"But," explained Geraldine courageously, "that was left out of the magazine. Mr. Daniels took it all accurately, just as Mr. Tisdale told it, word for word; but the story was cut terribly. Nothing at all was said of Mr. Weatherbee's part. We couldn't understand that, for with names suppressed, there could be no motive, and he was so clearly the leading character. But magazines have no conscience. It's anything, with the new ones at least, to catch the public eye, and they stir more melodrama into their truths than the yellow journals do. But Mr. Daniels apologized to Mr. Tisdale, and explained how he wasn't responsible for the editor's note or for printing his name, and he did his best to make it up in his report of the disaster at Cascade tunnel. That story went into the Press straight and has been widely copied."

It was in Jimmie's favor that Lucky Banks had read the newspaper story, and also that they had had those hours of intimacy at the west portal. "Well, likely you ain't to blame," the prospector admitted finally, "but there's people who don't know Hollis Tisdale that might believe what the magazine says. And, if I was you, I'd take a little run over to Washington or New York, wherever it is—I'll put up the money—and locate that editor. I'd make him fix it right, my, yes."

"I should be glad to," said Daniels, brightening, "but it's possible those missing pages were lost on the way."

"Well, I'd find out," persisted Banks. "And there's other stories I got wind of when I was in Washington, D.C., and Seattle, too, last time I was down, that ought to be trailed. Maybe it's just politics, but I know for a fact they ain't so."

The irony had gone out of Annabel's face. She had seen Hollis Tisdale but once, yet his coming and going had marked the red-letter day of her life. Her heart championed Banks' fight for him. She turned her dark eyes from him to Daniels.

"It's too bad you tried to tell Hollis Tisdale's story for him," she said. "Even if the magazine had got it all straight, it wouldn't have been the same as getting it first hand. It's like listening to one of those fine singers in a phonograph; you can get the tune and some of the words, and maybe the voice pretty fair, but you miss the man."

With this she rose. "We are ready to go out to the Orchards, Mr. Bailey. Mr. Banks and I are going to change places with the bride and groom." Then from her silk bag, she brought forth a bunch of keys which she gave to Geraldine. "Nukui is going to stay to clear away," she explained, "and bring our car home. And when you have finished making your plans, and want to go down to see the newspaper office, he will show you a nice short cut through the park."

So again the mayor's chocolate six-passenger car threaded the park and emerged this time on a straight, broad thoroughfare through Hesperides Vale. "This," said Bailey, turning from the town, "is the Alameda. They motor from Wenatchee and beyond to try it. It's a pretty good road, but in a year or two, when these shade trees come into full leaf, it will be something to show."

There were tufts on most of them now and on the young fruit trees that ran in geometrical designs on either side, covering the levels that last year had been overgrown with sage. As these infant orchards dropped behind and the Wenatchee range loomed near, Cerberus detached from the other peaks; but it was no longer a tawny monster on guard; its contour was broken by many terraces, luxuriant with alfalfa and planted with trees.

"Why," exclaimed Mrs. Weatherbee, "there is the gap. Then, this must be the mountain—it reminded me once of a terrible, crouching, wild beast— but it has changed."

"Yes, ma'am," responded Banks, "she's looking tamer now. The peaches have taken right hold, and those fillers of strawberries are hurrying on the green. But you give 'em three years or maybe four, and take 'em in blossom time,—my, you won't know this old mountain then."

A drive, cross-cutting the bold front, led to the level beneath the summit, where rose the white walls and green gables of Annabel's home, but they rounded the mountain into the smaller vale. "This," said the mayor, with culminating pride, "is Weatherbee Orchards. It shows what money, in the right hands, can do."

A soft breeze came down over the ridge as they ascended; the flume, that followed the contour of the roadway, gurgled pleasantly. Everywhere along the spillways alfalfa spread thriftily, or strawberry plants sent out new tendrils. All growing things were more advanced in that walled pocket than in the outer vale; the arid gulf had become a vast greenhouse. Cerberus no longer menaced. Even the habitation of the goat-woman, that had been the central distraction of the melancholy picture, was obliterated. In all that charming landscape there was no discordant note to break the harmony.

The car doubled the curve at the top of the bench and ran smoothly between breadths of green lawn, bordered by nodding narcissus, towards the house, which was long and low, with a tiled roof and cream-colored walls that enclosed a patio. A silence fell over the company. As they alighted, every one waited, looking expectantly at Beatriz Weatherbee. The music of a fountain fluted from the court, and she went forward, listening. Her face was no longer inscrutable; it shone with a kind of inner illumination. But when she saw the slender column of spray and the sparkling basin, with a few semi-tropical plants grouped on the curb, a cactus, a feathery palm in a quaint stone pot, she turned, and her eyes sought Elizabeth's. "It is all like the old hacienda where grandfather was born, and mother, and"— her voice broke—"Only that had adobe walls," she finished. "It is like— coming home."

"It is simply marvelous," replied Elizabeth, and she added abruptly, looking at the prospector: "Mr. Banks, you are a problem beyond me."

"It looks all right, doesn't it?" the little man beamed. "Likely it would about suit Dave. And I was able to stand the investment. My, yes, now your brother has bought out the Annabel, what I spent wouldn't cut any figure. But," and his glance moved to the woman who had profited by the venture, "I'll likely get my money back."

Afterwards, when the party had inspected the reservoirs and upper flumes, Beatriz found herself returning to the bench with Lucky Banks. It was almost sunset, and the far Chelan peaks were touched with Alpine fire; below them an amethyst mist filtered over the transformed vale. They had been discussing the architecture of the building.

"I had often gone over the map of the project with David," she said, "but he must have drawn the plans of the house later, in Alaska. It was a complete surprise. I wonder he remembered the old hacienda so accurately; he was there only once—when we were on our wedding journey."

"There were a few measurements that had to be looked up," admitted Banks; "but I took a little run around into lower California last winter, on my way home from Washington, D.C."

"You were there? You troubled to go all the way to the old rancheria for details?"

"Yes, ma'am. It was a mighty good grazing country down there, but the people who bought the place were making their money out of one of those fine hotels; it was put up alongside a bunch of hot springs. Nobody but a couple of Mexicans was living in the old house. It was in bad shape."

"I know. I know. If I had been a man, it would have been different. I should have restored it; I should have worked, fought to buy back every acre. But you saw old Jacinta and Carlos? It was recorded in the title they should be allowed to stay there and have the use of the old home garden as long as they lived. My mother insisted on that."

They had reached the level and walked on by the house towards the solitary pine tree on the rim of the bench. After a moment he said: "Now Dave's project is running in good shape, there isn't much left for me to do, my, no, except see the statue set up in the park."

"I wanted to ask you about that, Mr. Banks; we passed the place on the way to the bungalow. It was beautiful. I presume you have selected a woman's figure—a lovely Ceres or Aphrodite?"

"No, ma'am," responded Banks a little sharply. "It's a full-sized man. Full-sized and some over, what the sculptor who made it calls heroic; and it's a good likeness of Dave Weatherbee."

They had reached the pine tree, and she put out her hand to steady herself on the bole. "I understand," she said slowly. "It was a beautiful— tribute."

"It looks pretty nice," corroborated the prospector. "There was a mighty good photograph of Dave a young fellow on a Yukon steamer gave me once, to go by. He was standing on a low bluff, with his head up, looking off like a young elk, when the boat pulled out, and the camera man snapped him. It was the day we quit the partner lay, and I was going down-stream, and he was starting for the headwaters of the Susitna. Tisdale told me about a man who had done first-class work in New York, and I sent that picture with a check for a starter on my order. I wrote him the price wasn't cutting any figure with me; what I wanted was the best he could do and to have it delivered by the fifteenth of March. And he did; he had it done on time; and he said it was his best work. It's waiting down in Weatherbee now. Hollis thought likely I better leave it to you whether to have the burying with the statue down in the park, or up here, somewhere, on Dave's own ground."

