn’t exactly fair, but you +couldn’t expect two women to resist a temptation like that. And—_I +wanted to know_.” + +She did not lower her eyes or turn her head aside as she made the +confession. Her gaze met Alan’s with beautiful steadiness. + +“And then I believed. I knew, because of what you said in that letter, +that you were the one man in all the world who would help me and give +me a fighting chance if I came to you. But it has taken all my +courage—and in the end you will drive me away—” + +Again he looked upon the miracle of tears in wide-open, unfaltering +eyes, tears which she did not brush away, but through which, in a +moment, she smiled at him as no woman had ever smiled at him before. +And with the tears there seemed to possess her a pride which lifted her +above all confusion, a living spirit of will and courage and womanhood +that broke away the dark clouds of suspicion and fear that had gathered +in his mind. He tried to speak, and his lips were thick. + +“You have come—because you know I love you, and you—” + +“Because, from the beginning, it must have been a great faith in you +that inspired me, Alan Holt.” + +“There must have been more than that,” he persisted. “Some other +reason.” + +“Two,” she acknowledged, and now he noticed that with the dissolution +of tears a flush of color was returning into her cheeks. + +“And those—” + +“One it is impossible for you to know; the other, if I tell you, will +make you despise me. I am sure of that.” + +“It has to do with John Graham?” + +She bowed her head. “Yes, with John Graham.” + +For the first time long lashes hid her eyes from him, and for a moment +it seemed that her resolution was gone and she stood stricken by the +import of the thing that lay behind his question; yet her cheeks flamed +red instead of paling, and when she looked at him again, her eyes +burned with a lustrous fire. + +“John Graham,” she repeated. “The man you hate and want to kill.” + +Slowly he turned toward the door. “I am leaving immediately after +dinner to inspect the herds up in the foothills,” he said. “And +you—_are welcome here_.” + +He caught the swift intake of her breath as he paused for an instant at +the door, and saw the new light that leaped into her eyes. + +“Thank you, Alan Holt,” she cried softly, “_Oh, I thank you!_!” + +And then, suddenly, she stopped him with a little cry, as if at last +something had broken away from her control. He faced her, and for a +moment they stood in silence. + +“I’m sorry—sorry I said to you what I did that night on the _Nome_,” +she said. “I accused you of brutality, of unfairness, of—of even worse +than that, and I want to take it all back. You are big and clean and +splendid, for you would go away now, knowing I am poisoned by an +association with the man who has injured you so terribly, _and you say +I am welcome!_ And I don’t want you to go. You have made me _want_ to +tell you who I am, and why I have come to you, and I pray God you will +think as kindly of me as you can when you have heard.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +It seemed to Alan that in an instant a sudden change had come over the +world. There was silence in the cabin, except for the breath which came +like a sob to the girl’s lips as she turned to the window and looked +out into the blaze of golden sunlight that filled the tundra. He heard +Tautuk’s voice, calling to Keok away over near the reindeer corral, and +he heard clearly Keok’s merry laughter as she answered him. A +gray-cheeked thrush flew up to the roof of Sokwenna’s cabin and began +to sing. It was as if these things had come as a message to both of +them, relieving a tension, and significant of the beauty and glory and +undying hope of life. Mary Standish turned from the window with shining +eyes. + +“Every day the thrush comes and sings on our cabin roof,” she said. + +“It is—possibly—because you are here,” he replied. + +She regarded him seriously. “I have thought of that. You know, I have +faith in a great many unbelievable things. I can think of nothing more +beautiful than the spirit that lives in the heart of a bird. I am sure, +if I were dying, I would like to have a bird singing near me. +Hopelessness cannot be so deep that bird-song will not reach it.” + +He nodded, trying to answer in that way. He felt uncomfortable. She +closed the door which he had left partly open, and made a little +gesture for him to resume the chair which he had left a few moments +before. She seated herself first and smiled at him wistfully, half +regretfully, as she said: + +“I have been very foolish. What I am going to tell you now I should +have told you aboard the _Nome_. But I was afraid. Now I am not afraid, +but ashamed, terribly ashamed, to let you know the truth. And yet I am +not sorry it happened so, because otherwise I would not have come up +here, and all this—your world, your people, and you—have meant a great +deal to me. You will understand when I have made my confession.” + +“No, I don’t want that,” he protested almost roughly. “I don’t want you +to put it that way. If I can help you, and if you wish to tell me as a +friend, that’s different. I don’t want a confession, which would imply +that I have no faith in you.” + +“And you have faith in me?” + +“Yes; so much that the sun will darken and bird-song never seem the +same if I lose you again, as I thought I had lost you from the ship.” + +“Oh, _you mean that_!” + +The words came from her in a strange, tense, little cry, and he seemed +to see only her eyes as he looked at her face, pale as the petals of +the tundra daises behind her. With the thrill of what he had dared to +say tugging at his heart, he wondered why she was so white. + +“You mean that,” her lips repeated slowly, “after all that has +happened—even after—that part of a letter—which Stampede brought to you +last night—” + +He was surprised. How had she discovered what he thought was a secret +between himself and Stampede? His mind leaped to a conclusion, and she +saw it written in his face. + +“No, it wasn’t Stampede,” she said. “He didn’t tell me. It—just +happened. And after this letter—you still believe in me?” + +“I must. I should be unhappy if I did not. And I am—most perversely +hoping for happiness. I have told myself that what I saw over John +Graham’s signature was a lie.” + +“It wasn’t that—quite. But it didn’t refer to you, or to me. It was +part of a letter written to Rossland. He sent me some books while I was +on the ship, and inadvertently left a page of this letter in one of +them as a marker. It was really quite unimportant, when one read the +whole of it. The other half of the page is in the toe of the slipper +which you did not return to Ellen McCormick. You know that is the +conventional thing for a woman to do—to use paper for padding in a +soft-toed slipper.” + +He wanted to shout; he wanted to throw up his arms and laugh as Tautuk +and Amuk Toolik and a score of others had laughed to the beat of the +tom-toms last night, not because he was amused, but out of sheer +happiness. But Mary Standish’s voice, continuing in its quiet and +matter-of-fact way, held him speechless, though she could not fail to +see the effect upon him of this simple explanation of the presence of +Graham’s letter. + +“I was in Nawadlook’s room when I saw Stampede pick up the wad of paper +from the floor,” she was saying. “I was looking at the slipper a few +minutes before, regretting that you had left its mate in my cabin on +the ship, and the paper must have dropped then. I saw Stampede read it, +and the shock that came in his face. Then he placed it on the table and +went out. I hurried to see what he had found and had scarcely read the +few words when I heard him returning. I returned the paper where he had +laid it, hid myself in Nawadlook’s room, and saw Stampede when he +carried it to you. I don’t know why I allowed it to be done. I had no +reason. Maybe it was just—intuition, and maybe it was because—just in +that hour—I so hated myself that I wanted someone to flay me alive, and +I thought that what Stampede had found would make you do it. And I +deserve it! I deserve nothing better at your hands.” + +“But it isn’t true,” he protested. “The letter was to Rossland.” + +There was no responsive gladness in her eyes. “Better that it were +true, and all that _is_ true were false,” she said in a quiet, hopeless +voice. “I would almost give my life to be no more than what those words +implied, dishonest, a spy, a criminal of a sort; almost any alternative +would I accept in place of what I actually am. Do you begin to +understand?” + +“I am afraid—I can not.” Even as he persisted in denial, the pain which +had grown like velvety dew in her eyes clutched at his heart, and he +felt dread of what lay behind it. “I understand—only—that I am glad you +are here, more glad than yesterday, or this morning, or an hour ago.” + +She bowed her head, so that the bright light of day made a radiance of +rich color in her hair, and he saw the sudden tremble of the shining +lashes that lay against her cheeks; and then, quickly, she caught her +breath, and her hands grew steady in her lap. + +“Would you mind—if I asked you first—to tell me _your_ story of John +Graham?” she spoke softly. “I know it, a little, but I think it would +make everything easier if I could hear it from you—now.” + +He stood up and looked down upon her where she sat, with the light +playing in her hair; and then he moved to the window, and back, and she +had not changed her position, but was waiting for him to speak. She +raised her eyes, and the question her lips had formed was glowing in +them as clearly as if she had voiced it again in words. A desire rose +in him to speak to her as he had never spoken to another human being, +and to reveal for her—and for her alone—the thing that had harbored +itself in his soul for many years. Looking up at him, waiting, partial +understanding softening her sweet face, a dusky glow in her eyes, she +was so beautiful that he cried out softly and then laughed in a strange +repressed sort of way as he half held out his arms toward her. + +“I think I know how my father must have loved my mother,” he said. “But +I can’t make you feel it. I can’t hope for that. She died when I was so +young that she remained only as a beautiful dream for me. But for my +father she _never_ died, and as I grew older she became more and more +alive for me, so that in our journeys we would talk about her as if she +were waiting for us back home and would welcome us when we returned. +And never could my father remain away from the place where she was +buried very long at a time. He called it _home_, that little cup at the +foot of the mountain, with the waterfall singing in summer, and a +paradise of birds and flowers keeping her company, and all the great, +wild world she loved about her. There was the cabin, too; the little +cabin where I was born, with its back to the big mountain, and filled +with the handiwork of my mother as she had left it when she died. And +my father too used to laugh and sing there—he had a clear voice that +would roll half-way up the mountain; and as I grew older the miracle at +times stirred me with a strange fear, so real to my father did my dead +mother seem when he was home. But you look frightened, Miss Standish! +Oh, it may seem weird and ghostly now, but it was _true_—so true that I +have lain awake nights thinking of it and wishing that it had never +been so!” + +“Then you have wished a great sin,” said the girl in a voice that +seemed scarcely to whisper between her parted lips. “I hope someone +will feel toward me—some day—like that.” + +“But it was this which brought the tragedy, the thing you have asked me +to tell you about,” he said, unclenching his hands slowly, and then +tightening them again until the blood ebbed from their veins. +“Interests were coming in; the tentacles of power and greed were +reaching out, encroaching steadily a little nearer to our cup at the +foot of the mountain. But my father did not dream of what might happen. +It came in the spring of the year he took me on my first trip to the +States, when I was eighteen. We were gone five months, and they were +five months of hell for him. Day and night he grieved for my mother and +the little home under the mountain. And when at last we came back—” + +He turned again to the window, but he did not see the golden sun of the +tundra or hear Tautuk calling from the corral. + +“When we came back,” he repeated in a cold, hard voice, “a construction +camp of a hundred men had invaded my father’s little paradise. The +cabin was gone; a channel had been cut from the waterfall, and this +channel ran where my mother’s grave had been. They had treated it with +that same desecration with which they have destroyed ten thousand +Indian graves since then. Her bones were scattered in the sand and mud. +And from the moment my father saw what had happened, never another sun +rose in the heavens for him. His heart died, yet he went on living—for +a time.” + +Mary Standish had bowed her face in her hands. He saw the tremor of her +slim shoulders; and when he came back, and she looked up at him, it was +as if he beheld the pallid beauty of one of the white tundra flowers. + +“And the man who committed that crime—was John Graham,” she said, in +the strangely passionless voice of one who knew what his answer would +be. + +“Yes, John Graham. He was there, representing big interests in the +States. The foreman had objected to what happened; many of the men had +protested; a few of them, who knew my father, had thrown up their work +rather than be partners to that crime. But Graham had the legal power; +they say he laughed as if he thought it a great joke that a cabin and a +grave should be considered obstacles in his way. And he laughed when my +father and I went to see him; yes, _laughed_, in that noiseless, oily, +inside way of his, as you might think of a snake laughing. + +“We found him among the men. My God, you don’t know how I hated +him!—Big, loose, powerful, dangling the watch-fob that hung over his +vest, and looking at my father in that way as he told him what a fool +he was to think a worthless grave should interfere with his work. I +wanted to kill him, but my father put a hand on my shoulder, a quiet, +steady hand, and said: ‘It is my duty, Alan. _My duty_.’ + +“And then—it happened. My father was older, much older than Graham, but +God put such strength in him that day as I had never seen before, and +with his naked hands he would have killed the brute if I had not +unlocked them with my own. Before all his men Graham became a mass of +helpless pulp, and from the ground, with the last of the breath that +was in him, he cursed my father, and he cursed me. He said that all the +days of his life he would follow us, until we paid a thousand times for +what we had done. And then my father dragged him as he would have +dragged a rat to the edge of a piece of bush, and there he tore his +clothes from him until the brute was naked; and in that nakedness he +scourged him with whips until his arms were weak, and John Graham was +unconscious and like a great hulk of raw beef. When it was over, we +went into the mountains.” + +During the terrible recital Mary Standish had not looked away from him, +and now her hands were clenched like his own, and her eyes and face +were aflame, as if she wanted to leap up and strike at something unseen +between them. + +“And after that, Alan; after that—” + +She did not know that she had spoken his name, and he, hearing it, +scarcely understood. + +“John Graham kept his promise,” he answered grimly. “The influence and +money behind him haunted us wherever we went. My father had been +successful, but one after another the properties in which he was +interested were made worthless. A successful mine in which he was most +heavily interested was allowed to become abandoned. A hotel which he +partly owned in Dawson was bankrupted. One after another things +happened, and after each happening my father would receive a polite +note of regret from Graham, written as if the word actually came from a +friend. But my father cared little for money losses now. His heart was +drying up and his life ebbing away for the little cabin and the grave +that were gone from the foot of the mountain. It went on this way for +three years, and then, one morning, my father was found on the beach at +Nome, dead.” + +“_Dead_!” + +Alan heard only the gasping breath in which the word came from Mary +Standish, for he was facing the window, looking steadily away from her. + +“Yes—murdered. I know it was the work of John Graham. He didn’t do it +personally, but it was _his money_ that accomplished the end. Of course +nothing ever came of it. I won’t tell you how his influence and power +have dogged me; how they destroyed the first herd of reindeer I had, +and how they filled the newspapers with laughter and lies about me when +I was down in the States last winter in an effort to make _your_ people +see a little something of the truth about Alaska. I am waiting. I know +the day is coming when I shall have John Graham as my father had him +under our mountain twenty years ago. He must be fifty now. But that +won’t save him when the time comes. No one will loosen my hands as I +loosened my father’s. And all Alaska will rejoice, for his power and +his money have become twin monsters that are destroying Alaska just as +he destroyed the life of my father. Unless he dies, and his money-power +ends, he will make of this great land nothing more than a shell out of +which he and his kind have taken all the meat. And the hour of +deadliest danger is now upon us.” + +He looked at Mary Standish, and it was as if death had come to her +where she sat. She seemed not to breathe, and her face was so white it +frightened him. And then, slowly, she turned her eyes upon him, and +never had he seen such living pools of torture and of horror. He was +amazed at the quietness of her voice when she began to speak, and +startled by the almost deadly coldness of it. + +“I think you can understand—now—why I leaped into the sea, why I wanted +the world to think I was dead, and why I have feared to tell you the +truth,” she said. “_I am John Graham’s wife._” + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +Alan’s first thought was of the monstrous incongruity of the thing, the +almost physical impossibility of a mésalliance of the sort Mary +Standish had revealed to him. He saw her, young and beautiful, with +face and eyes that from the beginning had made him feel all that was +good and sweet in life, and behind her he saw the shadow-hulk of John +Graham, the pitiless iron-man, without conscience and without soul, +coarsened by power, fiendish in his iniquities, and old enough to be +her father! + +A slow smile twisted his lips, but he did not know he smiled. He pulled +himself together without letting her see the physical part of the +effort it was taking. And he tried to find something to say that would +help clear her eyes of the agony that was in them. + +“That—is a most unreasonable thing—to be true,” he said. + +It seemed to him his lips were making words out of wood, and that the +words were fatuously inefficient compared with what he should have +said, or acted, under the circumstances. + +She nodded. “It is. But the world doesn’t look at it in that way. Such +things just happen.” + +She reached for a book which lay on the table where the tundra daisies +were heaped. It was a book written around the early phases of pioneer +life in Alaska, taken from his own library, a volume of statistical +worth, dryly but carefully written—and she had been reading it. It +struck him as a symbol of the fight she was making, of her courage, and +of her desire to triumph in the face of tremendous odds that must have +beset her. He still could not associate her completely with John +Graham. Yet his face was cold and white. + +Her hand trembled a little as she opened the book and took from it a +newspaper clipping. She did not speak as she unfolded it and gave it to +him. + +At the top of two printed columns was the picture of a young and +beautiful girl; in an oval, covering a small space over the girl’s +shoulder, was a picture of a man of fifty or so. Both were strangers to +him. He read their names, and then the headlines. “A +Hundred-Million-Dollar Love” was the caption, and after the word love +was a dollar sign. Youth and age, beauty and the other thing, two great +fortunes united. He caught the idea and looked at Mary Standish. It was +impossible for him to think of her as Mary Graham. + +“I tore that from a paper in Cordova,” she said. “They have nothing to +do with me. The girl lives in Texas. But don’t you see something in her +eyes? Can’t you see it, even in the picture? She has on her wedding +things. But it seemed to me—when I saw her face—that in her eyes were +agony and despair and hopelessness, and that she was bravely trying to +hide them from the world. It’s just another proof, one of thousands, +that such unreasonable things do happen.” + +He was beginning to feel a dull and painless sort of calm, the stoicism +which came to possess him whenever he was confronted by the inevitable. +He sat down, and with his head bowed over it took one of the limp, +little hands that lay in Mary Standish’s lap. The warmth had gone out +of it. It was cold and lifeless. He caressed it gently and held it +between his brown, muscular hands, staring at it, and yet seeing +nothing in particular. It was only the ticking of Keok’s clock that +broke the silence for a time. Then he released the hand, and it dropped +in the girl’s lap again. She had been looking steadily at the streak of +gray in his hair. And a light came into her eyes, a light which he did +not see, and a little tremble of her lips, and an almost imperceptible +inclination of her head toward him. + +“I’m sorry I didn’t know,” he said. “I realize now how you must have +felt back there in the cottonwoods.” + +“No, you don’t realize—_you don’t!