"Do you mean," she asked, and her voice almost failed, "you have brought— David—home?"

Banks nodded. "It was cold for him wintering up there in the Alaska snow."

"Oh, I know. I've thought about—that. I should have done—as you have— had I been able."

After a moment she said: "What is there I can say to you? I did not know there were such men in the world until I knew you and Hollis Tisdale. Of course you believed, as he did, that I was necessary to round out David's project. That is why, when it was successfully completed, you forfeited the bonus and all the investment. I may never be able to fully refund you but—shall do my best. And this other—too. Mr. Banks, was that Mr. Tisdale's suggestion? Did he share that—expense—with you?"

"No, ma'am, he let me have that chance when we talked it over. I had to get even with him on the project."

"Even with him on the project?"

"Yes, ma'am. He let me put up the money, but it's got to be paid back out of Dave's half interest in the Aurora mine. And likely, likely, that's what Dave Weatherbee would have wanted done."



CHAPTER XXX

THE JUNIOR DEFENDANT

It was following a recess during the third afternoon of the trial; a jury had at last been impanelled, the attorney for the prosecution and the leading lawyer for the defense had measured swords, when Stuart Foster, the junior defendant in the "Conspiracy to Defraud the Government," was called to the stand. Frederic Morganstein, the head of the Prince William Development Company, straightened in his seat beside the vacated chair. He was sleekly groomed, and his folded, pinkish white hands suggested a good child's; his blank face assumed an expression of mildly protesting innocence. But the man who stepped from his shadow into the strong light of the south windows was plainly harassed and worn. His boyishness was gone; he seemed to have aged years since that evening in September when he had sailed for Alaska. Tisdale's great heart stirred, then his clear mind began to tally the rapid fire of questions and Foster's replies.

"When were you first connected with the Prince William Development Company, Mr. Foster?"

"In the summer of 1904."

"You were then engaged in the capacity of mining engineer at a fixed salary, were you not?" The prosecuting attorney had a disconcerting manner of arching his brows. His mouth, taken in connection with his strong, square jaw, had the effect of closing on his questions like a trap.

"Yes," Foster answered briefly, "I was to receive two hundred and fifty dollars a month the first year, and its equivalent in the company's stock."

"Did you not, at the same time, turn over to the company your interests in the Chugach Railway and Development Company?"

"Yes," said Foster.

"And was not this railroad built for the purpose of opening certain coal lands in the Matanuska region, in which you held an interest?"

"Yes, I had entered a coal claim of one hundred and sixty acres."

"All the law allowed to an individual; but, Mr. Foster, did you not induce others, as many as thirty persons, to locate adjoining claims with the idea that the entire group would come under one control?"

Foster colored. "It was necessary to co-operate," he said slowly, "in order to meet the enormous expense of development and transportation. We wished to build a narrow-gauge road—it was then in course of construction—but the survey was through the Chugach Mountains, the most rugged in North America. The cost of moving material, after it was shipped from the States, was almost prohibitive; ordinary labor commanded higher wages than are paid skilled mechanics here in Seattle."

"Mr. Foster, were not those coal claims located with a purpose to dispose of them in a group at a profit?"

"No, sir. I have told you on account of the great expense of development it was necessary to work together; it was also necessary that as many claims as possible should be taken."

The prosecution, nodding affirmatively, looked at the jury. "The more cunning and subtle the disguise," he said, "the more sure we may be of the evasion of the law. So, Mr. Foster, you promoted an interest in the fields, selected claims for men who never saw them; used their power of attorney?"

"Yes. That was in accordance with the law then in force. We paid for our coal claims, the required ten dollars an acre. The land office accepted our money, eighty thousand dollars. Then the President suspended the law, and we never received our patents. About that time the Chugach forest reserve was made, and we were hampered by all sorts of impossible conditions. Some of us were financially ruined. One of the first locators spent one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, his whole fortune, in development. He opened his mine and had several tons of coal carried by packers through the mountains to the coast, to be shipped to Seattle, to be tested on one of the Government cruisers. The report was so favorable it encouraged the rest of us to stay with the venture."

"Mr. Foster," the attorney's voice took a higher, more aggressive pitch, "were not many of those claims entered under names furnished by an agent of the Morganstein interests?"

"Well, yes." Foster threw his head with something of his old boyish defiance. He was losing patience and skill. "Mr. Morganstein himself made a filing, and his father. That is the reason all our holdings are now classed as the Morganstein group."

"And," pursued the lawyer, "their entries were incidental with the consolidation of your company with the Prince William Development Company?"

Foster flushed hotly. "The Prince William Development Company was in need of coal; no enterprise can be carried on without it in Alaska. And the consolidation brought necessary capital to us; without it, our railroad was bankrupt. It meant inestimable benefit to the country, to every prospector, miner, homesteader, who must waste nerve-breaking weeks packing his outfit through those bleak mountains in order to reach the interior. But, before forty miles of track was completed, the executive withdrew all Alaska coal lands from entry, and we discontinued construction, pending an Act of Congress to allow our patents. The material carried in there at so great a cost is lying there still, rotting away."

"Gentlemen, is it not all clear to you?" The prosecuting attorney flashed a glance of triumph over the jury. "Do you not see in this Prince William Development Company the long arm of the octopus that is strangling Alaska? That has reached out its tentacles everywhere, for gold here, copper there; for oil, coal, timber, anything in sight? That, but for the foresight of the executive and Gifford Pinchot, would possess most of Alaska today?"

The men on the jury looked thoughtful but not altogether convinced. One glanced at his neighbor with a covert smile. This man, whom the Government had selected to prosecute the coal fraud cases was undeniably able, often brilliant, but his statements showed he had brought his ideas of Alaska from the Atlantic coast; to him, standing in the Seattle courtroom, our outlying possession was still as remote. As his glance moved to the ranks of outside listeners, who overflowed the seats and crowded the aisles to the doors, he must have been conscious that the sentiment he had expressed was at least unpopular in the northwest. Faces that had been merely interested or curious grew suddenly lowering. The atmosphere of the place seemed surcharged.

The following morning Morganstein took the stand. Though in small matters that touched his personal comfort he was arrogantly irritable, under the cross-examination that assailed his commercial methods he proved suave and non-committal. As the day passed, the prosecutor's insinuations grew more open and vindictive. Judge Feversham sprang to his feet repeatedly to challenge his accusations, and twice the Court calmed the Government's attorney with a reprimand. The atmosphere of the room seemed to seethe hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. Finally, during the afternoon session, Foster was recalled.

Through it all Tisdale waited, listening to everything, separating, weighing each point presented. It was beginning to look serious for Foster. Clearly, in his determination to win his suit, the prosecution was losing sight of the simple justice the Government desired. And a man less dramatic, less choleric, with less of a reputation for political intrigue than Miles Feversham might better have defended Stuart Foster. Foster was so frank, so honest, so eager to make the Alaska situation understood. And it was not an isolated case; there were hundreds of young men, who, like him, had cast their fortunes with that new and growing country, to find themselves, after years of hardship and privation of which the outside world had no conception, bound hand and foot in an intricate tangle of the Government's red tape.

The evening of the fourth day the attorney for the prosecution surprised Tisdale at his rooms. "Thank you," he said, when Hollis offered his armchair, "but those windows open to the four winds of heaven are a little imprudent to a man who lives by his voice. Pretty, though, isn't it?" He paused a moment to look down on the harbor lights and the chains of electric globes stretching off to Queen Anne hill and far and away to Magnolia bluff, then seated himself between the screen and the table that held the shaded reading lamp. "Has it occurred to you, Mr. Tisdale," he asked, "that a question may be raised as to the legality of your testimony in these coal cases?"

"No." Hollis remained standing. He looked at his visitor in surprise. "Please make that clear, Mr. Bromley," he said.

The attorney smiled. "This is a trial case," he began. "A dozen others hinge on it. I was warned to be prepared for anything; so, when my attention was called to that article in Sampson's Magazine, my suspicions were instantly awake. It looked much like blackmail and, in connection with another story I heard in circulation at Washington, seemed a systematic preparation to attack the Government's witness. Possibly you do not know it was Mr. Jerold, your legal adviser and my personal friend, who put me in touch with the magazine. You had wired him to find out certain facts, but he was unable to go to New York at the time and, knowing I was there for the week, he got into communication with me by telephone and asked me to look the matter up. The publishers, fearing a libel suit which would ruin them, were very obliging. They allowed me to see not only the original manuscript, but Mrs. Feversham's letter, which I took the trouble to copy."

"Mrs. Feversham's letter?" Tisdale exclaimed. "Do you mean it was Mrs. Feversham who was responsible for that story?"

"As it was published, yes. But Daniels was not a pen name. There really was such a writer—I have taken the trouble to find that out since I arrived in Seattle. He was on the staff of the Press and wrote a very creditable account of the catastrophe on the Great Northern railroad, in which glowing tribute was given you. But since then, and this is what makes the situation so questionable, he has left the paper and dropped completely out of sight."

Tisdale drew forward his chair and settled himself comfortably. "There is no need to worry about Jimmie Daniels," he said; "he is all right. I saw him at Cascade tunnel; he told me he was about to be married and go to the Wenatchee country to conduct a paper of his own. It's too bad there wasn't another reporter up there to tell about him. He worked like a Trojan, and it was a place to try a man's mettle. Afterwards, before he left, he came to me and introduced himself. He had been aboard the yacht that day I told the story. He had taken it down in his notebook behind an awning. He told me one of the ladies on board—he did not mention her name—who read his copy later, offered to dispose of it for him."

"So," said the lawyer slowly, "you did tell the story; there was a papoose; the unfortunate incident really occurred."

"Yes," responded Tisdale, "it happened in a canyon of those mountains across the Sound. You can barely make out their outline to-night; but watch for them at sunrise; it's worth waiting for." Then, after a moment, he said, "I told the story to show the caliber of Weatherbee, the man who put himself in my place when the Indians came to our camp, looking for me; but, in editing, all mention of him was cut out. Daniels couldn't understand that. He said the manuscript was long, but if it was necessary to abridge in making up the magazine, why had they thrown out the finest part of the story?"

"Let me see," said the attorney thoughtfully, "wasn't Weatherbee the name of the man you grub-staked in Alaska, and who discovered the Aurora mine?"

Tisdale bowed, then added, with the vibration playing softly in his voice: "And the name of the bravest and noblest man that ever fought the unequal fight of the north."

"Which proves the story was not published to exploit a hero," commented Bromley. "But now," he went on brusquely, "we have arrived at the other story. Do you know, Mr. Tisdale, it is being said in Washington, and, too, I have heard it here in Seattle, that though your own half interest in the Aurora mine, acquired through the grub-stake you furnished Weatherbee, will make you a millionaire at least, you are withholding the widow's share."

This time Tisdale did not express surprise. "I have had that suggested to me," he answered quietly. "But the stories of the Aurora are very much inflated. It is a comparatively new mine, and though it promises to be one of the great discoveries, the expense of operating so far has exceeded the output. Heavy machinery has been transported and installed, and Mrs. Weatherbee could not have met any part of these payments. In all probability she would have immediately disposed of an interest at a small price and so handicapped me with a partner with his own ideas of development. David Weatherbee paid for the Aurora with his life, and I have pledged myself to carry out his plans. But, Mr. Bromley, do not trouble about that last half interest. I bought it: the transfer was regularly recorded; Mr. Jerold has assured me it is legally mine."

"I know what Mr. Jerold thinks," replied the attorney. "It nettled him to hear me repeat that story. 'Why, it's incredible,'" he said. "'There are documents I drew up last fall that refute it completely.'" Mr. Bromley paused, then went on slowly: "Last fall you were in a hospital, Mr. Tisdale, beginning a long, all but hopeless fight for your life, and it was natural you should have called in Mr. Jerold to settle your affairs. I inferred from his remark that you had remembered Mrs. Weatherbee, at least, in your will." He halted again, then added still more deliberately: "If I am right, I should like to be prepared, in case of emergency, to read such a clause in court."

Tisdale was silent. He rose and turned to the west windows, where he stood looking down on the harbor lights.

"Am I right?" persisted the attorney.

Hollis thrust his hands into his pockets and swung around. He stood with his chin lowered, looking at the lawyer with his upward glance from under slightly frowning brows. "Well," he said at last, "suppose you are. And suppose I refuse to have my private papers read in open court?"

"In that case," answered Mr. Bromley, rising, "I must telegraph to Washington for one of the Alaska coal commission to take your place. I am sorry. You were named to me at the beginning as a man who knew more about Alaska coal, and, in fact, the whole Alaska situation, than any other employee of the Government."

Still, having said this, Mr. Bromley did not seem in any hurry to go, but stood holding his hat and waiting for a word from Tisdale to redeem the situation. At last it came. "Is there no other way," he asked, "than to drag my private affairs into court?"

The attorney gravely shook his head. "You never can tell what a jury will do," he said. "Less than a prejudice against a witness has swung a decision sometimes."

Hollis said no more. He went over to his safe and selected a package containing three documents held together by a rubber band. After a hesitating moment, he drew out one, which he returned to its place. The others he brought to the attorney, who carried them to the reading lamp to scan. One was a deed to the last half interest in the Aurora, the one which Weatherbee had had recorded, and the remaining paper was, as Mr. Bromley conjectured, Tisdale's will; but it contained a somewhat disconcerting surprise. However, the lawyer seated himself and, spreading the paper open on the table, copied this clause.

... "The Aurora mine, lying in an unsurveyed region of Alaska, accessible from Seward by way of Rainy Pass, and from the Iditarod district north by east, I bequeath to Beatriz Silva Gonzales Weatherbee, to be held for her in trust by Stuart Emory Poster for a period of five years, or until development, according to David Weatherbee's plans, shall have been fully carried out. The profits, above the cost of all improvements and all operating expenses—which shall include a superintendent's salary of four thousand dollars a year to said Stuart Emory Foster—to be paid in semi-annual dividends to said Beatriz Silva Gonzales Weatherbee."

"Stuart Emory Foster," repeated the lawyer meditatively, putting away his fountain pen. "You evidently have considerable confidence in his engineering skill, Mr. Tisdale."

"Yes." His voice mellowed, but he regarded the attorney with the upward, watchful look. "I have confidence in Stuart Emory Foster in every way. He is not only one of the most capable, reliable mining engineers, but also one of the most respected and most trusted men in the north."

There was a silence, during which Mr. Bromley thoughtfully folded his copy and placed it in his pocket-book. "Thank you, Mr. Tisdale," he said finally, and rose once more. "You may not be called for several days but when you are, it is advisable that you have the original documents at hand. Good night."



CHAPTER XXXI

TISDALE OF ALASKA—AND WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was evident, after his interview with Hollis Tisdale, that Mr. Bromley was in no hurry to precipitate the side issue for which he had prepared. Every one who had taken coal land in the Morganstein group had been on the witness stand, and many more who had not filed claims had given testimony, yet the prosecution held him in reserve. Then came a day when Lucky Banks, recalled to tell what he knew about the Chugach trail, made some astonishing statements. He had traveled that route with a partner at the end of a season in the Copper River plateau. They had expected to finish the distance by the new railroad. The little man was brief but graphic. It seemed to have been a running fight with storms, glaciers, and glacial torrents to reach that narrow-gauge track before the first real September blizzard. "But we could have stood it," he concluded in his high key, "my, yes, it wouldn't have amounted to much, if we could have had firewood."