_” she protested. + +In an instant, it seemed to him, a vibrant, flaming life swept over her +again. It was as if his words had touched fire to some secret thing, as +if he had unlocked a door which grim hopelessness had closed. He was +amazed at the swiftness with which color came into her cheeks. + +“You don’t understand, and I am determined that you _shall_,” she went +on. “I would die before I let you go away thinking what is now in your +mind. You will despise me, but I would rather be hated for the truth +than because of the horrible thing which you must believe if I remain +silent.” She forced a wan smile to her lips. “You know, Belinda +Mulrooneys were very well in their day, but they don’t fit in now, do +they? If a woman makes a mistake and tries to remedy it in a fighting +sort of way, as Belinda Mulrooney might have done back in the days when +Alaska was young—” + +She finished with a little gesture of despair. + +“I have committed a great folly,” she said, hesitating an instant in +his silence. “I see very clearly now the course I should have taken. +You will advise me that it is still not too late when you have heard +what I am going to say. Your face is like—a rock.” + +“It is because your tragedy is mine,” he said. + +She turned her eyes from him. The color in her cheeks deepened. It was +a vivid, feverish glow. “I was born rich, enormously, hatefully rich,” +she said in the low, unimpassioned voice of a confessional. “I don’t +remember father or mother. I lived always with my Grandfather Standish +and my Uncle Peter Standish. Until I was thirteen I had my Uncle Peter, +who was grandfather’s brother, and lived with us. I worshiped Uncle +Peter. He was a cripple. From young manhood he had lived in a +wheel-chair, and he was nearly seventy-five when he died. As a baby +that wheel-chair, and my rides in it with him about the great house in +which we lived, were my delights. He was my father and mother, +everything that was good and sweet in life. I remember thinking, as a +child, that if God was as good as Uncle Peter, He was a wonderful God. +It was Uncle Peter who told me, year after year, the old stories and +legends of the Standishes. And he was always happy—always happy and +glad and seeing nothing but sunshine though he hadn’t stood on his feet +for nearly sixty years. And my Uncle Peter died when I was thirteen, +five days before my birthday came. I think he must have been to me what +your father was to you.” + +He nodded. There was something that was not the hardness of rock in his +face now, and John Graham seemed to have faded away. + +“I was left, then, alone with my Grandfather Standish,” she went on. +“He didn’t love me as my Uncle Peter loved me, and I don’t think I +loved him. But I was proud of him. I thought the whole world must have +stood in awe of him, as I did. As I grew older I learned the world +_was_ afraid of him—bankers, presidents, even the strongest men in +great financial interests; afraid of him, and of his partners, the +Grahams, and of Sharpleigh, who my Uncle Peter had told me was the +cleverest lawyer in the nation, and who had grown up in the business of +the two families. My grandfather was sixty-eight when Uncle Peter died, +so it was John Graham who was the actual working force behind the +combined fortunes of the two families. Sometimes, as I now recall it, +Uncle Peter was like a little child. I remember how he tried to make me +understand just how big my grandfather’s interests were by telling me +that if two dollars were taken from every man, woman, and child in the +United States, it would just about add up to what he and the Grahams +possessed, and my Grandfather Standish’s interests were three-quarters +of the whole. I remember how a hunted look would come into my Uncle +Peter’s face at times when I asked him how all this money was used, and +where it was. And he never answered me as I wanted to be answered, and +I never understood. I didn’t know _why_ people feared my grandfather +and John Graham. I didn’t know of the stupendous power my grandfather’s +money had rolled up for them. I didn’t know”—her voice sank to a +shuddering whisper—“I didn’t know how they were using it in Alaska, for +instance. I didn’t know it was feeding upon starvation and ruin and +death. I don’t think even Uncle Peter knew _that_.” + +She looked at Alan steadily, and her gray eyes seemed burning up with a +slow fire. + +“Why, even then, before Uncle Peter died, I had become one of the +biggest factors in all their schemes. It was impossible for me to +suspect that John Graham was _anticipating_ a little girl of thirteen, +and I didn’t guess that my Grandfather Standish, so straight, so +grandly white of beard and hair, so like a god of power when he stood +among men, was even then planning that I should be given to him, so +that a monumental combination of wealth might increase itself still +more in that juggernaut of financial achievement for which he lived. +And to bring about my sacrifice, to make sure it would not fail, they +set Sharpleigh to the task, because Sharpleigh was sweet and good of +face, and gentle like Uncle Peter, so that I loved him and had +confidence in him, without a suspicion that under his white hair lay a +brain which matched in cunning and mercilessness that of John Graham +himself. And he did his work well, Alan.” + +A second time she had spoken his name, softly and without +embarrassment. With her nervous fingers tying and untying the two +corners of a little handkerchief in her lap, she went on, after a +moment of silence in which the ticking of Keok’s clock seemed tense and +loud. + +“When I was seventeen, Grandfather Standish died. I wish you could +understand all that followed without my telling you: how I clung to +Sharpleigh as a father, how I trusted him, and how cleverly and gently +he educated me to the thought that it was right and just, and my +greatest duty in life, to carry out the stipulation of my grandfather’s +will and marry John Graham. Otherwise, he told me—if that union was not +brought about before I was twenty-two—not a dollar of the great fortune +would go to the house of Standish; and because he was clever enough to +know that money alone would not urge me, he showed me a letter which he +said my Uncle Peter had written, and which I was to read on my +seventeenth birthday, and in that letter Uncle Peter urged me to live +up to the Standish name and join in that union of the two great +fortunes which he and Grandfather Standish had always planned. I didn’t +dream the letter was a forgery. And in the end they won—and I +promised.” + +She sat with bowed head, crumpling the bit of cambric between her +fingers. “Do you despise me?” she asked. + +“No,” he replied in a tense, unimpassioned voice. “I love you.” + +She tried to look at him calmly and bravely. In his face again lay the +immobility of rock, and in his eyes a sullen, slumbering fire. + +“I promised,” she repeated quickly, as if regretting the impulse that +had made her ask him the question. “But it was to be business, a cold, +unsentimental business. I disliked John Graham. Yet I would marry him. +In the eyes of the law I would be his wife; in the eyes of the world I +would remain his wife—but never more than that. They agreed, and I in +my ignorance believed. + +“I didn’t see the trap. I didn’t see the wicked triumph in John +Graham’s heart. No power could have made me believe then that he wanted +to possess only _me_; that he was horrible enough to want me even +without love; that he was a great monster of a spider, and I the fly +lured into his web. And the agony of it was that in all the years since +Uncle Peter died I had dreamed strange and beautiful dreams. I lived in +a make-believe world of my own, and I read, read, read; and the thought +grew stronger and stronger in me that I had lived another life +somewhere, and that I belonged back in the years when the world was +clean, and there was love, and vast reaches of land wherein money and +power were little guessed of, and where romance and the glory of +manhood and womanhood rose above all other things. Oh, I wanted these +things, and yet because others had molded me, and because of my +misguided Standish sense of pride and honor, I was shackling myself to +John Graham. + +“In the last months preceding my twenty-second birthday I learned more +of the man than I had ever known before; rumors came to me; I +investigated a little, and I began to find the hatred, and the reason +for it, which has come to me so conclusively here in Alaska. I almost +knew, at the last, that he was a monster, but the world had been told I +was to marry him, and Sharpleigh with his fatherly hypocrisy was behind +me, and John Graham treated me so courteously and so coolly that I did +not suspect the terrible things in his heart and mind—and I went on +with the bargain. _I married him._” + +She drew a sudden, deep breath, as if she had passed through the ordeal +of what she had most dreaded to say, and now, meeting the changeless +expression of Alan’s face with a fierce, little cry that leaped from +her like a flash of gun-fire, she sprang to her feet and stood with her +back crushed against the tundra flowers, her voice trembling as she +continued, while he stood up and faced her. + +“You needn’t go on,” he interrupted in a voice so low and terribly hard +that she felt the menacing thrill of it. “You needn’t. I will settle +with John Graham, if God gives me the chance.” + +“You would have me stop _now_—before I have told you of the only shred +of triumph to which I may lay claim!” she protested. “Oh, you may be +sure that I realize the sickening folly and wickedness of it all, but I +swear before my God that I didn’t realize it then, until it was too +late. To you, Alan, clean as the great mountains and plains that have +been a part of you, I know how impossible this must seem—that I should +marry a man I at first feared, then loathed, then came to hate with a +deadly hatred; that I should sacrifice myself because I thought it was +a duty; that I should be so weak, so ignorant, so like soft clay in the +hands of those I trusted. Yet I tell you that at no time did I think or +suspect that I was sacrificing _myself_; at no time, blind though you +may call me, did I see a hint of that sickening danger into which I was +voluntarily going. No, not even an hour before the wedding did I +suspect that, for it had all been so coldly planned, like a great deal +in finance—so carefully adjudged by us all as a business affair, that I +felt no fear except that sickness of soul which comes of giving up +one’s life. And no hint of it came until the last of the few words were +spoken which made us man and wife, and then I saw in John Graham’s eyes +something which I had never seen there before. And Sharpleigh—” + +Her hands caught at her breast. Her gray eyes were pools of flame. + +“I went to my room. I didn’t lock my door, because never had it been +necessary to do that. I didn’t cry. No, I didn’t cry. But something +strange was happening to me which tears might have prevented. It seemed +to me there were many walls to my room; I was faint; the windows seemed +to appear and disappear, and in that sickness I reached my bed. Then I +saw the door open, and John Graham came in, and closed the door behind +him, and locked it. My room. He had come into _my room!_ The +unexpectedness of it—the horror—the insult roused me from my stupor. I +sprang up to face him, and there he stood, within arm’s reach of me, a +look in his face which told me at last the truth which I had failed to +suspect—or fear. His arms were reaching out— + +“‘You are my wife,’ he said. + +“Oh, I knew, then. ‘_You are my wife_,’ he repeated. I wanted to +scream, but I couldn’t; and then—then—his arms reached me; I felt them +crushing around me like the coils of a great snake; the poison of his +lips was at my face—and I believed that I was lost, and that no power +could save me in this hour from the man who had come to my room—the man +who was my husband. I think it was Uncle Peter who gave me voice, who +put the right words in my brain, who made me laugh—yes, laugh, and +almost caress him with my hands. The change in me amazed him, stunned +him, and he freed me—while I told him that in these first few hours of +wifehood I wanted to be alone, and that he should come to me that +evening, and that I would be waiting for him. And I smiled at him as I +said these things, smiled while I wanted to kill him, and he went, a +great, gloating, triumphant beast, believing that the obedience of +wifehood was about to give him what he had expected to find through +dishonor—and I was left alone. + +“I thought of only one thing then—escape. I saw the truth. It swept +over me, inundated me, roared in my ears. All that I had ever lived +with Uncle Peter came back to me. This was not his world; it had never +been—and it was not mine. It was, all at once, a world of monsters. I +wanted never to face it again, never to look into the eyes of those I +had known. And even as these thoughts and desires swept upon me, I was +filling a traveling bag in a fever of madness, and Uncle Peter was at +my side, urging me to hurry, telling me I had no minutes to lose, for +the man who had left me was clever and might guess the truth that lay +hid behind my smiles and cajolery. + +“I stole out through the back of the house, and as I went I heard +Sharpleigh’s low laughter in the library. It was a new kind of +laughter, and with it I heard John Graham’s voice. I was thinking only +of the sea—to get away on the sea. A taxi took me to my bank, and I +drew money. I went to the wharves, intent only on boarding a ship, any +ship, and it seemed to me that Uncle Peter was leading me; and we came +to a great ship that was leaving for Alaska—and you know—what happened +then—Alan Holt.” + +With a sob she bowed her face in her hands, but only an instant it was +there, and when she looked at Alan again, there were no tears in her +eyes, but a soft glory of pride and exultation. + +“I am clean of John Graham,” she cried. “_Clean!_” + +He stood twisting his hands, twisting them in a helpless, futile sort +of way, and it was he, and not the girl, who felt like bowing his head +that the tears might come unseen. For her eyes were bright and shining +and clear as stars. + +“Do you despise me now?” + +“I love you,” he said again, and made no movement toward her. + +“I am glad,” she whispered, and she did not look at him, but at the +sunlit plain which lay beyond the window. + +“And Rossland was on the _Nome_, and saw you, and sent word back to +Graham,” he said, fighting to keep himself from going nearer to her. + +She nodded. “Yes; and so I came to you, and failing there, I leaped +into the sea, for I wanted them to think I was dead.” + +“And Rossland was hurt.” + +“Yes. Strangely. I heard of it in Cordova. Men like Rossland frequently +come to unexpected ends.” + +He went to the door which she had closed, and opened it, and stood +looking toward the blue billows of the foothills with the white crests +of the mountains behind them. She came, after a moment, and stood +beside him. + +“I understand,” she said softly, and her hand lay in a gentle touch +upon his arm. “You are trying to see some way out, and you can see only +one. That is to go back, face the creatures I hate, regain my freedom +in the old way. And I, too, can see no other way. I came on impulse; I +must return with impulse and madness burned out of me. And I am sorry. +I dread it. I—would rather die.” + +“And I—” he began, then caught himself and pointed to the distant hills +and mountains. “The herds are there,” he said. “I am going to them. I +may be gone a week or more. Will you promise me to be here when I +return?” + +“Yes, if that is your desire.” + +“It is.” + +She was so near that his lips might have touched her shining hair. + +“And when you return, I must go. That will be the only way.” + +“I think so.” + +“It will be hard. It may be, after all, that I am a coward. But to face +all that—alone—” + +“You won’t be alone,” he said quietly, still looking at the far-away +hills. “If you go, I am going with you.” + +It seemed as if she had stopped breathing for a moment at his side, and +then, with a little, sobbing cry she drew away from him and stood at +the half-opened door of Nawadlook’s room, and the glory in her eyes was +the glory of his dreams as he had wandered with her hand in hand over +the tundras in those days of grief and half-madness when he had thought +she was dead. + +“I am glad I was in Ellen McCormick’s cabin the day you came,” she was +saying. “And I thank God for giving me the madness and courage to come +to _you_. I am not afraid of anything in the world now—because—_I love +you, Alan_!” + +And as Nawadlook’s door closed behind her, Alan stumbled out into the +sunlight, a great drumming in his heart, and a tumult in his brain that +twisted the world about him until for a little it held neither vision +nor space nor sound. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +In that way, with the beautiful world swimming in sunshine and golden +tundra haze until foothills and mountains were like castles in a dream, +Alan Holt set off with Tautuk and Amuk Toolik, leaving Stampede and +Keok and Nawadlook at the corral bars, with Stampede little regretting +that he was left behind to guard the range. For a mighty resolution had +taken root in the prospector’s heart, and he felt himself thrilled and +a bit trembling at the nearness of the greatest drama that had ever +entered his life. Alan, looking back after the first few minutes, saw +that Keok and Nawadlook stood alone. Stampede was gone. + +The ridge beyond the coulée out of which Mary Standish had come with +wild flowers soon closed like a door between him and Sokwenna’s cabin, +and the straight trail to the mountains lay ahead, and over this Alan +set the pace, with Tautuk and Amuk Toolik and a caravan of seven +pack-deer behind him, bearing supplies for the herdsmen. + +Alan had scarcely spoken to the two men. He knew the driving force +which was sending him to the mountains was not only an impulse, but +almost an inspirational thing born of necessity. Each step that he +took, with his head and heart in a swirl of intoxicating madness, was +an effort behind which he was putting a sheer weight of physical will. +He wanted to go back. The urge was upon him to surrender utterly to the +weakness of forgetting that Mary Standish was a wife. He had almost +fallen a victim to his selfishness and passion in the moment when she +stood at Nawadlook’s door, telling him that she loved him. An iron hand +had drawn him out into the day, and it was the same iron hand that kept +his face to the mountains now, while in his brain her voice repeated +the words that had set his world on fire. + +He knew what had happened this morning was not the merely important and +essential incident of most human lives; it had been a cataclysmic thing +with him. Probably it would be impossible for even the girl ever fully +to understand. And he needed to be alone to gather strength and mental +calmness for the meeting of the problem ahead of him, a complication so +unexpected that the very foundation of that stoic equanimity which the +mountains had bred in him had suffered a temporary upsetting. His +happiness was almost an insanity. The dream wherein he had wandered +with a spirit of the dead had come true; it was the old idyl in the +flesh again, his father, his mother—and back in the cabin beyond the +ridge such a love had cried out to him. And he was afraid to return. He +laughed the fact aloud, happily and with an unrepressed exultation as +he strode ahead of the pack-train, and with that exultation words came +to his lips, words intended for himself alone, telling him that Mary +Standish belonged to him, and that until the end of eternity he would +fight for her and keep her. Yet he kept on, facing the mountains, and +he walked so swiftly that Tautuk and Amuk Toolik fell steadily behind +with the deer, so that in time long dips and swells of the tundra lay +between them. + +With grim persistence he kept at himself, and at last there swept over +him in its ultimate triumph a compelling sense of the justice of what +he had done—justice to Mary Standish. Even now he did not think of her +as Mary Graham. But she was Graham’s wife. And if he had gone to her in +that moment of glorious confession when she had stood at Nawadlook’s +door, if he had violated her faith when, because of faith, she had laid +the world at his feet, he would have fallen to the level of John Graham +himself. Thought of the narrowness of his escape and of the first mad +desire to call her back from Nawadlook’s room, to hold her in his arms +again as he had held her in the cottonwoods, brought a hot fire into +his face. Something greater than his own fighting instinct had turned +him to the open door of the cabin. It was Mary Standish—her courage, +the-glory of faith and love shining in her eyes, her measurement of him +as a man. She had not been afraid to say what was in her heart, because +she knew what he would do. + +Mid-afternoon found him waiting for Tautuk and Amuk Toolik at the edge +of a slough where willows grew deep and green and the crested billows +of sedge-cotton stood knee-high. The faces of the herdsmen were +sweating. Thereafter Alan walked with them, until in that hour when the +sun had sunk to its lowest plane they came to the first of the Endicott +foothills. Here they rested until the coolness of deeper evening, when +a golden twilight filled the land, and then resumed the journey toward +the mountains. + +Midsummer heat and the winged pests of the lower lands had driven the +herds steadily into the cooler altitudes of the higher plateaux and +valleys. Here they had split into telescoping columns which drifted in +slowly moving streams wherever the doors of the hills and mountains +opened into new grazing fields, until Alan’s ten thousand reindeer were +in three divisions, two of the greatest traveling westward, and one, of +a thousand head, working north and east. The first and second days Alan +remained with the nearest and southward herd. The third day he went on +with Tautuk and two pack-deer through a break in the mountains and +joined the herdsmen of the second and higher multitude of feeding +animals. There began to possess him a curious disinclination to hurry, +and this aversion grew in a direct ratio with the thought which was +becoming stronger in him with each mile and hour of his progress. A +multitude of emotions were buried under the conviction that Mary +Standish must leave the range when he returned. He had a grim sense of +honor, and a particularly devout one when it had to do with women, and +though he conceded nothing of right and justice in the relationship +which existed between the woman he loved and John Graham, he knew that +she must go. To remain at the range was the one impossible thing for +her to do. He would take her to Tanana. He would go with her to the +States. The matter would be settled in a reasonable and intelligent +way, and when he came back, he would bring her with him. + +But beneath this undercurrent of decision fought the thing which his +will held down, and yet never quite throttled completely—that something +which urged him with an unconquerable persistence to hold with his own +hands what a glorious fate had given him, and to finish with John +Graham, if it ever came to that, in the madly desirable way he visioned +for himself in those occasional moments when the fires of temptation +blazed hottest. + +The fourth night he said to Tautuk: + +“If Keok should marry another man, what would you do?” + +It was a moment before Tautuk looked at him, and in the herdsman’s eyes +was a wild, mute question, as if suddenly there had leaped into his +stolid mind a suspicion which had never come to him before. Alan laid a +reassuring hand upon his arm. + +“I don’t mean she’s going to, Tautuk,” he laughed. “She loves you. I +know it. Only you are so stupid, and so slow, and so hopeless as a +lover that she is punishing you while she has the right—before she +marries you. But if she _should_ marry someone else, what would you +do?” + +“My brother?” asked Tautuk. + +“No.” + +“A relative?” + +“No.” + +“A friend?” + +“No. A stranger. Someone who had injured you, for instance; someone +Keok hated, and who had cheated her into marrying him.” + +“I would kill him,” said Tautuk quietly. + +It was this night the temptation was strongest upon Alan. Why should +Mary Standish go back, he asked himself. She had surrendered everything +to escape from the horror down there. She had given up fortune and +friends. She had scattered convention to the four winds, had gambled +her life in the hazard, and in the end had come to him! Why should he +not keep her? John Graham and the world believed she was dead. And he +was master here. If—some day—Graham should happen to cross his path, he +would settle the matter in Tautuk’s way. Later, while Tautuk slept, and +the world lay about him in a soft glow, and the valley below was filled +with misty billows of twilight out of which came to him faintly the +curious, crackling sound of reindeer hoofs and the grunting contentment +of the feeding herd, the reaction came, as he had known it would come +in the end. + +The morning of the fifth day he set out alone for the eastward herd, +and on the sixth overtook Tatpan and his herdsmen. Tatpan, like +Sokwenna’s foster-children, Keok and Nawadlook, had a quarter-strain of +white in him, and when Alan came up to him in the edge of the valley +where the deer were grazing, he was lying on a rock, playing Yankee +Doodle on a mouth-organ. It was Tatpan who told him that an hour or two +before an exhausted stranger had come into camp, looking for him, and +that the man was asleep now, apparently more dead than alive, but had +given instructions to be awakened at the end of two hours, and not a +minute later. Together they had a look at him. + +He was a small, ruddy-faced man with carroty blond hair and a +peculiarly boyish appearance as he lay doubled up like a jack-knife, +profoundly asleep. Tatpan looked at his big, silver watch and in a low +voice described how the stranger had stumbled into camp, so tired he +could scarcely put one foot ahead of the other; and that he had dropped +down where he now lay when he learned Alan was with one of the other +herds. + +[Illustration: The man wore a gun ... within reach of his hand.] + +“He must have come a long distance,” said Tatpan, “and he has traveled +fast.” + +Something familiar about the man grew upon Alan. Yet he could not place +him. He wore a gun, which he had unbelted and placed within reach of +his hand on the grass. His chin was pugnaciously prominent, and in +sleep the mysterious stranger had crooked a forefinger and thumb about +his revolver in a way that spoke of caution and experience. + +“If he is in such a hurry to see me, you might awaken him,” said Alan. + +He turned a little aside and knelt to drink at a tiny stream of water +that ran down from the snowy summits, and he could hear Tatpan rousing +the stranger. By the time he had finished drinking and faced about, the +little man with the carroty-blond hair was on his feet. Alan stared, +and the little man grinned. His ruddy cheeks grew pinker. His blue eyes +twinkled, and in what seemed to be a moment of embarrassment he gave +his gun a sudden snap that drew an exclamation of amazement from Alan. +Only one man in the world had he ever seen throw a gun into its holster +like that. A sickly grin began to spread over his own countenance, and +all at once Tatpan’s eyes began to bulge. + +“Stampede!” he cried. + +Stampede rubbed a hand over his smooth, prominent chin and nodded +apologetically. + +“It’s me,” he conceded. “I had to do it. It was give one or t’other +up—my whiskers _or her_. They went hard, too. I flipped dice, an’ the +whiskers won. I cut cards, an’ the whiskers won. I played Klondike +ag’in’ ’em, an’ the whiskers busted the bank. Then I got mad an’ shaved +’em. Do I look so bad, Alan?” + +“You look twenty years younger,” declared Alan, stifling his desire to +laugh when he saw the other’s seriousness. + +Stampede was thoughtfully stroking his chin. “Then why the devil did +they laugh!” he demanded. “Mary Standish didn’t laugh. She cried. Just +stood an’ cried, an’ then sat down an’ cried, she thought I was that +blamed funny! And Keok laughed until she was sick an’ had to go to bed. +That little devil of a Keok calls me Pinkey now, and Miss Standish says +it wasn’t because I was funny that she laughed, but that the change in +me was so sudden she couldn’t help it. Nawadlook says I’ve got a +character-ful chin—” + +Alan gripped his hand, and a swift change came over Stampede’s face. A +steely glitter shot into the blue of his eyes, and his chin hardened. +Nature no longer disguised the Stampede Smith of other days, and Alan +felt a new thrill and a new regard for the man whose hand he held. +This, at last, was the man whose name had gone before him up and down +the old trails; the man whose cool and calculating courage, whose +fearlessness of death and quickness with the gun had written pages in +Alaskan history which would never be forgotten. Where his first impulse +had been to laugh, he now felt the grim thrill and admiration of men of +other days, who, when in Stampede’s presence, knew they were in the +presence of a master. The old Stampede had come to life again. And Alan +knew why. The grip of his hand tightened, and Stampede returned it. + +“Some day, if we’re lucky, there always comes a woman to make the world +worth living in, Stampede,” he said. + +“There does,” replied Stampede. + +He looked steadily at Alan. + +“And I take it you love Mary Standish,” he added, “and that you’d fight +for her if you had to.” + +“I would,” said Alan. + +“Then it’s time you were traveling,” advised Stampede significantly. +“I’ve been twelve hours on the trail without a rest. She told me to +move fast, and I’ve moved. I mean Mary Standish. She said it was almost +a matter of life and death that I find you in a hurry. I wanted to +stay, but she wouldn’t let me. It’s _you_ she wants. Rossland is at the +range.” + +“_Rossland_!” + +“Yes, Rossland. And it’s my guess John Graham isn’t far away. I smell +happenings, Alan. We’d better hurry.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +Stampede had started with one of the two saddle-deer left at the range, +but to ride deer-back successfully and with any degree of speed and +specific direction was an accomplishment which he had neglected, and +within the first half-dozen miles he had abandoned the adventure to +continue his journey on foot. As Tatpan had no saddle-deer in his herd, +and the swiftest messenger would require many hours in which to reach +Amuk Toolik, Alan set out for his range within half an hour after his +arrival at Tatpan’s camp. Stampede, declaring himself a new man after +his brief rest and the meal which followed it, would not listen to +Alan’s advice that he follow later, when he was more refreshed. + +A fierce and reminiscent gleam smoldered in the little gun-fighter’s +eyes as he watched Alan during the first half-hour leg of their race +through the foothills to the tundras. Alan did not observe it, or the +grimness that had settled in the face behind him. His own mind was +undergoing an upheaval of conjecture and wild questioning. That +Rossland had discovered Mary Standish was not dead was the least +astonishing factor in the new development. The information might easily +have reached him through Sandy McCormick or his wife Ellen. The +astonishing thing was that he had in some mysterious way picked up the +trail of her flight a thousand miles northward, and the still more +amazing fact that he had dared to follow her and reveal himself openly +at his range. His heart pumped hard, for he knew Rossland must be +directly under Graham’s orders. + +Then came the resolution to take Stampede into his confidence and to +reveal all that had happened on the day of his departure for the +mountains. He proceeded to do this without equivocation or hesitancy, +for there now pressed upon him a grim anticipation of impending events +ahead of them. + +Stampede betrayed no astonishment at the other’s disclosures. The +smoldering fire remained in his eyes, the immobility of his face +unchanged. Only when Alan repeated, in his own words, Mary Standish’s +confession of love at Nawadlook’s door did the fighting lines soften +about his comrade’s eyes and mouth. + +Stampede’s lips responded with an oddly quizzical smile. “I knew that a +long time ago,” he said. “I guessed it that first night of storm in the +coach up to Chitina. I knew it for certain before we left Tanana. She +didn’t tell me, but I wasn’t blind. It was the note that puzzled and +frightened me—the note she stuffed in her slipper. And Rossland told +me, before I left, that going for you was a wild-goose chase, as he +intended to take Mrs. John Graham back with him immediately.” + +“And you left her alone after _that_?” + +Stampede shrugged his shoulders as he valiantly kept up with Alan’s +suddenly quickened pace. + +“She insisted. Said it meant life and death for her. And she looked it. +White as paper after her talk with Rossland. Besides—” + +“What?” + +“Sokwenna won’t sleep until we get back. He knows. I told him. And he’s +watching from the garret window with a.303 Savage. I saw him pick off a +duck the other day at two hundred yards.” + +They hurried on. After a little Alan said, with the fear which he could +not name clutching at his heart, “Why did you say Graham might not be +far away?” + +“In my bones,” replied Stampede, his face hard as rock again. “In my +bones!” + +“Is that all?” + +“Not quite. I think Rossland told her. She was so white. And her hand +cold as a lump of clay when she put it on mine. It was in her eyes, +too. Besides, Rossland has taken possession of your cabin as though he +owns it. I take it that means somebody behind him, a force, something +big to reckon with. He asked me how many men we had. I told him, +stretching it a little. He grinned. He couldn’t keep back that grin. It +was as if a devil in him slipped out from hiding for an instant.” + +Suddenly he caught Alan’s arm and stopped him. His chin shot out. The +sweat ran from his face. For a full quarter of a minute the two men +stared at each other. + +“Alan, we’re short-sighted. I’m damned if I don’t think we ought to +call the herdsmen in, and every man with a loaded gun!” + +“You think it’s that bad?” + +“Might be. If Graham’s behind Rossland and has men with him—” + +“We’re two and a half hours from Tatpan,” said Alan, in a cold, +unemotional voice. “He has only half a dozen men with him, and it will +take at least four to make quick work in finding Tautuk and Amuk +Toolik. There are eighteen men with the southward herd, and twenty-two +with the upper. I mean, counting the boys. Use your own judgment. All +are armed. It may be foolish, but I’m following your hunch.” + +They gripped hands. + +“It’s more than a hunch, Alan,” breathed Stampede softly. “And for +God’s sake keep off the music as long as you can!” + +He was gone, and as his agile, boyish figure started in a half-run +toward the foothills, Alan set his face southward, so that in a quarter +of an hour they were lost to each other in the undulating distances of +the tundra. + +Never had Alan traveled as on the last of this sixth day of his absence +from the range. He was comparatively fresh, as his trail to Tatpan’s +camp had not been an exhausting one, and his more intimate knowledge of +the country gave him a decided advantage over Stampede. He believed he +could make the distance in ten hours, but to this he would be compelled +to add a rest of at least three or four hours during the night. It was +now eight o’clock. By nine or ten the next morning he would be facing +Rossland, and at about that same hour Tatpan’s swift messengers would +be closing in about Tautuk and Amuk Toolik. He knew the speed with +which his herdsmen would sweep out of the mountains and over the +tundras. Two years ago Amuk Toolik and a dozen of his Eskimo people had +traveled fifty-two hours without rest or food, covering a hundred and +nineteen miles in that time. His blood flushed hot with pride. He +couldn’t do that. But his people could—and _would_. He could see them +sweeping in from the telescoping segments of the herds as the word went +among them; he could see them streaking out of the foothills; and then, +like wolves scattering for freer air and leg-room, he saw them dotting +the tundra in their race for home—and war, if it was war that lay ahead +of them. + +Twilight began to creep in upon him, like veils of cool, dry mist out +of the horizons. And hour after hour he went on, eating a strip of +pemmican when he grew hungry, and drinking in the spring coulées when +he came to them, where the water was cold and clear. Not until a +telltale cramp began to bite warningly in his leg did he stop for the +rest which he knew he must take. It was one o’clock. Counting his +journey to Tatpan’s camp, he had been traveling almost steadily for +seventeen hours. + +Not until he stretched himself out on his back in a grassy hollow where +a little stream a foot wide rippled close to his ears did he realize +how tired he had become. At first he tried not to sleep. Rest was all +he wanted; he dared not close his eyes. But exhaustion overcame him at +last, and he slept. When he awoke, bird-song and the sun were taunting +him. He sat up with a jerk, then leaped to his feet in alarm. His watch +told the story. He had slept soundly for six hours, instead of resting +three or four with his eyes open. + +After a little, as he hurried on his way, he did not altogether regret +what had happened. He felt like a fighting man. He breathed deeply, ate +a breakfast of pemmican as he walked, and proceeded to make up lost +time. The interval between fifteen minutes of twelve and twelve he +almost ran. That quarter of an hour brought him to the crest of the +ridge from which he could look upon the buildings of the range. Nothing +had happened that he could see. He gave a great gasp of relief, and in +his joy he laughed. The strangeness of the laugh told him more than +anything else the tension he had been under. + +Another half-hour, and he came up out of the dip behind Sokwenna’s +cabin and tried the door. It was locked. A voice answered his knock, +and he called out his name. The bolt shot back, the door opened, and he +stepped in. Nawadlook stood at her bedroom door, a gun in her hands. +Keok faced him, holding grimly to a long knife, and between them, +staring white-faced at him as he entered, was Mary Standish. She came +forward to meet him, and he heard a whisper from Nawadlook, and saw +Keok follow her swiftly through the door into the other room. + +Mary Standish held out her hands to him a little blindly, and the +tremble in her throat and the look in her eyes betrayed the struggle +she was making to keep from breaking down and crying out in gladness at +his coming. It was that look that sent a flood of joy into his heart, +even when he saw the torture and hopelessness behind it. He held her +hands close, and into her eyes he smiled in such a way that he saw them +widen, as if she almost disbelieved; and then she drew in a sudden +quick breath, and her fingers clung to him. It was as if the hope that +had deserted her came in an instant into her face again. He was not +excited. He was not even perturbed, now that he saw that light in her +eyes and knew she was safe. But his love was there. She saw it and felt +the force of it behind the deadly calmness with which he was smiling at +her. She gave a little sob, so low it was scarcely more than a broken +breath; a little cry that came of wonder—understanding—and unspeakable +faith in this man who was smiling at her so confidently in the face of +the tragedy that had come to destroy her. + +“Rossland is in your cabin,” she whispered. “And John Graham is back +there—somewhere—coming this way. Rossland says that if I don’t go to +him of my own free will—” + +He felt the shudder that ran through her. + +“I understand the rest,” he said. They stood silent for a moment. The +gray-cheeked thrush was singing on the roof. Then, as if she had been a +child, he took her face between his hands and bent her head back a +little, so that he was looking straight into her eyes, and so near that +he could feel the sweet warmth of her breath. + +“You didn’t make a mistake the day I went away?” he asked. “You—love +me?” + +“Yes.” + +For a moment longer he looked into her eyes. Then he stood back from +her. Even Keok and Nawadlook heard his laugh. It was strange, they +thought—Keok with her knife, and Nawadlook with her gun—for the bird +was singing, and Alan Holt was laughing, and Mary Standish was very +still. + +Another moment later, from where he sat cross-legged at the little +window in the attic, keeping his unsleeping vigil with a rifle across +his knees, old Sokwenna saw his master walk across the open, and +something in the manner of his going brought back a vision of another +day long ago when Ghost Kloof had rung with the cries of battle, and +the hands now gnarled and twisted with age had played their part in the +heroic stand of his people against the oppressors from the farther +north. + +Then he saw Alan go into the cabin where Rossland was, and softly his +fingers drummed upon the ancient tom-tom which lay at his side. His +eyes fixed themselves upon the distant mountains, and under his breath +he mumbled the old chant of battle, dead and forgotten except in +Sokwenna’s brain, and after that his eyes closed, and again the vision +grew out of darkness like a picture for him, a vision of twisting +trails and of fighting men gathering with their faces set for war. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +At the desk in Alan’s living-room sat Rossland, when the door opened +behind him and the master of the range came in. He was not disturbed +when he saw who it was, and rose to meet him. His coat was off, his +sleeves rolled up, and it was evident he was making no effort to +conceal his freedom with Alan’s books and papers. + +He advanced, holding out a hand. This was not the same Rossland who had +told Alan to attend to his own business on board the _Nome_. His +attitude was that of one greeting a friend, smiling and affable even +before he spoke. Something inspired Alan to return the smile. Behind +that smile he was admiring the man’s nerve. His hand met Rossland’s +casually, but there was no uncertainty in the warmth of the other’s +grip. + +“How d’ do, Paris, old boy?” he greeted good-humoredly. “Saw you going +in to Helen a few minutes ago, so I’ve been waiting for you. She’s a +little frightened. And we can’t blame her. Menelaus is mightily upset. +But mind me, Holt, I’m not blaming you. I’m too good a sport. Clever, I +call it—damned clever. She’s enough to turn any man’s head. I only wish +I were in your boots right now. I’d have turned traitor myself aboard +the _Nome_ if she had shown an inclination.” + +He proffered a cigar, a big, fat cigar with a gold band. It was +inspiration again that made Alan accept it and light it. His blood was +racing. But Rossland saw nothing of that. He observed only the nod, the +cool smile on Alan’s lips, the apparent nonchalance with which he was +meeting the situation. It pleased Graham’s agent. He reseated himself +in the desk-chair and motioned Alan to another chair near him. + +“I thought you were badly hurt,” said Alan. “Nasty knife wound you +got.” + +Rossland shrugged his shoulders. “There you have it again, Holt—the +hell of letting a pretty face run away with you. One of the Thlinkit +girls down in the steerage, you know. Lovely little thing, wasn’t she? +Tricked her into my cabin all right, but she wasn’t like some other +Indian girls I’ve known. The next night a brother, or sweetheart, or +whoever it was got me through the open port. It wasn’t bad. I was out +of the hospital within a week. Lucky I was put there, too. Otherwise I +wouldn’t have seen Mrs. Graham one morning—through the window. What a +little our fortunes hang to at times, eh? If it hadn’t been for the +girl and the knife and the hospital, I wouldn’t be here now, and Graham +wouldn’t be bleeding his heart out with impatience—and you, Holt, +wouldn’t be facing the biggest opportunity that will ever come into +your life.” + +“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Alan, hiding his face in the +smoke of his cigar and speaking with an apparent indifference which had +its effect upon Rossland. “Your presence inclines me to believe that +luck has rather turned against me. Where can my advantage be?” + +A grim seriousness settled in Rossland’s eyes, and his voice became +cool and hard. “Holt, as two men who are not afraid to meet unusual +situations, we may as well call a spade a spade in this matter, don’t +you think so?” + +“Decidedly,” said Alan. + +“You know that Mary Standish is really Mary Standish Graham, John +Graham’s wife?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you probably know—now—why she jumped into the sea, and why she ran +away from Graham.” + +“I do.” + +“That saves a lot of talk. But there is another side to the story which +you probably don’t know, and I am here to tell it to you. John Graham +doesn’t care for a dollar of the Standish fortune. It’s the girl he +wants, and has always wanted. She has grown up under his eyes. From the +day she was fourteen years old he has lived and planned with the +thought of possessing her. You know how he got her to marry him, and +you know what happened afterward. But it makes no difference to him +whether she hates him or not. He _wants_ her. And this”—he swept his +arms out, “is the most beautiful place in the world in which to have +her returned to him. I’ve been figuring from your books. Your property +isn’t worth over a hundred thousand dollars as it stands on hoof today. +I’m here to offer you five times that for it. In other words, Graham is +willing to forfeit all action he might have personally against you for +stealing his wife, and in place of that will pay you five hundred +thousand dollars for the privilege of having his honeymoon here, and +making of this place a country estate where his wife may reside +indefinitely, subject to her husband’s visits when he is so inclined. +There will be a stipulation, of course, requiring that the personal +details of the deal be kept strictly confidential, and that you leave +the country. Do I make myself clear?” + +Alan rose to his feet and paced thoughtfully across the room. At least, +Rossland measured his action as one of sudden, intensive reflection as +he watched him, smiling complacently at the effect of his knock-out +proposition upon the other. He had not minced matters. He had come to +the point without an effort at bargaining, and he possessed sufficient +dramatic sense to appreciate what the offer of half a million dollars +meant to an individual who was struggling for existence at the edge of +a raw frontier. Alan stood with his back toward him, facing a window. +His voice was oddly strained when he answered. But that was quite +natural, too, Rossland thought. + +“I am wondering if I understand you,” he said. “Do you mean that if I +sell Graham the range, leave it bag and baggage, and agree to keep my +mouth shut thereafter, he will give me half a million dollars?” + +“That is the price. You are to take your people with you. Graham has +his own.” + +Alan tried to laugh. “I think I see the point—now. He isn’t paying five +hundred thousand for Miss Standish—I mean Mrs. Graham. He’s paying it +for the _isolation_.” + +“Exactly. It was a last-minute hunch with him—to settle the matter +peaceably. We started up here to get his wife. You understand, to _get_ +her, and settle the matter with you in a different way from the one +we’re using now. You hit the word when you said ‘isolation.’ What a +damn fool a man can make of himself over a pretty face! Think of +it—half a million dollars!” + +“It sounds unreal,” mused Alan, keeping his face to the window. “Why +should he offer so much?” + +“You must keep the stipulation in mind, Holt. That is an important part +of the deal. You are to keep your mouth shut. Buying the range at a +normal price wouldn’t guarantee it. But when you accept a sum like +that, you’re a partner in the other end of the transaction, and your +health depends upon keeping the matter quiet. Simple enough, isn’t it?” + +Alan turned back to the table. His face was pale. He tried to keep +smoke in front of his eyes. “Of course, I don’t suppose he’d allow Mrs. +Graham to escape back to the States—where she might do a little +upsetting on her own account?” + +“He isn’t throwing the money away,” replied Rossland significantly. + +“She would remain here indefinitely?” + +“Indefinitely.” + +“Probably never would return.” + +“Strange how squarely you hit the nail on the head! Why should she +return? The world believes she is dead. Papers were full of it. The +little secret of her being alive is all our own. And this will be a +beautiful summering place for Graham. Magnificent climate. Lovely +flowers. Birds. And the girl he has watched grow up, and wanted, since +she was fourteen.” + +“And who hates him.” + +“True.” + +“Who was tricked into marrying him, and who would rather die than live +with him as his wife.” + +“But it’s up to Graham to keep her alive, Holt. That’s not our +business. If she dies, I imagine you will have an opportunity to get +your range back pretty cheap.” + +Rossland held a paper out to Alan. + +“Here’s partial payment—two hundred and fifty thousand. I have the +papers here, on the desk, ready to sign. As soon as you give +possession, I’ll return to Tanana with you and make the remaining +payment.” + +Alan took the check. “I guess only a fool would refuse an offer like +this, Rossland.” + +“Yes, only a fool.” + +“_And I am that fool_.” + +So quietly did Alan speak that for an instant the significance of his +words did not fall with full force upon Rossland. The smoke cleared +away from before Alan’s face. His cigar dropped to the floor, and he +stepped on it with his foot. The check followed it in torn scraps. The +fury he had held back with almost superhuman effort blazed in his eyes. + +“If I could have Graham where you are now—_in that chair_—I’d give ten +years of my life, Rossland. I would kill him. And you—_you_—” + +He stepped back a pace, as if to put himself out of striking distance +of the beast who was staring at him in amazement. + +“What you have said about her should condemn you to death. And I would +kill you here, in this room, if it wasn’t necessary for you to take my +message back to Graham. Tell him that Mary Standish—_not_ Mary +Graham—is as pure and clean and as sweet as the day she was born. Tell +him that she belongs to _me_. I love her. She is mine—do you +understand? And all the money in the world couldn’t buy one hair from +her head. I’m going to take her back to the States. She is going to get +a square deal, and the world is going to know her story. She has +nothing to conceal. Absolutely nothing. Tell that to John Graham for +me.” + +He advanced upon Rossland, who had risen from his chair; his hands were +clenched, his face a mask of iron. + +“Get out! Go before I flay you within an inch of your rotten life!” + +The energy which every fiber in him yearned to expend upon Rossland +sent the table crashing back in an overturned wreck against the wall. + +“Go—before I kill you!” + +He was advancing, even as the words of warning came from his lips, and +the man before him, an awe-stricken mass of flesh that had forgotten +power and courage in the face of a deadly and unexpected menace, backed +quickly to the door and escaped. He made for the corrals, and Alan +watched from his door until he saw him departing southward, accompanied +by two men who bore packs on their shoulders. Not until then did +Rossland gather his nerve sufficiently to stop and look back. His +breathless voice carried something unintelligible to Alan. But he did +not return for his coat and hat. + +The reaction came to Alan when he saw the wreck he had made of the +table. Another moment or two and the devil in him would have been at +work. He hated Rossland. He hated him now only a little less than he +hated John Graham, and that he had let him go seemed a miracle to him. +He felt the strain he had been under. But he was glad. Some little god +of common sense had overruled his passion, and he had acted wisely. +Graham would now get his message, and there could be no +misunderstanding of purpose between them. + +He was staring at the disordered papers on his desk when a movement at +the door turned him about. Mary Standish stood before him. + +“You sent him away,” she cried softly. + +Her eyes were shining, her lips parted, her face lit up with a +beautiful glow. She saw the overturned table, Rossland’s hat and coat +on a chair, the evidence of what had happened and the quickness of his +flight; and then she turned her face to Alan again, and what he saw +broke down the last of that grim resolution which he had measured for +himself, so that in a moment he was at her side, and had her in his +arms. She made no effort to free herself as she had done in the +cottonwoods, but turned her mouth up for him to kiss, and then hid her +face against his shoulder—while he, fighting vainly to find utterance +for the thousand words in his throat, stood stroking her hair, and then +buried his face in it, crying out at last in the warm sweetness of it +that he loved her, and was going to fight for her, and that no power on +earth could take her away from him now. And these things he repeated +until she raised her flushed face from his breast, and let him kiss her +lips once more, and then freed herself gently from his arms. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +For a Space they stood apart, and in the radiant loveliness of Mary +Standish’s face and in Alan’s quiet and unimpassioned attitude were +neither shame nor regret. In a moment they had swept aside the barrier +which convention had raised against them, and now they felt the +inevitable thrill of joy and triumph, and not the humiliating +embarrassment of dishonor. They made no effort to draw a curtain upon +their happiness, or to hide the swift heart-beat of it from each other. +It had happened, and they were glad. Yet they stood apart, and +something pressed upon Alan the inviolableness of the little freedom of +space between them, of its sacredness to Mary Standish, and darker and +deeper grew the glory of pride and faith that lay with the love in her +eyes when he did not cross it. He reached out his hand, and freely she +gave him her own. Lips blushing with his kisses trembled in a smile, +and she bowed her head a little, so that he was looking at her smooth +hair, soft and sweet where he had caressed it a few moments before. + +“I thank God!” he said. + +He did not finish the surge of gratitude that was in his heart. Speech +seemed trivial, even futile. But she understood. He was not thanking +God for that moment, but for a lifetime of something that at last had +come to him. This, it seemed to him, was the end, the end of a world as +he had known it, the beginning of a new. He stepped back, and his hands +trembled. For something to do he set up the overturned table, and Mary +Standish watched him with a quiet, satisfied wonder. She loved him, and +she had come into his arms. She had given him her lips to kiss. And he +laughed softly as he came to her side again, and looked over the tundra +where Rossland had gone. + +“How long before you can prepare for the journey?” he asked. + +“You mean—” + +“That we must start tonight or in the morning. I think we shall go +through the cottonwoods over the old trail to Nome. Unless Rossland +lied, Graham is somewhere out there on the Tanana trail.” + +Her hand pressed his arm. “We are going—_back?_ Is that it, Alan?” + +“Yes, to Seattle. It is the one thing to do. You are not afraid?” + +“With you there—no.” + +“And you will return with me—when it is over?” + +He was looking steadily ahead over the tundra. But he felt her cheek +touch his shoulder, lightly as a feather. + +“Yes, I will come back with you.” + +“And you will be ready?” + +“I am ready now.” + +The sun-fire of the plains danced in his eyes; a cob-web of golden mist +rising out of the earth, beckoning wraiths and undulating visions—the +breath of life, of warmth, of growing things—all between him and the +hidden cottonwoods; a joyous sea into which he wanted to plunge without +another minute of waiting, as he felt the gentle touch of her cheek +against his shoulder, and the weight of her hand on his arm. That she +had come to him utterly was in the low surrender of her voice. She had +ceased to fight—she had given to him the precious right to fight for +her. + +It was this sense of her need and of her glorious faith in him, and of +the obligation pressing with it that drove slowly back into him the +grimmer realities of the day. Its horror surged upon him again, and the +significance of what Rossland had said seemed fresher, clearer, even +more terrible now that he was gone. Unconsciously the old lines of +hatred crept into his face again as he looked steadily in the direction +which the other man had taken, and he wondered how much of that same +horror—of the unbelievable menace stealing upon her—Rossland had +divulged to the girl who stood so quietly now at his side. Had he done +right to let him go? Should he not have killed him, as he would have +exterminated a serpent? For Rossland had exulted; he was of Graham’s +flesh and desires, a part of his foul soul, a defiler of womanhood and +the one who had bargained to make possible the opportunity for an +indescribable crime. It was not too late. He could still overtake him, +out there in the hollows of the tundra— + +The pressure on his arm tightened. He looked down. Mary Standish had +seen what was in his face, and there was something in her calmness that +brought him to himself. He knew, in that moment, that Rossland had told +her a great deal. Yet she was not afraid, unless it was fear of what +had been in his mind. + +“I am ready,” she reminded him. + +“We must wait for Stampede,” he said, reason returning to him. “He +should be here sometime tonight, or in the morning. Now that Rossland +is off my nerves, I can see how necessary it is to have someone like +Stampede between us and—” + +He did not finish, but what he had intended to say was quite clear to +her. She stood in the doorway, and he felt an almost uncontrollable +desire to take her in his arms again. + +“He is between here and Tanana,” she said with a little gesture of her +head. + +“Rossland told you that?” + +“Yes. And there are others with him, so many that he was amused when I +told him you would not let them take me away.” + +“Then you were not afraid that I—I might let them have you?” + +“I have always been sure of what you would do since I opened that +second letter at Ellen McCormick’s, Alan!” + +He caught the flash of her eyes, the gladness in them, and she was gone +before he could find another word to say. Keok and Nawadlook were +approaching hesitatingly, but now they hurried to meet her, Keok still +grimly clutching the long knife; and beyond them, at the little window +under the roof, he saw the ghostly face of old Sokwenna, like a +death’s-head on guard. His blood ran a little faster. The emptiness of +the tundras, the illimitable spaces without sign of human life, the +vast stage waiting for its impending drama, with its sunshine, its song +of birds, its whisper and breath of growing flowers, struck a new note +in him, and he looked again at the little window where Sokwenna sat +like a spirit from another world, warning him in his silent and +lifeless stare of something menacing and deadly creeping upon them out +of that space which seemed so free of all evil. He beckoned to him and +then entered his cabin, waiting while Sokwenna crawled down from his +post and came hobbling over the open, a crooked figure, bent like a +baboon, witch-like in his great age, yet with sunken eyes that gleamed +like little points of flame, and a quickness of movement that made Alan +shiver as he watched him through the window. + +In a moment the old man entered. He was mumbling. He was saying, in +that jumble of sound which it was difficult for even Alan to +understand—and which Sokwenna had never given up for the missionaries’ +teachings—that he could hear feet and smell blood; and that the feet +were many, and the blood was near, and that both smell and footfall +were coming from the old kloof where yellow skulls still lay, dripping +with the water that had once run red. Alan was one of the few who, by +reason of much effort, had learned the story of the kloof from old +Sokwenna; how, so long ago that Sokwenna was a young man, a hostile +tribe had descended upon his people, killing the men and stealing the +women; and how at last Sokwenna and a handful of his tribesmen fled +south with what women were left and made a final stand in the kloof, +and there, on a day that was golden and filled with the beauty of +bird-song and flowers, had ambushed their enemies and killed them to a +man. All were dead now, all but Sokwenna. + +For a space Alan was sorry he had called Sokwenna to his cabin. He was +no longer the cheerful and gentle “old man” of his people; the old man +who chortled with joy at the prettiness and play of Keok and Nawadlook, +who loved birds and flowers and little children, and who had retained +an impish boyhood along with his great age. He was changed. He stood +before Alan an embodiment of fatalism, mumbling incoherent things in +his breath, a spirit of evil omen lurking in his sunken eyes, and his +thin hands gripping like bird-claws to his rifle. Alan threw off the +uncomfortable feeling that had gripped him for a moment, and set him to +an appointed task—the watching of the southward plain from the crest of +a tall ridge two miles back on the Tanana trail. He was to return when +the sun reached its horizon. + +Alan was inspired now by a great caution, a growing premonition which +stirred him with uneasiness, and he began his own preparations as soon +as Sokwenna had started on his mission. The desire to leave at once, +without the delay of an hour, pulled strong in him, but he forced +himself to see the folly of such haste. He would be away many months, +possibly a year this time. There was much to do, a mass of detail to +attend to, a volume of instructions and advice to leave behind him. He +must at least see Stampede, and it was necessary to write down certain +laws for Tautuk and Amuk Toolik. As this work of preparation +progressed, and the premonition persisted in remaining with him, he +fell into a habit of repeating to himself the absurdity of fears and +the impossibility of danger. He tried to make himself feel +uncomfortably foolish at the thought of having ordered the herdsmen in. +In all probability Graham would not appear at all, he told himself, or +at least not for many days—or weeks; and if he did come, it would be to +war in a legal way, and not with murder. + +Yet his uneasiness did not leave him. As the hours passed and the +afternoon lengthened, the invisible something urged him more strongly +to take the trail beyond the cottonwoods, with Mary Standish at his +side. Twice he saw her between noon and five o’clock, and by that time +his writing was done. He looked at his guns carefully. He saw that his +favorite rifle and automatic were working smoothly, and he called +himself a fool for filling his ammunition vest with an extravagant +number of cartridges. He even carried an amount of this ammunition and +two of his extra guns to Sokwenna’s cabin, with the thought that it was +this cabin on the edge of the ravine which was best fitted for defense +in the event of necessity. Possibly Stampede might have use for it, and +for the guns, if Graham should come after he and Mary were well on +their way to Nome. + +After supper, when the sun was throwing long shadows from the edge of +the horizon, Alan came from a final survey of his cabin and the food +which Wegaruk had prepared for his pack, and found Mary at the edge of +the ravine, watching the twilight gathering where the coulée ran +narrower and deeper between the distant breasts of the tundra. + +“I am going to leave you for a little while,” he said. “But Sokwenna +has returned, and you will not be alone.” + +“Where are you going?” + +“As far as the cottonwoods, I think.” + +“Then I am going with you.” + +“I expect to walk very fast.” + +“Not faster than I, Alan.” + +“But I want to make sure the country is clear in that direction before +twilight shuts out the distances.” + +“I will help you.” Her hand crept into his. “I am going with you, +Alan,” she repeated. + +“Yes, I—think you are,” he laughed joyously, and suddenly he bent his +head and pressed her hand to his lips, and in that way, with her hand +in his, they set out over the trail which they had not traveled +together since the day he had come from Nome. + +There was a warm glow in her face, and something beautifully soft and +sweet in her eyes which she did not try to keep away from him. It made +him forget the cottonwoods and the plains beyond, and his caution, and +Sokwenna’s advice to guard carefully against the hiding-places of Ghost +Kloof and the country beyond. + +“I have been thinking a great deal today,” she was saying, “because you +have left me so much alone. I have been thinking of _you_. And—my +thoughts have given me a wonderful happiness.” + +“And I have been—in paradise,” he replied. + +“You do not think that I am wicked?” + +“I could sooner believe the sun would never come up again.” + +“Nor that I have been unwomanly?” + +“You are my dream of all that is glorious in womanhood.” + +“Yet I have followed you—have thrust myself at you, fairly at your +head, Alan.” + +“For which I thank God,” He breathed devoutly. + +“And I have told you that I love you, and you have taken me in your +arms, and have kissed me—” + +“Yes.” + +“And I am walking now with my hand in yours—” + +“And will continue to do so, if I can hold it.” + +“And I am another man’s wife,” she shuddered. + +“You are mine,” he declared doggedly. “You know it, and the Almighty +God knows it. It is blasphemy to speak of yourself as Graham’s wife. +You are legally entangled with him, and that is all. Heart and soul and +body you are free.” + +“No, I am not free.” + +“But you are!” + +And then, after a moment, she whispered at his shoulder: “Alan, because +you are the finest gentleman in all the world, I will tell you why I am +not. It is because—heart and soul—I belong to you.” + +He dared not look at her, and feeling the struggle within him Mary +Standish looked straight ahead with a wonderful smile on her lips and +repeated softly, “Yes, the very finest gentleman in all the world!” + +Over the breasts of the tundra and the hollows between they went, still +hand in hand, and found themselves talking of the colorings in the sky, +and the birds, and flowers, and the twilight creeping in about them, +while Alan scanned the shortening horizons for a sign of human life. +One mile, and then another, and after that a third, and they were +looking into gray gloom far ahead, where lay the kloof. + +It was strange that he should think of the letter now—the letter he had +written to Ellen McCormick—but think of it he did, and said what was in +his mind to Mary Standish, who was also looking with him into the wall +of gloom that lay between them and the distant cottonwoods. + +“It seemed to me that I was not writing it to her, but to _you_” he +said. “And I think that if you hadn’t come back to me I would have gone +mad.” + +“I have the letter. It is here”—and she placed a hand upon her breast. +“Do you remember what you wrote, Alan?” + +“That you meant more to me than life.” + +“And that—particularly—you wanted Ellen McCormick to keep a tress of my +hair for you if they found me.” + +He nodded. “When I sat across the table from you aboard the _Nome_, I +worshiped it and didn’t know it. And since then—since I’ve had you +here—every time. I’ve looked at you—” He stopped, choking the words +back in his throat. + +“Say it, Alan.” + +“I’ve wanted to see it down,” he finished desperately. “Silly notion, +isn’t it?” + +“Why is it?” she asked, her eyes widening a little. “If you love it, +why is it a silly notion to want to see it down?” + +“Why, I though possibly you might think it so,” he added lamely. + +Never had he heard anything sweeter than her laughter as she turned +suddenly from him, so that the glow of the fallen sun was at her back, +and with deft, swift fingers began loosening the coils of her hair +until its radiant masses tumbled about her, streaming down her back in +a silken glory that awed him with its beauty and drew from his lips a +cry of gladness. + +She faced him, and in her eyes was the shining softness that glowed in +her hair. “Do you think it is nice, Alan?” + +He went to her and filled his hands with the heavy tresses and pressed +them to his lips and face. + +Thus he stood when he felt the sudden shiver that ran through her. It +was like a little shock. He heard the catch of her breath, and the hand +which she had placed gently on his bowed head fell suddenly away. When +he raised his head to look at her, she was staring past him into the +deepening twilight of the tundra, and it seemed as if something had +stricken her so that for a space she was powerless to speak or move. + +“What is it?” he cried, and whirled about, straining his eyes to see +what had alarmed her; and as he looked, a deep, swift shadow sped over +the earth, darkening the mellow twilight until it was somber gloom of +night—and the midnight sun went out like a great, luminous lamp as a +dense wall of purple cloud rolled up in an impenetrable curtain between +it and the arctic world. Often he had seen this happen in the approach +of summer storm on the tundras, but never had the change seemed so +swift as now. Where there had been golden light, he saw his companion’s +face now pale in a sea of dusk. It was this miracle of arctic night, +its suddenness and unexpectedness, that had startled her, he thought, +and he laughed softly. + +But her hand clutched his arm. “I saw them,” she cried, her voice +breaking. “I saw them—out there against the sun—before the cloud +came—and some of them were running, like animals—” + +“Shadows!” he exclaimed. “The long shadows of foxes running against the +sun, or of the big gray rabbits, or of a wolf and her half-grown +sneaking away—” + +“No, no, they were not that,” she breathed tensely, and her fingers +clung more fiercely to his arm. “They were not shadows. _They were +men_!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +In the moment of stillness between them, when their hearts seemed to +have stopped beating that they might not lose the faintest whispering +of the twilight, a sound came to Alan, and he knew it was the toe of a +boot striking against stone. Not a foot in his tribe would have made +that sound; none but Stampede Smith’s or his own. + +“Were they many?” he asked. + +“I could not see. The sun was darkening. But five or six were running—” + +“Behind us?” + +“Yes.” + +“And they saw us?” + +“I think so. It was but a moment, and they were a part of the dusk.” + +He found her hand and held it closely. Her fingers clung to his, and he +could hear her quick breathing as he unbuttoned the flap of his +automatic holster. + +“You think _they have come_?” she whispered, and a cold dread was in +her voice. + +“Possibly. My people would not appear from that direction. You are not +afraid?” + +“No, no, I am not afraid.” + +“Yet you are trembling.” + +“It is this strange gloom, Alan.” + +Never had the arctic twilight gone more completely. Not half a dozen +times had he seen the phenomenon in all his years on the tundras, where +thunder-storm and the putting out of the summer sun until twilight +thickens into the gloom of near-night is an occurrence so rare that it +is more awesome than the weirdest play of the northern lights. It +seemed to him now that what was happening was a miracle, the play of a +mighty hand opening their way to salvation. An inky wall was shutting +out the world where the glow of the midnight sun should have been. It +was spreading quickly; shadows became part of the gloom, and this gloom +crept in, thickening, drawing nearer, until the tundra was a weird +chaos, neither night nor twilight, challenging vision until eyes +strained futilely to penetrate its mystery. + +And as it gathered about them, enveloping them in their own narrowing +circle of vision, Alan was thinking quickly. It had taken him only a +moment to accept the significance of the running figures his companion +had seen. Graham’s men were near, had seen them, and were getting +between them and the range. Possibly it was a scouting party, and if +there were no more than five or six, the number which Mary had counted, +he was quite sure of the situation. But there might be a dozen or fifty +of them. It was possible Graham and Rossland were advancing upon the +range with their entire force. He had at no time tried to analyze just +what this force might be, except to assure himself that with the +overwhelming influence behind him, both political and financial, and +fired by a passion for Mary Standish that had revealed itself as little +short of madness, Graham would hesitate at no convention of law or +humanity to achieve his end. Probably he was playing the game so that +he would be shielded by the technicalities of the law, if it came to a +tragic end. His gunmen would undoubtedly be impelled to a certain +extent by an idea of authority. For Graham was an injured husband +“rescuing” his wife, while he—Alan Holt—was the woman’s abductor and +paramour, and a fit subject to be shot upon sight! + +His free hand gripped the butt of his pistol as he led the way straight +ahead. The sudden gloom helped to hide in his face the horror he felt +of what that “rescue” would mean to Mary Standish; and then a cold and +deadly definiteness possessed him, and every nerve in his body gathered +itself in readiness for whatever might happen. + +If Graham’s men had seen them, and were getting between them and +retreat, the neck of the trap lay ahead—and in this direction Alan +walked so swiftly that the girl was almost running at his side. He +could not hear her footsteps, so lightly they fell! her fingers were +twined about his own, and he could feel the silken caress of her loose +hair. For half a mile he kept on, watching for a moving shadow, +listening for a sound. Then he stopped. He drew Mary into his arms and +held her there, so that her head lay against his breast. She was +panting, and he could feel and hear her thumping heart. He found her +parted lips and kissed them. + +“You are not afraid?” he asked again. + +Her head made a fierce little negative movement against his breast. +“No!” + +He laughed softly at the beautiful courage with which she lied. “Even +if they saw us, and are Graham’s men, we have given them the slip,” he +comforted her. “Now we will circle eastward back to the range. I am +sorry I hurried you so. We will go more slowly.” + +“We must travel faster,” she insisted. “I want to run.” + +Her fingers sought his hand and clung to it again as they set out. At +intervals they stopped, staring about them into nothingness, and +listening. Twice Alan thought he heard sounds which did not belong to +the night. The second time the little fingers tightened about his own, +but his companion said no word, only her breath seemed to catch in her +throat for an instant. + +At the end of another half-hour it was growing lighter, yet the breath +of storm seemed nearer. The cool promise of it touched their cheeks, +and about them were gathering whispers and eddies of a thirsty earth +rousing to the sudden change. It was lighter because the wall of cloud +seemed to be distributing itself over the whole heaven, thinning out +where its solid opaqueness had lain against the sun. Alan could see the +girl’s face and the cloud of her hair. Hollows and ridges of the tundra +were taking more distinct shape when they came into a dip, and Alan +recognized a thicket of willows behind which a pool was hidden. + +The thicket was only half a mile from home. A spring was near the edge +of the willows, and to this he led the girl, made her a place to kneel, +and showed her how to cup the cool water in the palms of her hands. +While she inclined her head to drink, he held back her hair and rested +with his lips pressed to it. He heard the trickle of water running +between her fingers, her little laugh of half-pleasure, half-fear, +which in another instant broke into a startled scream as he half gained +his feet to meet a crashing body that catapulted at him from the +concealment of the willows. + +A greater commotion in the thicket followed the attack; then another +voice, crying out sharply, a second cry from Mary Standish, and he +found himself on his knees, twisted backward and fighting desperately +to loosen a pair of gigantic hands at his throat. He could hear the +girl struggling, but she did not cry out again. In an instant, it +seemed, his brain was reeling. He was conscious of a futile effort to +reach his gun, and could see the face over him, grim and horrible in +the gloom, as the merciless hands choked the life from him. Then he +heard a shout, a loud shout, filled with triumph and exultation as he +was thrown back; his head seemed leaving his shoulders; his body +crumbled, and almost spasmodically his leg shot out with the last +strength that was in him. He was scarcely aware of the great gasp that +followed, but the fingers loosened at his throat, the face disappeared, +and the man who was killing him sank back. For a precious moment or two +Alan did not move as he drew great breaths of air into his lungs. Then +he felt for his pistol. The holster was empty. + +He could hear the panting of the girl, her sobbing breath very near +him, and life and strength leaped back into his body. The man who had +choked him was advancing again, on hands and knees. In a flash Alan was +up and on him like a lithe cat. His fist beat into a bearded face; he +called out to Mary as he struck, and through his blows saw her where +she had fallen to her knees, with a second hulk bending over her, +almost in the water of the little spring from which she had been +drinking. A mad curse leaped from his lips. He was ready to kill now; +he wanted to kill—to destroy what was already under his hands that he +might leap upon this other beast, who stood over Mary Standish, his +hands twisted in her long hair. Dazed by blows that fell with the force +of a club the bearded man’s head sagged backward, and Alan’s fingers +dug into his throat. It was a bull’s neck. He tried to break it. Ten +seconds—twenty—half a minute at the most—and flesh and bone would have +given way—but before the bearded man’s gasping cry was gone from his +lips the second figure leaped upon Alan. + +He had no time to defend himself from this new attack. His strength was +half gone, and a terrific blow sent him reeling. Blindly he reached out +and grappled. Not until his arms met those of his fresh assailant did +he realize how much of himself he had expended upon the other. A +sickening horror filled his soul as he felt his weakness, and an +involuntary moan broke from his lips. Even then he would have cut out +his tongue to have silenced that sound, to have kept it from the girl. +She was creeping on her hands and knees, but he could not see. Her long +hair trailed in the trampled earth, and in the muddied water of the +spring, and her hands were groping—groping—until they found what they +were seeking. + +Then she rose to her feet, carrying the rock on which one of her hands +had rested when she knelt to drink. The bearded man, bringing himself +to his knees, reached out drunkenly, but she avoided him and poised +herself over Alan and his assailant. The rock descended. Alan saw her +then; he heard the one swift, terrible blow, and his enemy rolled away +from him, limply and without sound. He staggered to his feet and for a +moment caught the swaying girl in his arms. + +The bearded man was rising. He was half on his feet when Alan was at +his throat again, and they went down together. The girl heard blows, +then a heavier one, and with an exclamation of triumph Alan stood up. +By chance his hand had come in contact with his fallen pistol. He +clicked the safety down; he was ready to shoot, ready to continue the +fight with a gun. + +“Come,” he said. + +His voice was gasping, strangely unreal and thick. She came to him and +put her hand in his again, and it was wet and sticky with tundra mud +from the spring. Then they climbed to the swell of the plain, away from +the pool and the willows. + +In the air about them, creeping up from the outer darkness of the +strange twilight, were clearer whispers now, and with these sounds of +storm, borne from the west, came a hallooing voice. It was answered +from straight ahead. Alan held the muddied little hand closer in his +own and set out for the range-houses, from which direction the last +voice had come. He knew what was happening. Graham’s men were cleverer +than he had supposed; they had encircled the tundra side of the range, +and some of them were closing in on the willow pool, from which the +triumphant shout of the bearded man’s companion had come. They were +wondering why the call was not repeated, and were hallooing. + +Every nerve in Alan’s body was concentrated for swift and terrible +action, for the desperateness of their situation had surged upon him +like a breath of fire, unbelievable, and