"Did you not know the fallen timber was at your service?" questioned Mr. Bromley. "Provided, of course, you conformed to the laws of the reserve in building your fire and in extinguishing it when you broke camp."

"There wasn't any fallen timber," responded Banks dryly; "and likely we would have took it green, if there had been a tree in sight. It was getting mighty cold, nights, and with the frost in his wet clothes, a man needs a warm supper to hearten him."

"What?" exclaimed Mr. Bromley sharply. "Do you mean you saw no trees? Remember you were in the Chugach forest; or did you lose your way?"

"No, sir. We struck the Chugach Railway just where we aimed to, but a mighty lot of the Chugach reserve is out of timber line. That's why we banked on Foster's new train to hurry us through. But we found she had quit running. The Government had got wind of the scheme and sent a bunch of rules and regulations. First came a heavy tax for operating the road; and next was an order to put spark arresters on all his engines. He only had two first-class ones and a couple of makeshifts to haul his gravel cars; and his sparks would have froze, likely, where they lit, but there he was, tied up on the edge of a fill he had counted on finishing up before his crew went out for the winter, and the nearest spark arrester farther off than Christmas."

A ripple of amusement ran through the crowded room, but little Banks stood waiting frostily. When his glance caught the judge's smile, his eyes scintillated their blue light. "Likely Foster would have sent his order out and had those arresters shipped around Cape Horn from New York," he added. "They'd probably been in time for spring travel; but he opened another bunch of mail and found there wouldn't be any more sparks. Washington, D.C., had shut down his coal mine."

Mr. Bromley had no further questions to ask. He seemed preoccupied and passed the recess that followed the prospector's testimony in pacing the corridor. Lucky Banks had been suggested as an intelligent and honest fellow on whom the Government might rely; but his statements failed to dovetail with his knowledge of Alaska and the case, and after the intermission Tisdale was called.

The moment he was sworn, Miles Feversham was on his feet. He held in his hand a magazine, in which during the recess, he had been engrossed, and his forefinger kept the place.

"I object to this witness," he said sonorously and waited while a stir, like a gust of wind in a wood, swept the courtroom, and the jury straightened, alert. "I object, not because he defrauded the widow of David Weatherbee out of her half interest in the Aurora mine, though, gentlemen, you know this to be an open fact, but for the reason that he is a criminal, self-confessed, who should be serving a prison sentence, and a criminal's testimony is not allowable in a United States court."

Before he finished speaking, or the Court had recovered from the shock, Mr. Bromley had taken a bundle of papers from his pocket and stepped close to the jury box.

"This is an infamous fabrication," he exclaimed. "It was calculated to surprise us, but it finds us prepared. In ten minutes we shall prove it was planned six months ago to defame the character of the Government's witness at this trial. I have here, gentlemen, a copy of the Alaska record showing the transfer of David Weatherbee's interest in the Aurora mine to Hollis Tisdale; it bears the signature of his wife. But this extract from Mr. Tisdale's will, which was drawn shortly after his return from Alaska, last year, and while he was dangerously ill in Washington, proves how far it was from his intention to defraud the widow of David Weatherbee." Here Mr. Bromley read the clause.

Tisdale, standing at ease, with his hand resting on his chair, glanced from the attorney to Foster. No mask covered his transparent face; the dark circles under his fine, expressive eyes betrayed how nearly threadbare his hope was worn. Then, suddenly, in the moment he met Tisdale's look, wonder, swift intelligence, contrition, and the gratitude of his young, sorely tried spirit flashed from his countenance. To Hollis it became an illuminated scroll.

"As to the main charge," resumed Mr. Bromley, "that is ridiculous. It is based on an unfortunate accident to an Indian child years ago. The distorted yarn was published in a late issue of a sensational magazine. No doubt, most of you have read it, since it was widely circulated. Different—isn't it?—from that other story of Mr. Tisdale which came down from Cascade tunnel. Gentlemen, I have the letter that was enclosed with the manuscript that was submitted to Sampson's Magazine. It was not written by the author, James Daniels, but by a lady, who had offered to dispose of the material for him, and who, without his knowledge, substituted a revised copy."

Miles Feversham had subsided, dumbfounded, into his chair; his self-sufficiency had deserted him; for a moment the purple color surged in his face; his chagrin overwhelmed him. But Marcia, seated in the front row outside the bar, showed no confusion. Her brilliant, compelling eyes were on her husband. It was as though she wished to reinforce him, and at the same time convey some urgent, vital thought. He glanced around and, reading the look, started again to his feet. He began to retract his denunciation. It was evident he had been misinformed; he offered his apologies to the witness and asked that the case be resumed. But the prosecuting attorney, disregarding him, continued to explain. "In the Daniels' manuscript, gentlemen, a coroner's inquest exonerated the man who was responsible for the death of the papoose; this the magazine suppressed. I am able to offer in evidence James Daniels' affidavit."

Then, while the jury gathered these varying ideas in fragments, Lucky Banks' treble rose. "Let's hear what the lady wrote." And some one at the back of the courtroom said in a deep voice; "Read the lady's letter."

It seemed inevitable. Mr. Bromley had separated a letter from the bundle of papers. Involuntarily Marcia started up. But the knocking of the gavel, sounding smartly, insistently, above the confusion, brought unexpected deliverance.

"It is unnecessary to further delay this Court with this issue," announced the judge. "The case before the jury already has dragged through nearly four weeks, and it should be conducted as expeditiously as possible to a close. Mr. Bromley, the witness is sustained."

Marcia settled back in her place; Miles Feversham, like a man who has slipped on the edge of a chasm, sat a moment longer, gripping the arms of his chair; then his shifting look caught Frederic's wide-eyed gaze of uncomprehending innocence, and he weakly smiled.

"Mr. Tisdale," began the prosecution, putting aside his papers and endeavoring to focus his mind again on the case, "you have spent some years with the Alaska division of the Geological Survey?"

"Every open season and some of the winters for a period of ten years, with the exception of three which I also spent in Alaska."

"And you are particularly familiar with the locality included in the Chugach forest reserve, I understand, Mr. Tisdale. Tell us a little about it. It contains vast reaches of valuable and marketable timber, does it not?"

The genial lines crinkled lightly in Tisdale's face. "The Chugach forest contains some marketable timber on the lower Pacific slopes," he replied, "where there is excessive precipitation and the influence of the warm Japan current, but along the streams on the other side of the divide there are only occasional growths of scrubby spruce, hardly suitable for telegraph poles or even railroad ties." He paused an instant then went on mellowly: "Gifford Pinchot was thousands of miles away; he never had seen Alaska, when he suggested that the Executive set aside the Chugach forest reserve. No doubt he believed there was valuable timber on those lofty peaks and glaciers, but I don't know how he first heard of a Chugach forest, unless"—he halted again and looked at the jury, while the humor deepened in his voice—"those Pennsylvania contractors, who were shipping coal around Cape Horn to supply the Pacific navy, took the chance of there being trees in those mountains and interested the Government in saving the timber—to conserve the coal."

A ripple of laughter passed over the jury and on through the courtroom. Even the presiding judge smiled, and Mr. Bromley hurried to say: "Tell us something about that Alaska coal, Mr. Tisdale. You have found vast bodies— have you not?—of a very high grade; to compare favorably with Pennsylvania coal."

"The Geodetic Survey estimates there are over eight millions of acres of coal land already known in Alaska," replied Hollis statistically. "More than is contained in all Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Ohio combined. It is of all grades. The Bonnifield near Fairbanks, far in the interior, is the largest field yet discovered, and in one hundred and twenty-two square miles of it that have been surveyed, there are about ten billions of tons. Cross sections show veins two hundred and thirty-one feet thick. This coal is lignite."

"How about the Matanuska fields?" asked Mr. Bromley.

"The Matanuska cover sixty-five thousand acres; the coal is a high grade bituminous, fit for steam and coking purposes. There are also some veins of anthracite. I consider the Matanuska the best and most important coal yet discovered in Alaska, and with the Bering coal, which is similar though more broken, these fields should supply the United States for centuries to come."

Mr. Bromley looked at the jury. His smile said:

"You heard that, gentlemen?" Then, his glance returning to the witness:

"Why the most important?" he asked.

"Because all development, all industry, in the north depends on the opening up of such a body of coal. And these fields are the most accessible to the coast. A few hundreds of miles of railroad, the extension of one or two of the embryo lines on which construction has been suspended, would make the coal available on Prince William Sound. Used by the Pacific Navy, it would save the Government a million dollars a year on transportation."

The prosecuting attorney looked at the jury again in triumph. "And that, gentlemen, is why the Prince William Development Company was so ready to finance one of those embryo railroads; why those Matanuska coal claims were located by the syndicate's stenographers, bookkeepers, any employee down here in their Seattle offices. Mr. Tisdale, if those patents had been allowed and the claims had been turned over to the company, would it not have given the Morganstein interests a monopoly on Alaska coal?"

Tisdale paused a thoughtful moment. "No, at least only temporarily, if at all. Out of those eight millions of acres of coal land already discovered in Alaska, not more than thirty-two thousand acres have been staked—only one claim, an old and small mine on the coast, has been allowed." His glance moved slowly over the jury, from face to face, and he went on evenly: "You can't expect capital to invest without some inducement. The Northern Pacific, the first trans-continental railroad in the United States, received enormous land grants along the right of way; but the Prince William Development Company, which intends ultimately to bridge distances as vast, to tap the unknown resources of the Alaska interior, has not asked for concessions, beyond the privilege to develop such properties as it may have acquired by location and purchase. Surely the benefit that railroad would be in opening the country to settlement and in the saving of human life, should more than compensate for those few hundreds of acres of the Government's coal."

"Mr. Tisdale," said the attorney sharply, "that, in an employee of the Government, is a strange point of view."

Tisdale's hands sought his pockets; he returned Mr. Bromley's look with his steady, upward gaze from under slightly frowning brows. "The perspective changes at close range," he said. "The Government knows less about its great possession of Alaska than England knew about her American colonies, one hundred and fifty years ago. The United States had owned Alaska seventeen years before any form of government was established there; more than thirty before a criminal code was provided, and thirty-three years before she was given a suitable code of civil laws. Now, to-day, there are no laws operative in Alaska under which title may be acquired to coal land. Alaska has yielded hundreds of millions of dollars from her placers, her fisheries, and furs, but the only thing the Government ever did for Alaska was to import reindeer for the use of the Esquimos."

Another ripple of laughter passed through the courtroom; even the judge on the bench smiled. But Mr. Bromley's face was a study. He began to fear the effect of Tisdale's astonishing statements on the jury, while at the same time he was impelled to listen. In the moment he hesitated over a question, Hollis lifted his head and said mellowly: "The sins of Congress have not been in commission but in omission. They are under the impression, far away there in Washington, that Alaska is too bleak, too barren for permanent settlement; that the white population is a floating one, made up chiefly of freebooters and outlaws. But we know the foundations of an empire have been laid there; that, allowed the use of the fuel Nature has so bountifully stored there and granted a fair measure of encouragement to transportation, those great inland tundras would be as populous as Sweden; as progressive as Germany." His glance moved to the jury; all the nobility, the fineness, the large humanity of the man was expressed in that moment in his face; a subdued emotion pervaded his voice. "We know the men who forged a way through that mighty bulwark of mountains to the interior were brave, resourceful, determined—they had to be—but, too, they saw a broad horizon; they had patriotism; if there are any Americans left who have inherited a spark of the old Puritan spirit, they are the ones who have cast their fortunes with Alaska."

He paused again briefly, and his eyes rested on Foster. "Do you know?" he resumed, and his glance returned to the prosecuting attorney, "when I came out last season, I saw a ship at the terminus of the new Copper River and Northwestern Railroad discharging Australian coal. This with the great Bering fields lying at their side door! The people of Cordova wanted to see that road finished; the life of their young seaport depended on it— but—that night they threw the whole of that cargo of foreign coal into the waters of Prince William Sound. It is referred to, now, as the 'Cordova tea-party.'"

In the silence that held the courtroom, Tisdale stood still regarding the lawyer. His expression was most engaging, a hint of humor lurked at the corners of his mouth, yet it seemed to veil a subtle meaning. Then the jury began to laugh quietly, with a kind of seriousness, and again the judge straightened, checking a smile. It was all very disturbing to Mr. Bromley. He had been assured by one high in the administration that he might rely on Tisdale's magnetic personality and practical knowledge as well as his technical information in prosecuting the case; but while he hesitated over the question he wished to ask, Tisdale said mellowly, no doubt to bridge the awkward pause: "The Copper River and Northwestern couldn't mine their coal, and they couldn't import any, so they changed their locomotives to oil burners."

Then Mr. Bromley said abruptly: "This is all very interesting, Mr. Tisdale, but it is the Chugach Railway and not the Copper River Northwestern, that bears on our case. You have been over that route, I believe?"

"Yes." Tisdale's voice quickened. "I used the roadbed going to and from the Matanuska Valley. Also I went over the proposed route once with Mr. Foster and the civil engineers."

"Was it, in your opinion, a bona fide railroad, Mr. Tisdale? Or simply a lure to entice people to make coal locations in order that they might be bought after the patents were issued?"

"It was started in good faith." The steel rang, a warning note, in his voice. "The largest stockholder had spent nearly a hundred thousand dollars in opening his coal claim. He was in need of immediate transportation."

"This was after the Chugach Company consolidated with the Prince William syndicate, Mr. Tisdale?"

"No, sir. It was previous to that time. The Chugach Railway and Development Company had chosen one of the finest harbors in Alaska for a terminus. It was doubly protected from the long Pacific swell by the outer, precipitous shore of Prince William Sound. But their greatest engineering problem met them there at the start. It was necessary to cross a large glacier back of the bay. There was no possible way to build around it; the only solution was a bore under the ice. The building of such a tunnel meant labor and great expense. And it was not a rich company; it was made up principally of small stockholders, young men, just out of college some of them, who had gone up there with plenty of enthusiasm and courage to invest in the enterprise, but very little money. They did their own assessment work, dug like any coal miners with pick and shovel, cut and carried the timbers to brace their excavations under Mr. Foster's instructions. And when construction commenced on the railroad, they came down to do their stunt at packing over the glacier—grading began from the upper side—and sometimes they cut ties."

"And meantime," said the attorney brusquely, "Mr. Foster, who was responsible I believe, was trying to interest other capital to build the tunnel."

"Yes. And meantime, the Prince William syndicate started a parallel railroad to the interior from the next harbor to the southwestward. It was difficult to interest large capital with competition so close." Tisdale paused; his glance moved from Mr. Bromley to the jury, his voice took its minor note. "Stuart Foster did hold himself responsible to those young fellows. He had known most of them personally in Seattle; they were a picked company for the venture. He had youth and courage himself, in those days, but he knew Alaska—he had been there before and made good. He had their confidence. He was that kind of man; one to inspire trust on sight, anywhere." Hollis paused another instant, while his eyes turned to Foster, and involuntarily, one after the other, the jury followed his look. "It was then," he added, "when other capital failed, the Chugach Company gave up their seaport and consolidated with the Prince William syndicate."

"Thank you, Mr. Tisdale," said the attorney for the prosecution. "That is all."

Miles Feversham had, as Frederic afterward expressed it, "caught his second wind." While he listened attentively to the testimony, he made some sweeping revisions in his notes for the argument which he was to open the following day. He laughed at, while he congratulated himself, that the Government's star witness, of whom he had been so afraid, should have proved so invaluable to the defense. And when court adjourned, and the trio went down the steps to the street, he assured his brother-in-law there was a chance for him to escape, under Foster's cloak. To Marcia he said jocularly, though still in an undertone: "'Snatched like a brand from the burning!'" And he added: "My lady, had you consulted me, I should have suggested the April issue. These magazines have a bad habit of arriving too soon."

Frederic, released from the long day's strain, did not take this facetiousness meekly, but Marcia was silent. For once the "brightest Morganstein" felt her eclipse. But while they stood on the curb, waiting for the limousine to draw up, a newsboy called: "All about the Alaska bill! Home Rule for Alaska!"

The special delegate bought a copy, and Marcia drew close to his elbow while they scanned the message together. It was true. The bill, to which they both had devoted their energies that season in Washington, had passed. Feversham folded the paper slowly and met his wife's brilliant glance. It was as though she telegraphed: "Now, the President must name a governor."



CHAPTER XXXII

THE OTHER DOCUMENT

The argument, which Miles Feversham opened with unusual brilliancy the following morning, was prolonged with varying degrees of heat to the close of another week; then the jury, out less than two hours, brought in their verdict of "Not Guilty."

And that night, for the first time since Tisdale's return, Foster climbed to the eyrie in the Alaska building. "I came up to thank you, Hollis," he began in his straightforward way. "It was breakers ahead when you turned the tide. But," he added after a pause, "what will the President think of your views?"

Tisdale laughed softly. "He heard most of them before I left Washington, and this is what he thinks."

As he spoke, he took a letter from the table which he gave to Foster. It bore the official stamp and was an appointment to that position which Miles Feversham had so confidently hoped, with Marcia's aid, to secure.

"Well, that shows the President's good judgment!" Foster exclaimed and held out his hand. "You are the one man broad enough to fit the place." After a moment he said, "But it is going to leave you little time to devote to your own affairs. How about the Aurora?"

Tisdale did not reply directly. He rose and walked the length of the floor. "That depends," he said and stopped with his hands in his pockets to regard Foster with the upward, appraising look from under knitting brows. "I presume, Stuart, you are through with the syndicate?"

Foster colored. "I put in my resignation as mining engineer of the company shortly after I came out, at the beginning of the year."

"And while you were in the interior," pursued Tisdale, "you were sent to the Aurora to make a report. What did you think of the mine?"

"I thought Frederic Morganstein would be safe in bonding the property if he could interest you in selling; it looked better to me than even Banks' strike in the Iditarod. This season's clean-up should justify Weatherbee."

"You mean in staying on at the risk of his reason and life?"

Foster nodded; a shadow crossed his open face. "I mean everything but—his neglect to make final provision for his wife."

Tisdale frowned. "There is where you make your mistake. Weatherbee persisted as he did, in the face of defeat, for her sake."

Foster laughed mirthlessly. "The proofs are otherwise. Look at things, once, from her side," he broke out. "Think what it means to her to see you realizing, from a few hundred dollars you could easily spare, this big fortune. I know you've been generous, but after all, of what benefit to her is a bequest in your will, when now she has absolutely nothing but that hole in the Columbia desert? Face it, be reasonable; you always have been in every way but this. I don't see how you can be so hard, knowing her now as you do."

Tisdale turned to the window. "I have not been as hard as you think," he said. "But it was necessary, in order to carry out Weatherbee's plans, to— do as I did."

"That's the trouble." Foster rose from his chair and went a few steps nearer Tisdale. "You are the sanest man in the world in every way but one. But you can't think straight when it comes to Weatherbee. There is where the north got its hold on you. Can't you see it? Look at it through my eyes, or any one's. You did for David Weatherbee what one man in a thousand might have done. And you've interested Lucky Banks in that reclamation project; you've gone on yourself with his developments at the Aurora. But there's one thing you've lost sight of—justice to Beatriz Weatherbee. You've done your best for him, but he is dead. Hollis, old man, I tell you he is dead. And she is living. You have sent her, the proudest, sweetest woman on God's earth, to brave out her life in that sage-brush wilderness. Can't you see you owe something to her?"

Tisdale did not reply. But presently he went over to his safe and took out the two documents that were fastened together. This time it was the will he returned to its place; the other paper he brought to Foster. "I am going to apologize for my estimate of Mrs. Weatherbee the night you sailed north," he said. "My judgment then, before I had seen her, was unfair; you were right. But I could hardly have done differently in any case. There was danger that she would dispose of a half interest in the Aurora at once, at any low price Frederic Morganstein might name. And you know the syndicate's methods. I did not want a Morganstein partnership. But, later, at the time I had my will drawn, I saw this way."

Foster took the document, but he did not read it immediately; he stood looking at Tisdale. "So you too were afraid of him. But I knew nothing about Lucky Banks' option. It worried me, those endless nights up there in the Iditarod, to think that in her extremity she might marry Frederic Morganstein. There was a debt that pressed her. Did you know about that?"

"Yes. She called it a 'debt of honor.'"

"And you believed, as I did, that it was a direct loan to cover personal expenses. After I came home, I found out she borrowed the money originally of Miss Morganstein, to endow a bed in the children's hospital. Think of it! And Mrs. Feversham, who took it off her sister's hands, transferred the note to Morganstein."

Tisdale did not say anything, but his rugged face worked a little, and he turned again to look out into the night. Foster moved nearer the reading-lamp and unfolded the document. It was a deed conveying, for a consideration of one dollar, a half interest in the Aurora mine to Beatriz Silva Gonzales Weatherbee; provided said half interest be not sold, or parceled, or in any way disposed of for a period of five years. Her share of the profits above operating expenses was to be paid in semi-annual dividends, and, as in the will, Stuart Emory Foster was named as trustee.

Foster folded the document slowly. His glance moved to Tisdale, and his eyes played every swift change from contrition to gratitude. Hollis turned. "I want you to take the management of the whole mine," he said mellowly. "At a salary of five thousand a year to start with. And as soon as you wish, you may deliver this deed."

Foster's lips trembled a little. "You've made a mistake," he said unsteadily. Then: "Why don't you take it to her yourself, Hollis?" he asked.

Tisdale was silent. He turned back to the window, and after an interval, Foster went over and stood beside him, looking down on the harbor lights. His arm went up around Tisdale's shoulder as he said: "If Weatherbee could know everything now; if he had loved her, put her first always, as you believe, do you think he would be any happier to see her punished like this?"

Still Tisdale was silent. Then Foster's arm fell, and he said desperately: "Can't you see, Hollis? Weatherbee was greater than either of us, I grant that. But the one thing in the world you are so sure he most desired—the lack of which wrecked his life—the one thing I have tried for the hardest and missed—has fallen to you. Go and ask her to sail to Alaska with you. You'll need her up there to carry the honors for you. You prize her, you love her,—you know you do."



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE CALF-BOUND NOTEBOOK

The statue was great. So Tisdale told Lucky Banks, that day the prospector met him at the station and they motored around through the park. The sculptor himself had said he must send people to Weatherbee when they wanted to see his best work. It was plain his subject had dominated him. He had achieved with the freedom of pose the suggestion of decision and power that had been characteristic of David Weatherbee. Quick intelligence spoke in the face, yet the eyes held their expression of seeing a far horizon. To Hollis, coming suddenly, as he did, upon the bronze figure in the Wenatchee sunshine, it seemed to warm with a latent consciousness. He felt poignantly a sense of David's personality, as he had known him at the crowning period of his life.

"It suits me," responded Banks. "My, yes, it's about as good a likeness as we can get of Dave." He put on his hat, which involuntarily he had removed, and started the car on around the curve. "But it's a mighty lot like you. It crops out most in the eyes, seeing things off somewheres, clear out of sight, and the way you carry your size. You was a team."

"I am sorry I missed those services," said Tisdale. "I meant to be here."

Banks nodded. "But it all went off fine. She agreed with me it was the best place. If I was to go back to Alaska, and she was off somewheres on a trip, it would be sure to get taken care of here in the park; and, afterwards, when neither of us can come around to keep things in shape any more. And I told her how the ranchers up and down the valley would get to feeling acquainted and friendly with Dave, seeing his statue when they was in town; and how the fruit-buyers and the pickers, and maybe the tourists, coming and going, would remember about him and tell everybody they knew; and how the school children would ask questions about the statue, thinking he was in the same class with Lincoln and Washington, and be always telling how he was the first man that looked ahead and saw what water in this valley could do."

"You were right, Johnny. The memory of him will live and grow with this town when the rest of us are forgotten."

They had turned from the park and went speeding up between the rows of new poplars along the Alameda, and the prospector's eyes moved over the reclaimed vale, where acres on acres of young fruit trees in cultivated squares crowded out the insistent sage. "And this town for a fact is bound to grow," he said.

Then at last, when Cerberus loomed near, and they entered the gap, the little man's big heart rose and his bleak face glowed, under Tisdale's expressions of wonder and approbation at the advance the vineyards and orchards had made, so soon after the consummation of the project. Fillers of alfalfa stretched along the spillways from the main canal like a green carpet; strawberry plants were blossoming; grapes reached out pale tendrils and many leaves. But, at the top of the pocket, where the road began to lift gently in a double curve across the front of the bench, Hollis dismissed Banks and his red car and walked the rest of the way. On the rim of the level, near the solitary pine tree, he stopped to look down on the transformed vale, and suddenly, once more he seemed to feel David's presence. It was as though he stood beside him and saw all this awakening, this responding of the desert to his project. Almost it compensated—for those four days.

Almost! Tisdale drew his hand across his eyes and turned to follow the drive between the rows of nodding narcissus. The irony of it! That Weatherbee should have lived to find the Aurora; that, with many times the needed capital in sight, he should have lost. The perfume of the flowers filled the warm atmosphere; the music of running water was everywhere. As he left the side of the flume, the silver note of the fountain came to him from the patio, then, like a mirage between him and the low Spanish building, rose that miniature house he had found in the Alaska wilderness, with the small snow figure before it, holding a bundle in her arms.

The vision passed. But that image with the bundle was the one unfinished problem in the project he had come to solve.

He entered the court and saw on his right an open door and, across the wide room, Beatriz Weatherbee. She was seated at a quaint secretary on which were several bundles of papers, and the familiar box that had contained David's letters and watch. At the moment Tisdale discovered her, she was absorbed in a photograph she held in her hands, but at the sound of his step in the patio she turned and rose to meet him. Her face was radiant, yet she looked at him through arrested tears.

"I am sorry if I startled you," he said conventionally. "Banks brought me from the station, but he left me to walk up the bench."

"I should have seen the red car down the gap had I been at the window," she replied, "but I was busy putting away papers. Freight has been moving slowly over the Great Northern, and my secretary arrived only to-day. It bore the trip very well, considering its age. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Don Silva Gonzales. He brought it from Spain, but Elizabeth says it might have been made for this room. She is walking somewhere in the direction of the spring."

While she spoke, she touched her cheeks and eyes swiftly with her handkerchief and led the way to some chairs between the secretary and the great window that overlooked the vale. Tisdale did not look at her directly; he wished to give her time to cover the emotion he had surprised.

"I should say the room was built for Don Silva's desk," he amended. "And— do you know?—this view reminds me of a little picture of Granada, a water-color of my mother's, that hung in my room when I was a boy. But this pocket has changed some since we first saw it; your dragon's teeth are drawn."

"Isn't it marvelous how the expression of the whole mountain has altered?" she responded. "There, at the end of the pines, that looked like a bristling mane, the green gables of Mrs. Banks' home have changed the contour. And the Chelan peaks are showing now beyond it. That day the farther ones were obscured. But we watched the rain tramp up Hesperides Vale, you remember, and swing off unexpectedly to the near summits. There was a rainbow, and I said that perhaps somewhere in this valley I should find my pot of gold."

"I remember. And I shouldn't be surprised if you do."

"Do you think I do not know I have already?" she asked. "Do you think I have no appreciation, no gratitude? Why, even had I been too dull to see it, Elizabeth would have told me that this house alone, to say nothing of the project, must have cost a good deal of money; and that, no matter how deeply Mr. Banks may have felt his obligation to David, it was not in reason he should have allowed everything to revert to me. But I told him I should consider the investment as a loan, and now, since he has let me know the truth"—her voice fluctuated softly—"I shall make it a debt of honor just the same. Sometime—I shall repay you."

It was very clear to Tisdale that though she saw the property had so greatly increased in value, and that the reclamation movement in the outer vale made the tract readily salable, she no longer considered placing it on the market. "I thought Banks showed you a way easily to cancel that loan," he began. But meeting her look, he paused; his glance returned to the window while he felt in his pocket for that deed Foster had refused to bring. It was going to be more difficult than he had foreseen to offer it to her. "Madam," and compelling his eyes to brave hers, he slightly frowned, "your share in the Aurora mine should pay you enough in dividends the next season or two to refund all that has been expended on this project."

"My share in the Aurora mine?" she repeated. "But I see, I see. You have been maligned into giving me the interest David conveyed to you. Oh, Mr. Banks told me about that. How you were attacked at the trial; the use that was made of that Indian story in the magazine; that monstrous editorial note."

Tisdale smiled. "That had nothing to do with it. This deed was drawn last year as soon as I reached Washington. David knew the value of the Aurora. That is the reason he risked another winter there, in the face of—all— that threatened him. And when he felt the fight was going against him, he turned his interest over to me, not only as security on the small loan I advanced to him, but because I was his partner, and he could trust me to finish, his development work and put the mine on a paying basis. That is accomplished. There is no reason now that I should not transfer his share back to you."

He rose to give her the deed, and she took it with reluctance and glanced it over. "I think it is arranged about as David would have wished," he added. "He had confidence in Foster."

She looked up. "Mr. Foster knows how I regard the matter. I told him I would not accept an interest in the Aurora mine. I said all the gold in Alaska could not compensate you for—what you did. Besides, I do not believe as you do, Mr. Tisdale. I think David meant his share should be finally yours."

Hollis was silent. He stood looking off again over Cerberus to the loftier Chelan peaks. For a moment she sat regarding his broad back; her lip trembled a little, and a tenderness, welling from depths of compassion, brimmed her eyes. "You see I cannot possibly accept it," she said, and rose to return the deed to him.

She had forgotten the photograph, which dropped from her lap, and Tisdale stooped to pick it up. It was lying face upward on the floor, and he saw it was the picture of a child; then involuntarily he stopped to scan it, and it came over him this small face, so beautifully molded, so full of intelligence and charm, was a reproduction of Weatherbee in miniature; yet retouched by a blend of the mother; her eyes under David's level brows. He put the picture in her hand and an unspoken question flashed in the look that met hers.

Since he had not relieved her of the deed, she laid it down on the secretary to take the photograph.

"This is a picture of little Silva," she said. "It would have made a difference about the share in the Aurora if he had lived. He must have been provided for. David would have seen to that."

"There was a child!" His voice rang softly like a vibrant string. "You spoke of him that night you were lost above Scenic Springs, but I thought it was a fancy of delirium. It seemed incredible that David should not have told me if he had a son."

She did not answer directly, but nodded a little and moved back to her chair.

"He was christened Silva Falconer, for my mother's father and mine," she said. "They both were greatly disappointed in not having a son. I am going to tell you about him, only it will be a long story; please be seated. And it would be easier if you would not look at me."

She waited while he settled again in his chair and turned his eyes to the blue mountain tops. She was still able to see his face. "Silva was over six months old when this photograph was taken," she began. "It was lost, with the letter to David that enclosed it, on some terrible Alaska trail. Afterwards, when the mailbag was recovered and the letter was returned to me through the dead-letter office, two years had passed, and our little boy was—gone. You must understand I expected David back that first winter, and when word came that his expedition to the interior had failed, and he had arranged to stay in the north in order to make an early start in the following spring, I did not want to spoil his plans. So I answered as gayly as I could and told him it would give me an opportunity to make a long visit home to California. I went far south to Jacinta and Carlos. They were caretakers at the old hacienda. My mother had managed that, with the people who bought the rancheria and built the hotel and sanitarium. Jacinta had been her nurse and mine. She was very experienced. But Silva was born lame. He could not use his lower limbs. A great specialist, who came to the hotel, said he might possibly recover under treatment, but if he should not in a year or two, certain cords must be cut to allow him to sit in a wheel chair, and in that case I must give up hope he would ever walk. But—the treatment was very painful—Jacinta could not bear to— torture him; I could not afford a trained nurse; so—I did everything. He was the dearest baby; so lovable. He never was cross, but he used to nestle his cheek in my neck and explain how it hurt and coax me not to. Not in words, but I understood—every sound. And he understood me, I know. 'You are going to blame me, by and by, if I stop,' I would say, over and over; 'you are going to blame me for bringing you into the world.'"

Her voice broke; her breast labored with short, quick breaths, as though she were climbing some sharp ascent. Tisdale did not look at her; his face stirred and settled in grim lines.

"I could not write all this about our baby," she went on, "and I told myself if the treatment failed it would be soon enough for David to know of Silva when he came home. There was nothing he could do, and to share my anxiety might hamper him in his work. He wrote glowingly of the new placer he had discovered, and that was a relief to me, for I was obliged to ask him to send me a good deal of money,—the specialist's account had been so large. I believed he would start south when the Alaska season closed, for he had written I might expect him then, with his pockets full of gold dust, and I made my letters entertaining—or tried to—so he need not feel any need to hurry. At last, one morning in the bath, when Silva was five months old, he moved his right limb voluntarily. I shall never forget. It renewed my courage and my faith. At the end of another month he moved the left one, and after that, gradually, full use came to them both. It was then, when the paralysis was mastered, I sent the letter that was lost. At the same time David wrote that he must spend a second winter in Alaska. But before that news reached me, my reaction set in. I was so ill I was carried, unconscious, to the sanitarium. And, while I was there, Silva, who had grown so sturdy and was creeping everywhere, followed his kitten into the garden, and a little later old Jacinta found him in the arroyo. There was only a little water running but—he had fallen—face down."

Tisdale rose. Meeting her look, the emotion that was the surface stir of shaken depths swept his face. Then, as though to blot out the recollection, she pressed her fingers to her eyes.

"And David was thousands of miles away," he said. "You braved that alone, like the soldier you are."

"When I read David's letter," she went on, "he was winter-bound in the interior. A reply could not have reached him until spring. And meantime Elizabeth Morganstein came with her mother to the hotel. We had been, friends at boarding-school, and she persuaded me to go north to Seattle with them. Later, after the Aquila was launched in the spring, I was invited to join the family on a cruise up the inside passage and across the top of the Pacific to Prince William Sound. It seemed so much easier to tell David everything than to write, so—I only let him know I intended to sail to Valdez with friends and would go on by mail steamer to Seward to visit him. That had been his last post-office address, and I believed he expected to be in that neighborhood when the season opened. But our stay was lengthened at Juneau, where we were entertained by acquaintances of Mrs. Feversham's, and we spent a long time around Taku glacier and the Muir. I missed my steamer connections, and there was not another boat due within a week. But the weather was delightful, and Mr. Morganstein suggested taking me on in the yacht. Then Mrs. Feversham proposed a side trip along Columbia glacier and into College fiord. It was all very wonderful to me, and inspiring; the salt air had been a restorative from the start. And I saw no reason to hurry the party. David would understand. So, the second mail steamer passed us, and finally, when we reached Seward, David had gone back to the interior. The rest—you know."

"You mean," said Tisdale slowly, "you heard about Mrs. Barbour."

She bowed affirmatively. The color swept in a wave to her face; her lashes fell.

"Mrs. Feversham heard about it, how David had brought her down from the interior. I saw the cabin he had furnished for her, and she herself, sewing at the window. Her face was beautiful."

There was a silence, then Hollis said: "So you came back on the Aquila to Seattle. But you wrote; you explained about the child?"

She shook her head. "I waited to hear from David first. I did not know, then, that the letter with Silva's picture was lost."

Tisdale squared his shoulders, looking off again to the snow-peaks above Cerberus.

"Consider!" She rose with an outward movement of her hands, like one groping in the dark for a closed door. "It was a terrible mistake, but I did not know David as you knew him. My father, who was dying, arranged our marriage. I was very young and practically without money in a big city; there was not another relative in the world who cared what became of me. And, in any case, even had I known the meaning of love and marriage, in that hour,—when I was losing him,—I must have agreed to anything he asked. We had been everything to each other; everything. But I've been a proud woman; sensitive to slight. It was in the blood—both sides. And I had been taught early to cover my feelings. My father had adored my mother; he used to remind me she was patrician to the finger-tips, and that I should not wear my heart on my sleeve if I wished to be like her. And, when I visited my grandfather, Don Silva, in the south, he would say: 'Beatriz, remember the blood of generations of soldiers is bottled in you; carry yourself like the last Gonzales, with some fortitude.' So—at Seward—I remembered."

Her voice, while she said this, almost failed, but every word reached Tisdale. He felt, without seeing, the something that was appeal yet not appeal, that keyed her whole body and shone like a changing light and shade in her face. "I told myself I would not be sacrificed, effaced," she went on. "It was my individuality against Fate. Since little Silva was dead, my life was my own to shape as I might. I did not hear from David for a long time; he wrote less and less frequently, more briefly every year. He never spoke of the baby, and I believed he must have heard through some friend in California of Silva's death. Nothing was left to tell. He never spoke of his home-coming, and I did not; I dreaded it too much. Whenever the last steamers of the season were due, I nerved myself to look the passenger lists over; and when his name was missing, it was a reprieve. Neither my father nor my grandfather had believed in divorce; in their eyes it was disgrace. It seemed right, for Silva's sake, out of the rich placers David continued to find, he should contribute to my support. So—I lived my life—the best I was able. I had many interests, and always one morning of each week I spent among the children at the hospital where I had endowed the Silva Weatherbee bed."

She paused so long that Tisdale turned. She seemed very tired. The patient lines, fine as a thread, deepened perceptibly at the corners of her mouth. He hurried to save her further explanation. "Foster told me," he said. "It was a beautiful memorial. Sometime I should like to go there with you. I know you met the first expense of that endowment with a loan from Miss Morganstein, which of course you expected to cancel soon, when you had found David at Seward. I understand how, when the note came into her brother's hands, your only chance to meet it at once was through a sale of this land. And I have thought since I knew this, that evening aboard the