yet true. Back at the willows +they would have killed him. The hands at his throat had sought his +life. Wolves and not men were about them on the plain; wolves headed by +two monsters of the human pack, Graham and Rossland. Murder and lust +and mad passion were hidden in the darkness; law and order and +civilization were hundreds of miles away. If Graham won, only the +unmapped tundras would remember this night, as the deep, dark kloof +remembered in its gloom the other tragedy of more than half a century +ago. And the girl at his side, already disheveled and muddied by their +hands— + +His mind could go no farther, and angry protest broke in a low cry from +his lips. The girl thought it was because of the shadows that loomed up +suddenly in their path. There were two of them, and she, too, cried out +as voices commanded them to stop. Alan caught a swift up-movement of an +arm, but his own was quicker. Three spurts of flame darted in lightning +flashes from his pistol, and the man who had raised his arm crumpled to +the earth, while the other dissolved swiftly into the storm-gloom. A +moment later his wild shouts were assembling the pack, while the +detonations of Alan’s pistol continued to roll over the tundra. + +The unexpectedness of the shots, their tragic effect, the falling of +the stricken man and the flight of the other, brought no word from Mary +Standish. But her breath was sobbing, and in the lifting of the +purplish gloom she turned her face for an instant to Alan, tensely +white, with wide-open eyes. Her hair covered her like a shining veil, +and where it clustered in a disheveled mass upon her breast Alan saw +her hand thrusting itself forward from its clinging concealment, and in +it—to his amazement—was a pistol. He recognized the weapon—one of a +brace of light automatics which his friend, Carl Lomen, had presented +to him several Christmas seasons ago. Pride and a strange exultation +swept over him. Until now she had concealed the weapon, but all along +she had prepared to fight—to fight with _him_ against their enemies! He +wanted to stop and take her in his arms, and with his kisses tell her +how splendid she was. But instead of this he sped more swiftly ahead, +and they came into the nigger-head bottom which lay in a narrow barrier +between them and the range. + +Through this ran a trail scarcely wider than a wagon-track, made +through the sea of hummocks and sedge-boles and mucky pitfalls by the +axes and shovels of his people; finding this, Alan stopped for a +moment, knowing that safety lay ahead of them. The girl leaned against +him, and then was almost a dead weight in his arms. The last two +hundred yards had taken the strength from her body. Her pale face +dropped back, and Alan brushed the soft hair away from it, and kissed +her lips and her eyes, while the pistol lay clenched against his +breast. Even then, too hard-run to speak, she smiled at him, and Alan +caught her up in his arms and darted into the narrow path which he knew +their pursuers would not immediately find if they could bet beyond +their vision. He was joyously amazed at her lightness. She was like a +child in his arms, a glorious little goddess hidden and smothered in +her long hair, and he held her closer as he hurried toward the cabins, +conscious of the soft tightening of her arms about his neck, feeling +the sweet caress of her panting breath, strengthened and made happy by +her helplessness. + +Thus they came out of the bottom as the first mist of slowly +approaching rain touched his face. He could see farther now—half-way +back over the narrow trail. He climbed a slope, and here Mary Standish +slipped from his arms and stood with new strength, looking into his +face. His breath was coming in little breaks, and he pointed. Faintly +they could make out the shadows of the corral buildings. Beyond them +were no lights penetrating the gloom from the windows of the range of +houses. The silence of the place was death-like. + +And then something grew out of the earth almost at their feet. A hollow +cry followed the movement, a cry that was ghostly and shivering, and +loud enough only for them to hear, and Sokwenna stood at their side. He +talked swiftly. Only Alan understood. There was something unearthly and +spectral in his appearance; his hair and beard were wet; his eyes shot +here and there in little points of fire; he was like a gnome, weirdly +uncanny as he gestured and talked in his monotone while he watched the +nigger-head bottom. When he had finished, he did not wait for an +answer, but turned and led the way swiftly toward the range houses. + +“What did he say?” asked the girl. + +“That he is glad we are back. He heard the shots and came to meet us.” + +“And what else?” she persisted. + +“Old Sokwenna is superstitious—and nervous. He said some things that +you wouldn’t understand. You would probably think him mad if he told +you the spirits of his comrades slain in the kloof many years ago were +here with him tonight, warning him of things about to happen. Anyway, +he has been cautious. No sooner were we out of sight than he hustled +every woman and child in the village on their way to the mountains. +Keok and Nawadlook wouldn’t go. I’m glad of that, for if they were +pursued and overtaken by men like Graham and Rossland—” + +“Death would be better,” finished Mary Standish, and her hand clung +more tightly to his arm. + +“Yes, I think so. But that can not happen now. Out in the open they had +us at a disadvantage. But we can hold Sokwenna’s place until Stampede +and the herdsmen come. With two good rifles inside, they won’t dare to +assault the cabin with their naked hands. The advantage is all ours +now; we can shoot, but they won’t risk the use of their rifles.” + +“Why?” + +“Because you will be inside. Graham wants you alive, not dead. And +bullets—” + +They had reached Sokwenna’s door, and in that moment they hesitated and +turned their faces back to the gloom out of which they had fled. Voices +came suddenly from beyond the corrals. There was no effort at +concealment. The buildings were discovered, and men called out loudly +and were answered from half a dozen points out on the tundra. They +could hear running feet and sharp commands; some were cursing where +they were entangled among the nigger-heads, and the sound of hurrying +foes came from the edge of the ravine. Alan’s heart stood still. There +was something terribly swift and businesslike in this gathering of +their enemies. He could hear them at his cabin. Doors opened. A window +fell in with a crash. Lights flared up through the gray mist. + +It was then, from the barricaded attic window over their heads, that +Sokwenna’s rifle answered. A single shot, a shriek, and then a pale +stream of flame leaped out from the window as the old warrior emptied +his gun. Before the last of the five swift shots were fired, Alan was +in the cabin, barring the door behind him. Shaded candles burned on the +floor, and beside them crouched Keok and Nawadlook. A glance told him +what Sokwenna had done. The room was an arsenal. Guns lay there, ready +to be used; heaps of cartridges were piled near them, and in the eyes +of Keok and Nawadlook blazed deep and steady fires as they held shining +cartridges between their fingers, ready to thrust them into the rifle +chambers as fast as the guns were emptied. + +In the center of the room stood Mary Standish. The candles, shaded so +they would not disclose the windows, faintly illumined her pale face +and unbound hair and revealed the horror in her eyes as she looked at +Alan. + +He was about to speak, to assure her there was no danger that Graham’s +men would fire upon the cabin—when hell broke suddenly loose out in the +night. The savage roar of guns answered Sokwenna’s fusillade, and a +hail of bullets crashed against the log walls. Two of them found their +way through the windows like hissing serpents, and with a single +movement Alan was at Mary’s side and had crumpled her down on the floor +beside Keok and Nawadlook. His face was white, his brain a furnace of +sudden, consuming fire. + +“I thought they wouldn’t shoot at women,” he said, and his voice was +terrifying in its strange hardness. “I was mistaken. And I am +sure—now—that I understand.” + +With his rifle he cautiously approached the window. He was no longer +guessing at an elusive truth. He knew what Graham was thinking, what he +was planning, what he intended to do, and the thing was appalling. Both +he and Rossland knew there would be some way of sheltering Mary +Standish in Sokwenna’s cabin; they were accepting a desperate gamble, +believing that Alan Holt would find a safe place for her, while he +fought until he fell. It was the finesse of clever scheming, nothing +less than murder, and he, by this combination of circumstances and +plot, was the victim marked for death. + +The shooting had stopped, and the silence that followed it held a +significance for Alan. They were giving him an allotted time in which +to care for those under his protection. A trap-door was in the floor of +Sokwenna’s cabin. It opened into a small storeroom and cellar, which in +turn possessed an air vent leading to the outside, overlooking the +ravine. In the candle-glow Alan saw the door of this trap propped open +with a stick. Sokwenna, too, was clever. Sokwenna had foreseen. + +Crouched under the window, he looked at the girls. Keok, with a rifle +in her hand, had crept to the foot of the ladder leading up to the +attic, and began to climb it. She was going to Sokwenna, to load for +him. Alan pointed to the open trap. + +“Quick, get into that!” he cried. “It is the only safe place. You can +load there and hand out the guns.” + +Mary Standish looked at him steadily, but did not move. She was +clutching a rifle in her hands. And Nawadlook did not move. But Keok +climbed steadily and disappeared in the darkness above. + +“Go into the cellar!” commanded Alan. “Good God, if you don’t—” + +A smile lit up Mary’s face. In that hour of deadly peril it was like a +ray of glorious light leading the way through blackness, a smile sweet +and gentle and unafraid; and slowly she crept toward Alan, dragging the +rifle in one hand and holding the little pistol in the other, and from +his feet she still smiled up at him through the dishevelment of her +shining hair, and in a quiet, little voice that thrilled him, she said, +“I am going to help you fight.” + +[Illustration: Mary sobbed as the man she loved faced winged death.] + +Nawadlook came creeping after her, dragging another rifle and bearing +an apron heavy with the weight of cartridges. + +And above, through the darkened loophole of the attic window, +Sokwenna’s ferret eyes had caught the movement of a shadow in the gray +mist, and his rifle sent its death-challenge once more to John Graham +and his men. What followed struck a smile from Mary’s lips, and a +moaning sob rose from her breast as she watched the man she loved rise +up before the open window to face the winged death that was again +beating a tattoo against the log walls of the cabin. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +That in the lust and passion of his designs and the arrogance of his +power John Graham was not afraid to overstep all law and order, and +that he believed Holt would shelter Mary Standish from injury and +death, there could no longer be a doubt after the first few swift +moments following Sokwenna’s rifle-shots from the attic window. + +Through the window of the lower room, barricaded by the cautious old +warrior until its aperture was not more than eight inches square, Alan +thrust his rifle as the crash of gun-fire broke the gray and thickening +mist of night. He could hear the thud and hiss of bullets; he heard +them singing like angry bees as they passed with the swiftness of +chain-lightning over the cabin roof, and their patter against the log +walls was like the hollow drumming of knuckles against the side of a +ripe watermelon. There was something fascinating and almost gentle +about that last sound. It did not seem that the horror of death was +riding with it, and Alan lost all sense of fear as he stared in the +direction from which the firing came, trying to make out shadows at +which to shoot. Here and there he saw dim, white streaks, and at these +he fired as fast as he could throw cartridges into the chamber and pull +the trigger. Then he crouched down with the empty gun. It was Mary +Standish who held out a freshly loaded weapon to him. Her face was +waxen in its deathly pallor. Her eyes, staring at him so strangely, +never for an instant leaving his face, were lustrous with the agony of +fear that flamed in their depths. She was not afraid for herself. It +was for _him_. His name was on her lips, a whisper unspoken, a +breathless prayer, and in that instant a bullet sped through the +opening in front of which he had stood a moment before, a hissing, +writhing serpent of death that struck something behind them in its +venomous wrath. With a cry she flung up her arms about his bent head. + +“My God, they will kill you if you stand there!” she moaned. “Give me +up to them, Alan. If you love me—give me up!” + +A sudden spurt of white dust shot out into the dim candle-glow, and +then another, so near Nawadlook that his blood went cold. Bullets were +finding their way through the moss and earth chinking between the logs +of the cabin. His arms closed in a fierce embrace about the girl’s slim +body, and before she could realize what was happening, he leaped to the +trap with her and almost flung her into its protection. Then he forced +Nawadlook down beside her, and after them he thrust in the empty gun +and the apron with its weight of cartridges. His face was demoniac in +its command. + +“If you don’t stay there, I’ll open the door and go outside to fight! +Do you understand? _Stay there!_” + +His clenched fist was in their faces, his voice almost a shout. He saw +another white spurt of dust; the bullet crashed in tinware, and +following the crash came a shriek from Keok in the attic. + +In that upper gloom Sokwenna’s gun had fallen with a clatter. The old +warrior bent himself over, nearly double, and with his two withered +hands was clutching his stomach. He was on his knees, and his breath +suddenly came in a panting, gasping cry. Then he straightened slowly +and said something reassuring to Keok, and faced the window again with +the gun which she had loaded for him. + +The scream had scarcely gone from Keok’s lips when Alan was at the top +of the ladder, calling her. She came to him through the stark blackness +of the room, sobbing that Sokwenna was hit; and Alan reached out and +seized her, and dragged her down, and placed her with Nawadlook and +Mary Standish. + +From them he turned to the window, and his soul cried out madly for the +power to see, to kill, to avenge. As if in answer to this prayer for +light and vision he saw his cabin strangely illumined; dancing, yellow +radiance silhouetted the windows, and a stream of it billowed out +through an open door into the night. It was so bright he could see the +rain-mist, scarcely heavier than a dense, slowly descending fog, a wet +blanket of vapor moistening the earth. His heart jumped as with each +second the blaze of light increased. They had set fire to his cabin. +They were no longer white men, but savages. + +He was terribly cool, even as his heart throbbed so violently. He +watched with the eyes of a deadly hunter, wide-open over his +rifle-barrel. Sokwenna was still. Probably he was dead. Keok was +sobbing in the cellar-pit. Then he saw a shape growing in the +illumination, three or four of them, moving, alive. He waited until +they were clearer, and he knew what they were thinking—that the +bullet-riddled cabin had lost its power to fight. He prayed God it was +Graham he was aiming at, and fired. The figure went down, sank into the +earth as a dead man falls. Steadily he fired at the others—one, two, +three, four—and two out of the four he hit, and the exultant thought +flashed upon him that it was good shooting under the circumstances. + +He sprang back for another gun, and it was Mary who was waiting for +him, head and shoulders out of the cellar-pit, the rifle in her hands. +She was sobbing as she looked straight at him, yet without moisture or +tears in her eyes. + +“Keep down!” he warned. “Keep down below the floor!” + +He guessed what was coming. He had shown his enemies that life still +existed in the cabin, life with death in its hands, and now—from the +shelter of the other cabins, from the darkness, from beyond the light +of his flaming home, the rifle fire continued to grow until it filled +the night with a horrible din. He flung himself face-down upon the +floor, so that the lower log of the building protected him. No living +thing could have stood up against what was happening in these moments. +Bullets tore through the windows and between the moss-chinked logs, +crashing against metal and glass and tinware; one of the candles +sputtered and went out, and in this hell Alan heard a cry and saw Mary +Standish coming out of the cellar-pit toward him. He had flung himself +down quickly, and she thought he was hit! He shrieked at her, and his +heart froze with horror as he saw a heavy tress of her hair drop to the +floor as she stood there in that frightful moment, white and glorious +in the face of the gun-fire. Before she could move another step, he was +at her side, and with her in his arms leaped into the pit. + +A bullet sang over them. He crushed her so close that for a breath or +two life seemed to leave her body. + +A sudden draught of cool air struck his face. He missed Nawadlook. In +the deeper gloom farther under the floor he heard her moving, and saw a +faint square of light. She was creeping back. Her hands touched his +arm. + +“We can get away—there!” she cried in a low voice. “I have opened the +little door. We can crawl through it and into the ravine.” + +Her words and the square of light were an inspiration. He had not +dreamed that Graham would turn the cabin into a death-hole, and +Nawadlook’s words filled him with a sudden thrilling hope. The rifle +fire was dying away again as he gave voice to his plan in sharp, swift +words. He would hold the cabin. As long as he was there Graham and his +men would not dare to rush it. At least they would hesitate a +considerable time before doing that. And meanwhile the girls could +steal down into the ravine. There was no one on that side to intercept +them, and both Keok and Nawadlook were well acquainted with the trails +into the mountains. It would mean safety for them. He would remain in +the cabin, and fight, until Stampede Smith and the herdsmen came. + +The white face against his breast was cold and almost expressionless. +Something in it frightened him. He knew his argument had failed and +that Mary Standish would not go; yet she did not answer him, nor did +her lips move in the effort. + +“Go—for _their_ sakes, if not for your own and mine,” he insisted, +holding her away from him. “Good God, think what it will mean if beasts +like those out there get hold of Keok and Nawadlook! Graham is your +husband and will protect you for himself, but for them there will be no +hope, no salvation, nothing but a fate more terrible than death. They +will be like—like two beautiful lambs thrown among +wolves—broken—destroyed—” + +Her eyes were burning with horror. Keok was sobbing, and a moan which +she bravely tried to smother in her breast came from Nawadlook. + +“And _you!_” whispered Mary. + +“I must remain here. It is the only way.” + +Dumbly she allowed him to lead her back with Keok and Nawadlook. Keok +went through the opening first, then Nawadlook, and Mary Standish last. +She did not touch him again. She made no movement toward him and said +no word, and all he remembered of her when she was gone in the gloom +was her eyes. In that last look she had given him her soul, and no +whisper, no farewell caress came with it. + +“Go cautiously until you are out of the ravine, then hurry toward the +mountains,” were his last words. + +He saw their forms fade into dim shadows, and the gray mist swallowed +them. + +He hurried back, seized a loaded gun, and sprang to the window, knowing +that he must continue to deal death until he was killed. Only in that +way could he hold Graham back and give those who had escaped a chance +for their lives. Cautiously he looked out over his gun barrel. His +cabin was a furnace red with flame; streams of fire were licking out at +the windows and through the door, and as he sought vainly for a +movement of life, the crackling roar of it came to his ears, and so +swiftly that his breath choked him, the pitch-filled walls became +sheets of conflagration, until the cabin was a seething, red-hot torch +of fire whose illumination was more dazzling than the sun of day. + +Out into this illumination suddenly stalked a figure waving a white +sheet at the end of a long pole. It advanced slowly, a little +hesitatingly at first, as if doubtful of what might happen; and then it +stopped, full in the light, an easy mark for a rifle aimed from +Sokwenna’s cabin. He saw who it was then, and drew in his rifle and +watched the unexpected maneuver in amazement. The man was Rossland. In +spite of the dramatic tenseness of the moment Alan could not repress +the grim smile that came to his lips. Rossland was a man of illogical +resource, he meditated. Only a short time ago he had fled ignominiously +through fear of personal violence, while now, with a courage that could +not fail to rouse admiration, he was exposing himself to a swift and +sudden death, protected only by the symbol of truce over his head. That +he owed this symbol either regard or honor did not for an instant +possess Alan. A murderer held it, a man even more vile than a murderer +if such a creature existed on earth, and for such a man death was a +righteous end. Only Rossland’s nerve, and what he might have to say, +held back the vengeance within reach of Alan’s hand. + +He waited, and Rossland again advanced and did not stop until he was +within a hundred feet of the cabin. A sudden disturbing thought flashed +upon Alan as he heard his name called. He had seen no other figures, no +other shadows beyond Rossland, and the burning cabin now clearly +illumined the windows of Sokwenna’s place. Was it conceivable that +Rossland was merely a lure, and the instant he exposed himself in a +parley a score of hidden rifles would reveal their treachery? He +shuddered and held himself below the opening of the window. Graham and +his men were more than capable of such a crime. + +Rossland’s voice rose above the crackle and roar of the burning cabin. +“Alan Holt! Are you there?” + +“Yes, I am here,” shouted Alan, “and I have a line on your heart, +Rossland, and my finger is on the trigger. What do you want?” + +There was a moment of silence, as if the thought of what he was facing +had at last stricken Rossland dumb. Then he said: “We are giving you a +last chance, Holt. For God’s sake, don’t be a fool! The offer I made +you today is still good. If you don’t accept it—the law must take its +course.” + +“_The law!_” Alan’s voice was a savage cry. + +“Yes, the law. The law is with us. We have the proper authority to +recover a stolen wife, a captive, a prisoner held in restraint with +felonious intent. But we don’t want to press the law unless we are +forced to do so. You and the old Eskimo have killed three of our men +and wounded two others. That means the hangman, if we take you alive. +But we are willing to forget that if you will accept the offer I made +you today. What do you say?” + +Alan was stunned. Speech failed him as he realized the monstrous +assurance with which Graham and Rossland were playing their game. And +when he made no answer Rossland continued to drive home his arguments, +believing that at last Alan was at the point of surrender. + +Up in the dark attic the voices had come like ghost-land whispers to +old Sokwenna. He lay huddled at the window, and the chill of death was +creeping over him. But the voices roused him. They were not strange +voices, but voices which came up out of a past of many years ago, +calling upon him, urging him, persisting in his ears with cries of +vengeance and of triumph, the call of familiar names, a moaning of +women, a sobbing of children. Shadowy hands helped him, and a last time +he raised himself to the window, and his eyes were filled with the +glare of the burning cabin. He struggled to lift his rifle, and behind +him he heard the exultation of his people as he rested it over the sill +and with gasping breath leveled it at something which moved between him +and the blazing light of that wonderful sun which was the burning +cabin. And then, slowly and with difficulty, he pressed the trigger, +and Sokwenna’s last shot sped on its mission. + +At the sound of the shot Alan looked through the window. For a moment +Rossland stood motionless. Then the pole in his hands wavered, drooped, +and fell to the earth, and Rossland sank down after it making no sound, +and lay a dark and huddled blot on the ground. + +The appalling swiftness and ease with which Rossland had passed from +life into death shocked every nerve in Alan’s body. Horror for a brief +space stupefied him, and he continued to stare at the dark and +motionless blot, forgetful of his own danger, while a grim and terrible +silence followed the shot. And then what seemed to be a single cry +broke that silence, though it was made up of many men’s voices. Deadly +and thrilling, it was a message that set Alan into action. Rossland had +been killed under a flag of truce, and even the men under Graham had +something like respect for that symbol. He could expect no +mercy—nothing now but the most terrible of vengeance at their hands, +and as he dodged back from the window he cursed Sokwenna under his +breath, even as he felt the relief of knowing he was not dead. + +Before a shot had been fired from outside, he was up the ladder; in +another moment he was bending over the huddled form of the old Eskimo. + +“Come below!” he commanded. “We must be ready to leave through the +cellar-pit.” + +His hand touched Sokwenna’s face; it hesitated, groped in the darkness, +and then grew still over the old warrior’s heart. There was no tremor +or beat of life in the aged beast. Sokwenna was dead. + +The guns of Graham’s men opened fire again. Volley after volley crashed +into the cabin as Alan descended the ladder. He could hear bullets +tearing through the chinks and windows as he turned quickly to the +shelter of the pit. + +He was amazed to find that Mary Standish had returned and was waiting +for him there. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +In the astonishment with which Mary’s unexpected presence confused him +for a moment, Alan stood at the edge of the trap, staring down at her +pale face, heedless of the terrific gun-fire that was assailing the +cabin. That she had not gone with Keok and Nawadlook, but had come back +to him, filled him with instant dread, for the precious minutes he had +fought for were lost, and the priceless time gained during the parley +with Rossland counted for nothing. + +She saw his disappointment and his danger, and sprang up to seize his +hand and pull him down beside her. + +“Of course you didn’t expect me to go,” she said, in a voice that no +longer trembled or betrayed excitement. “You didn’t want me to be a +coward. My place is with you.” + +He could make no answer to that, with her beautiful eyes looking at him +as they were, but he felt his heart grow warmer and something rise up +chokingly in his throat. + +“Sokwenna is dead, and Rossland lies out there—shot under a flag of +truce,” he said. “We can’t have many minutes left to us.” + +He was looking at the square of light where the tunnel from the +cellar-pit opened into the ravine. He had planned to escape through +it—alone—and keep up a fight in the open, but with Mary at his side it +would be a desperate gantlet to run. + +“Where are Keok and Nawadlook?” he asked. + +“On the tundra, hurrying for the mountains. I told them it was your +plan that I should return to you. When they doubted, I threatened to +give myself up unless they did as I commanded them. And—Alan—the ravine +is filled with the rain-mist, and dark—” She was holding his free hand +closely to her breast. + +“It is our one chance,” he said. + +“And aren’t you glad—a little glad—that I didn’t run away without you?” + +Even then he saw the sweet and tremulous play of her lips as they +smiled at him in the gloom, and heard the soft note in her voice that +was almost playfully chiding; and the glory of her love as she had +proved it to him there drew from him what he knew to be the truth. + +“Yes—I am glad. It is strange that I should be so happy in a moment +like this. If they will give us a quarter of an hour—” + +He led the way quickly to the square of light and was first to creep +forth into the thick mist. It was scarcely rain, yet he could feel the +wet particles of it, and through this saturated gloom whining bullets +cut like knives over his head. The blazing cabin illumined the open on +each side of Sokwenna’s place, but deepened the shadows in the ravine, +and a few seconds later they stood hand in hand in the blanket of fog +that hid the coulée. + +Suddenly the shots grew scattering above them, then ceased entirely. +This was not what Alan had hoped for. Graham’s men, enraged and made +desperate by Rossland’s death, would rush the cabin immediately. +Scarcely had the thought leaped into his mind when he heard swiftly +approaching shouts, the trampling of feet, and then the battering of +some heavy object at the barricaded door of Sokwenna’s cabin. In +another minute or two their escape would be discovered and a horde of +men would pour down into the ravine. + +Mary tugged at his hand. “Let us hurry,” she pleaded. + +What happened then seemed madness to the girl, for Alan turned and with +her hand held tightly in his started up the side of the ravine, +apparently in the face of their enemies. Her heart throbbed with sudden +fear when their course came almost within the circle of light made by +the burning cabin. Like shadows they sped into the deeper shelter of +the corral buildings, and not until they paused there did she +understand the significance of the hazardous chance they had taken. +Already Graham’s men were pouring into the ravine. + +“They won’t suspect we’ve doubled on them until it is too late,” said +Alan exultantly. “We’ll make for the kloof. Stampede and the herdsmen +should arrive within a few hours, and when that happens—” + +A stifled moan interrupted him. Half a dozen paces away a crumpled +figure lay huddled against one of the corral gates. + +“He is hurt,” whispered Mary, after a moment of silence. + +“I hope so,” replied Alan pitilessly. “It will be unfortunate for us if +he lives to tell his comrades we have passed this way.” + +Something in his voice made the girl shiver. It was as if the vanishing +point of mercy had been reached, and savages were at their backs. She +heard the wounded man moan again as they stole through the deeper +shadows of the corrals toward the nigger-head bottom. And then she +noticed that the mist was no longer in her face. The sky was clearing. +She could see Alan more clearly, and when they came to the narrow trail +over which they had fled once before that night it reached out ahead of +them like a thin, dark ribbon. Scarcely had they reached this point +when a rifle shot sounded not far behind. It was followed by a second +and a third, and after that came a shout. It was not a loud shout. +There was something strained and ghastly about it, and yet it came +distinctly to them. + +“The wounded man,” said Alan, in a voice of dismay. “He is calling the +others. I should have killed him!” + +He traveled at a half-trot, and the girl ran lightly at his side. All +her courage and endurance had returned. She breathed easily and +quickened her steps, so that she was setting the pace for Alan. They +passed along the crest of the ridge under which lay the willows and the +pool, and at the end of this they paused to rest and listen. Trained to +the varied night whisperings of the tundras Alan’s ears caught faint +sounds which his companion did not hear. The wounded man had succeeded +in giving his message, and pursuers were scattering over the plain +behind them. + +“Can you run a little farther?” he asked. + +“Where?” + +He pointed, and she darted ahead of him, her dark hair streaming in a +cloud that began to catch a faint luster of increasing light. Alan ran +a little behind her. He was afraid of the light. Only gloom had saved +them this night, and if the darkness of mist and fog and cloud gave way +to clear twilight and the sun-glow of approaching day before they +reached the kloof he would have to fight in the open. With Stampede at +his side he would have welcomed such an opportunity of matching rifles +with their enemies, for there were many vantage points in the open +tundra from which they might have defied assault. But the nearness of +the girl frightened him. She, after all, was the hunted thing. He was +only an incident. From him could be exacted nothing more than the price +of death; he would be made to pay that, as Sokwenna had paid. For her +remained the unspeakable horror of Graham’s lust and passion. But if +they could reach the kloof, and the hiding-place in the face of the +cliff, they could laugh at Graham’s pack of beasts while they waited +for the swift vengeance that would come with Stampede and the herdsmen. + +He watched the sky. It was clearing steadily. Even the mists in the +hollows were beginning to melt away, and in place of their dissolution +came faintly rose-tinted lights. It was the hour of dawn; the sun sent +a golden glow over the disintegrating curtain of gloom that still lay +between it and the tundras, and objects a hundred paces away no longer +held shadow or illusionment. + +The girl did not pause, but continued to run lightly and with +surprising speed, heeding only the direction which he gave her. Her +endurance amazed him. And he knew that without questioning him she had +guessed the truth of what lay behind them. Then, all at once, she +stopped, swayed like a reed, and would have fallen if his arms had not +caught her. + +“Splendid!” he cried. + +She lay gasping for breath, her face against his breast. Her heart was +a swiftly beating little dynamo. + +They had gained the edge of a shallow ravine that reached within half a +mile of the kloof. It was this shelter he had hoped for, and Mary’s +splendid courage had won it for them. + +He picked her up in his arms and carried her again, as he had carried +her through the nigger-head bottom. Every minute, every foot of +progress, counted now. Range of vision was widening. Pools of sunlight +were flecking the plains. In another quarter of an hour moving objects +would be distinctly visible a mile away. + +With his precious burden in his arms, her lips so near that he could +feel their breath, her heart throbbing, he became suddenly conscious of +the incongruity of the bird-song that was wakening all about them. It +seemed inconceivable that this day, glorious in its freshness, and +welcomed by the glad voice of all living things, should be a day of +tragedy, of horror, and of impending doom for him. He wanted to shout +out his protest and say that it was all a lie, and it seemed absurd +that he should handicap himself with the weight and inconvenient bulk +of his rifle when his arms wanted to hold only that softer treasure +which they bore. + +In a little while Mary was traveling at his side again. And from then +on he climbed at intervals to the higher swellings of the gully edge +and scanned the tundra. Twice he saw men, and from their movements he +concluded their enemies believed they were hidden somewhere on the +tundra not far from the range-houses. + +Three-quarters of an hour later they came to the end of the shallow +ravine, and half a mile of level plain lay between them and the kloof. +For a space they rested, and in this interval Mary smoothed her long +hair and plaited it in two braids. In these moments Alan encouraged +her, but he did not lie. He told her the half-mile of tundra was their +greatest hazard, and described the risks they would run. Carefully he +explained what she was to do under certain circumstances. There was +scarcely a chance they could cross it unobserved, but they might be so +far ahead of the searchers that they could beat them out to the kloof. +If enemies appeared between them and the kloof, it would be necessary +to find a dip or shelter of rock, and fight; and if pursuers from +behind succeeded in out-stripping them in the race, she was to continue +in the direction of the kloof as fast as she could go, while he +followed more slowly, holding Graham’s men back with his rifle until +she reached the edge of the gorge. After that he would come to her as +swiftly as he could run. + +They started. Within five minutes they were on the floor of the tundra. +About them in all directions stretched the sunlit plains. Half a mile +back toward the range were moving figures; farther west were others, +and eastward, almost at the edge of the ravine, were two men who would +have discovered them in another moment if they had not descended into +the hollow. Alan could see them kneeling to drink at the little coulée +which ran through it. + +“Don’t hurry,” he said, with a sudden swift thought. “Keep parallel +with me and a distance away. They may not discover you are a woman and +possibly may think we are searchers like themselves. Stop when I stop. +Follow my movements.” + +“Yes, sir!” + +Now, in the sunlight, she was not afraid. Her cheeks were flushed, her +eyes bright as stars as she nodded at him. Her face and hands were +soiled with muck-stain, her dress spotted and torn, and looking at her +thus Alan laughed and cried out softly: + +“You beautiful little vagabond!” + +She sent the laugh back, a soft, sweet laugh to give him courage, and +after that she watched him closely, falling in with his scheme so +cleverly that her action was better than his own—and so they had made +their way over a third of the plain when Alan came toward her suddenly +and cried, “Now, _run!_” + +A glance showed her what was happening. The two men had come out of the +ravine and were running toward them. + +Swift as a bird she was ahead of Alan, making for a pinnacle of rock +which he had pointed out to her at the edge of the kloof. + +Close behind her, he said: “Don’t hesitate a second. Keep on going. +When they are a little nearer I am going to kill them. But you mustn’t +stop.” + +At intervals he looked behind him. The two men were gaining rapidly. He +measured the time when less than two hundred yards would separate them. +Then he drew close to Mary’s side. + +“See that level place ahead? We’ll cross it in another minute or two. +When they come to it I’m going to stop, and catch them where they can’t +find shelter. But you must keep on going. I’ll overtake you by the time +you reach the edge of the kloof.” + +She made no answer, but ran faster; and when they had passed the level +space she heard his footsteps growing fainter, and her heart was ready +to choke her when she knew the time had come for him to turn upon their +enemies. But in her mind burned the low words of his command, his +warning, and she did not look back, but kept her eyes on the pinnacle +of rock, which was now very near. She had almost reached it when the +first shot came from behind her. + +Without making a sound that would alarm her, Alan had stumbled, and +made pretense of falling. He lay upon his face for a moment, as if +stunned, and then rose to his knees. An instant too late Graham’s men +saw his ruse when his leveled rifle gleamed in the sunshine. The speed +of their pursuit was their undoing. Trying to catch themselves so that +they might use their rifles, or fling themselves upon the ground, they +brought themselves into a brief but deadly interval of inaction, and in +that flash one of the men went down under Alan’s first shot. Before he +could fire again the second had flattened himself upon the earth, and +swift as a fox Alan was on his feet and racing for the kloof. Mary +stood with her back against the huge rock, gasping for breath, when he +joined her. A bullet sang over their heads with its angry menace. He +did not return the fire, but drew the girl quickly behind the rock. + +“He won’t dare to stand up until the others join him,” he encouraged +her. “We’re beating them to it, little girl! If you can keep up a few +minutes longer—” + +She smiled at him, even as she struggled to regain her breath. It +seemed to her there was no way of descending into the chaos of rock +between the gloomy walls of the kloof, and she gave a little cry when +Alan caught her by her hands and lowered her over the face of a ledge +to a table-like escarpment below. He laughed at her fear when he +dropped down beside her, and held her close as they crept back under +the shelving face of the cliff to a hidden path that led downward, with +a yawning chasm at their side. The trail widened as they descended, and +at the last they reached the bottom, with the gloom and shelter of a +million-year-old crevasse hovering over them. Grim and monstrous rocks, +black and slippery with age, lay about them, and among these they +picked their way, while the trickle and drip of water and the +flesh-like clamminess of the air sent a strange shiver of awe through +Mary Standish. There was no life here—only an age-old whisper that +seemed a part of death; and when voices came from above, where Graham’s +men were gathering, they were ghostly and far away. + +But here, too, was refuge and safety. Mary could feel it as they picked +their way through the chill and gloom that lay in the silent passages +between the Gargantuan rocks. When her hands touched their naked sides +an uncontrollable impulse made her shrink closer to Alan, even though +she sensed the protection of their presence. They were like colossi, +carved by hands long dead, and now guarded by spirits whose voices +guttered low and secretly in the mysterious drip and trickle of unseen +water. This was the haunted place. In this chasm death and vengeance +had glutted themselves long before she was born; and when a rock +crashed behind them, accidentally sent down by one of the men above, a +cry broke from her lips. She was frightened, and in a way she had never +known before. It was not death she feared here, nor the horror from +which she had escaped above, but something unknown and indescribable, +for which she would never be able to give a reason. She clung to Alan, +and when at last the narrow fissure widened over their heads, and light +came down and softened their way, he saw that her face was deathly +white. + +“We are almost there,” he comforted. “And—some day—you will love this +gloomy kloof as I love it, and we will travel it together all the way +to the mountains.” + +A few minutes later they came to an avalanche of broken sandstone that +was heaped half-way up the face of the precipitous wall, and up this +climbed until they came to a level shelf of rock, and back of this was +a great depression in the rock, forty feet deep and half as wide, with +a floor as level as a table and covered with soft white sand. Mary +would never forget her first glimpse of this place; it was unreal, +strange, as if a band of outlaw fairies had brought the white sand for +a carpet, and had made this their hiding-place, where wind and rain and +snow could never blow. And up the face of the cavern, as if to make her +thought more real, led a ragged fissure which it seemed to her only +fairies’ feet could travel, and which ended at the level of the plain. +So they were tundra fairies, coming down from flowers and sunlight +through that fissure, and it was from the evil spirits in the kloof +itself that they must have hidden themselves. Something in the humor +and gentle thought of it all made her smile at Alan. But his face had +turned suddenly grim, and she looked up the kloof, where they had +traveled through danger and come to safety. And then she saw that which +froze all thought of fairies out of her heart. + +Men were coming through the chaos and upheaval of rock. There were many +of them, appearing out of the darker neck of the gorge into the clearer +light, and at their head was a man upon whom Mary’s eyes fixed +themselves in horror. White-faced she looked at Alan. He had guessed +the truth. + +“That man in front?” he asked. + +She nodded. “Yes.” + +“Is John Graham.” + +He heard the words choking in her throat. + +“Yes, John Graham.” + +He swung his rifle slowly, his eyes burning with a steely fire. + +“I think,” he said, “that from here I can easily kill him!” + +Her hand touched his arm; she was looking into his eyes. Fear had gone +out of them, and in its place was a soft and gentle radiance, a prayer +to him. + +“I am thinking of tomorrow—the next day—the years and years to come, +_with you_,” she whispered. “Alan, you can’t kill John Graham—not until +God shows us it is the only thing left for us to do. You can’t—” + +The crash of a rifle between the rock walls interrupted her. The snarl +of a bullet followed the shot. She heard it strike, and her heart +stopped beating, and the rigidity of death came into her limbs and body +as she saw the swift and terrible change in the stricken face of the +man she loved. He tried to smile at her, even as a red blot came where +the streak of gray in his hair touched his forehead. And then he +crumpled down at her feet, and his rifle rattled against the rocks. + +She knew it was death. Something seemed to burst in her head and fill +her brain with the roar of a flood. She screamed. Even the men below +hesitated and their hearts jumped with a new sensation as the terrible +cry of a woman rang between the rock walls of the chasm. And following +the cry a voice came down to them. + +“John Graham, I’m going to kill you—_kill you_—” + +And snatching up the fallen rifle Mary Standish set herself to the task +of vengeance. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +She waited. The ferocity of a mother defending her young filled her +soul, and she moaned in her grief and despair as the seconds passed. +But she did not fire blindly, for she knew she must kill John Graham. +The troublesome thing was a strange film that persisted in gathering +before her eyes, something she tried to brush away, but which +obstinately refused to go. She did not know she was sobbing as she +looked over the rifle barrel. The figures came swiftly, but she had +lost sight of John Graham. They reached the upheaval of shattered rock +and began climbing it, and in her desire to make out the man she hated +she stood above the rampart that had sheltered her. The men looked +alike, jumping and dodging like so many big tundra hares as they came +nearer, and suddenly it occurred to her that _all_ of them were John +Grahams, and that she must kill swiftly and accurately. Only the hiding +fairies might have guessed how her reason trembled and almost fell in +those moments when she began firing. Certainly John Graham and his men +did not, for her first shot was a lucky one, and a man slipped down +among the rocks at the crack of it. After that she continued to fire +until the responseless click of the hammer told her the gun was empty. +The explosions and the shock against her slight shoulder cleared her +vision and her brain. She saw the men still coming, and they were so +near she could see their faces clearly. And again her soul cried out in +its desire to kill John Graham. + +She turned, and for an instant fell upon her knees beside Alan. His +face was hidden in his arm. Swiftly she tore his automatic from its +holster, and sprang back to her rock. There was no time to wait or +choose now, for his murderers were almost upon her. With all her +strength she tried to fire accurately, but Alan’s big gun leaped and +twisted in her hand as she poured its fire wildly down among the rocks +until it was empty. Her own smaller weapon she had lost somewhere in +the race to the kloof, and now when she found she had fired her last +shot she waited through another instant of horror, until she was +striking at faces that came within the reach of her arm. And then, like +a monster created suddenly by an evil spirit, Graham was at her side. +She had a moment’s vision of his cruel, exultant face, his eyes blazing +with a passion that was almost madness, his powerful body lunging upon +her. Then his arms came about her. She could feel herself crushing +inside them, and fought against their cruel pressure, then broke limply +and hung a resistless weight against him. She was not unconscious, but +her strength was gone, and if the arms had closed a little more they +would have killed her. + +And she could hear—clearly. She heard suddenly the shots that came from +up the kloof, scattered shots, then many of them, and after that the +strange, wild cries that only the Eskimo herdsmen make. + +Graham’s arms relaxed. His eyes swept the fairies’ hiding-place with +its white sand floor, and fierce joy lit up his face. + +“Martens, it couldn’t happen in a better place,” he said to a man who +stood near him. “Leave me five men. Take the others and help Schneider. +If you don’t clean them out, retreat this way, and six rifles from this +ambuscade will do the business in a hurry.” + +Mary heard the names of the men called who were to stay. The others +hurried away. The firing in the kloof was steady now. But there were no +cries, no shouts—nothing but the ominous crack of the rifles. + +Graham’s arms closed about her again. Then he picked her up and carried +her back into the cavern, and in a place where the rock wall sagged +inward, making a pocket of gloom which was shut out from the light of +day, he laid her upon the carpet of sand. + +Where the erosion of many centuries of dripping water had eaten its +first step in the making of the ragged fissure a fairy had begun to +climb down from the edge of the tundra. He was a swift and agile fairy, +very red in the face, breathing fast from hard running, but making not +a sound as he came like a gopher where it seemed no living thing could +find a hold. And the fairy was Stampede Smith. + +From the lips of the kloof he had seen the last few seconds of the +tragedy below, and where death would have claimed him in a more +reasonable moment he came down in safety now. In his finger-ends was +the old tingling of years ago, and in his blood the thrill which he had +thought was long dead—the thrill of looking over leveled guns into the +eyes of other men. Time had rolled back, and he was the old Stampede +Smith. He saw under him lust and passion and murder, as in other days +he had seen them, and between him and desire there was neither law nor +conscience to bar the way, and his dream—a last great fight—was here to +fill the final unwritten page of a life’s drama that was almost closed. +And what a fight, if he could make that carpet of soft, white sand +unheard and unseen. Six to one! Six men with guns at their sides and +rifles in their hands. What a glorious end it would be, for a woman—and +Alan Holt! + +He blessed the firing up the kloof which kept the men’s faces turned +that way; he thanked God for the sound of combat, which made the +scraping of rock and the rattle of stones under his feet unheard. He +was almost down when a larger rock broke loose, and fell to the ledge. +Two of the men turned, but in that same instant came a more thrilling +interruption. A cry, a shrill scream, a woman’s voice filled with +madness and despair, came from the depth of the cavern, and the five +men stared in the direction of its agony. Close upon the cries came +Mary Standish, with Graham behind her, reaching out his hands for her. +The girl’s hair was flying, her face the color of the white sand, and +Graham’s eyes were the eyes of a demon forgetful of all else but her. +He caught her. The slim body crumpled in his arms again while pitifully +weak hands beat futilely in his face. + +And then came a cry such as no man had ever heard in Ghost Kloof +before. + +It was Stampede Smith. A sheer twenty feet he had leaped to the carpet +of sand, and as he jumped his hands whipped out his two guns, and +scarcely had his feet touched the floor of the soft pocket in the ledge +when death crashed from them swift as lightning flashes, and three of +the five were tottering or falling before the other two could draw or +swing a rifle. Only one of them had fired a shot. The other went down +as if his legs had been knocked from under him by a club, and the one +who fired bent forward then, as if making a bow to death, and pitched +on his face. + +And then Stampede Smith whirled upon John Graham. + +During these few swift seconds Graham had stood stunned, with the girl +crushed against his breast. He was behind her, sheltered by her body, +her head protecting his heart, and as Stampede turned he was drawing a +gun, his dark face blazing with the fiendish knowledge that the other +could not shoot without killing the girl. The horror of the situation +gripped Stampede. He saw Graham’s pistol rise slowly and deliberately. +He watched it, fascinated. And the look in Graham’s face was the cold +and unexcited triumph of a devil. Stampede saw only that face. It was +four inches—perhaps five—away from the girl’s. There was only that—and +the extending arm, the crooking finger, the black mouth of the +automatic seeking his heart. And then, in that last second, straight +into the girl’s staring eyes blazed Stampede’s gun, and the four inches +of leering face behind her was suddenly blotted out. It was Stampede, +and not the girl, who closed his eyes then; and when he opened them and +saw Mary Standish sobbing over Alan’s body, and Graham lying face down +in the sand, he reverently raised the gun from which he had fired the +last shot, and pressed its hot barrel to his thin lips. + +Then he went to Alan. He raised the limp head, while Mary bowed her +face in her hands. In her anguish she prayed that she, too, might die, +for in this hour of triumph over Graham there was no hope or joy for +her. Alan was gone. Only death could have come with that terrible red +blot on his forehead, just under the gray streak in his hair. And +without him there was no longer a reason for her to live. + +She reached out her arms. “Give him to me,” she whispered. “Give him to +me.” + +Through the agony that burned in her eyes she did not see the look in +Stampede’s face. But she heard his voice. + +“It wasn’t a bullet that hit him,” Stampede was saying. “The bullet hit +a rock, an’ it was a chip from the rock that caught him square between +the eyes. He isn’t dead, _and he ain’t going to die!_” + +How many weeks or months or years it was after his last memory of the +fairies’ hiding-place before he came back to life, Alan could make no +manner of guess. But he did know that for a long, long time he was +riding through space on a soft, white cloud, vainly trying to overtake +a girl with streaming hair who fled on another cloud ahead of him; and +at last this cloud broke up, like a great cake of ice, and the girl +plunged into the immeasurable depths over which they were sailing, and +he leaped after her. Then came strange lights, and darkness, and sounds +like the clashing of cymbals, and voices; and after those things a long +sleep, from which he opened his eyes to find himself in a bed, and a +face very near, with shining eyes that looked at him through a sea of +tears. + +And a voice whispered to him, sweetly, softly, joyously, “Alan!” + +He tried to reach up his arms. The face came nearer; it was pressed +against his own, soft arms crept about him, softer lips kissed his +mouth and eyes, and sobbing whispers came with their love, and he knew +the end of the race had come, and he had won. + +This was the fifth day after the fight in the kloof; and on the sixth +he sat up in his bed, bolstered with pillows, and Stampede came to see +him, and then Keok and Nawadlook and Tatpan and Topkok and Wegaruk, his +old housekeeper, and only for a few minutes at a time was Mary away +from him. But Tautuk and Amuk Toolik did not come, and he saw the +strange change in Keok, and knew that they were dead. Yet he dreaded to +ask the question, for more than any others of his people did he love +these two missing comrades of the tundras. + +It was Stampede who first told him in detail what had happened—but he +would say little of the fight on the ledge, and it was Mary who told +him of that. + +“Graham had over thirty men with him, and only ten got away,” he said. +“We have buried sixteen and are caring for seven wounded at the +corrals. Now that Graham is dead, they’re frightened stiff—afraid we’re +going to hand them over to the law. And without Graham or Rossland to +fight for them, they know they’re lost.” + +“And our men—my people?” asked Alan faintly. + +“Fought like devils.” + +“Yes, I know. But—” + +“They didn’t rest an hour in coming from the mountains.” + +“You know what I mean, Stampede.” + +“Not many, Alan. Seven were killed, including Sokwenna,” and he counted +over the names of the slain. Tautuk and Amuk Toolik were not among +them. + +“And Tautuk?” + +“He is wounded. Missed death by an inch, and it has almost killed Keok. +She is with him night and day, and as jealous as a little cat if anyone +else attempts to do anything for him.” + +“Then—I am glad Tautuk was hit,” smiled Alan. And he asked, “Where is +Amuk Toolik?” + +Stampede hung his head and blushed like a boy. + +“You’ll have to ask _her_, Alan.” + +And a little later Alan put the question to Mary. + +She, too, blushed, and in her eyes was a mysterious radiance that +puzzled him. + +“You must wait,” she said. + +Beyond that she would say no word, though he pulled her head down, and +with his hands in her soft, smooth hair threatened to hold her until +she told him the secret. Her answer was a satisfied little sigh, and +she nestled her pink face against his neck, and whispered that she was +content to accept the punishment. So where Amuk Toolik had gone, and +what he was doing, still remained a mystery. + +A little later he knew he had guessed the truth. + +“I don’t need a doctor,” he said, “but it was mighty thoughtful of you +to send Amuk Toolik for one.” Then he caught himself suddenly. “What a +senseless fool I am! Of course there are others who need a doctor more +than I do.” + +Mary nodded. “But I was thinking chiefly of you when I sent Amuk Toolik +to Tanana. He is riding Kauk, and should return almost any time now.” +And she turned her face away so that he could see only the pink tip of +her ear. + +“Very soon I will be on my feet and ready for travel,” he said. “Then +we will start for the States, as we planned.” + +“You will have to go alone, Alan, for I shall be too busy fitting up +the new house,” she replied, in such a quiet, composed, little voice +that he was stunned. “I have already given orders for the cutting of +timber in the foothills, and Stampede and Amuk Toolik will begin +construction very soon. I am sorry you find your business in the States +so important, Alan. It will be a little lonesome with you away.” + +He gasped. “Mary!” + +She did not turn. “_Mary!_” + +He could see again that little, heart-like throb in her throat when she +faced him. + +And then he learned the secret, softly whispered, with sweet, warm lips +pressed to his. + +“It wasn’t a doctor I sent for, Alan. It was a minister. We need one to +marry Stampede and Nawadlook and Tautuk and Keok. Of course, you and I +can wait—” + +But she never finished, for her lips were smothered with a love that +brought a little sob of joy from her heart. + +And then she whispered things to him which he had never guessed of Mary +Standish, and never quite hoped to hear. She was a little wild, a +little reckless it may be, but what she said filled him with a +happiness which he believed had never come to any other man in the +world. It was not her desire to return to the States at all. She never +wanted to return. She wanted nothing down there, nothing that the +Standish fortune-builders had left her, unless he could find some way +of using it for the good of Alaska. And even then she was afraid it +might lead to the breaking of her dream. For there was only one thing +that would make her happy, and that was _his_ world. She wanted it just +as it was—the big tundras, his people, the herds, the mountains—with +the glory and greatness of God all about them in the open spaces. She +now understood what he had meant when he said he was an Alaskan and not +an American; she was that, too, an Alaskan first of all, and for Alaska +she would go on fighting with him, hand in hand, until the very end. +His heart throbbed until it seemed it would break, and all the time she +was whispering her hopes and secrets to him he stroked her silken hair, +until it lay spread over his breast, and against his lips, and for the +first time in years a hot flood of tears filled his eyes. + +So happiness came to them; and only strange voices outside raised +Mary’s head from where it lay, and took her quickly to the window where +she stood a vision of sweet loveliness, radiant in the tumbled +confusion and glory of her hair. Then she turned with a little cry, and +her eyes were shining like stars as she looked at Alan. + +“It is Amuk Toolik,” she said. “He has returned.” + +“And—is he alone?” Alan asked, and his heart stood still while he +waited for her answer. + +Demurely she came to his side, and smoothed his pillow, and stroked +back his hair. “I must go and do up my hair, Alan,” she said then. “It +would never do for them to find me like this.” + +And suddenly, in a moment, their fingers entwined and tightened, for on +the roof of Sokwenna’s cabin the little gray-cheeked thrush was singing +again. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALASKAN *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and + most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where + you are located before using this eBook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that: + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without +widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + |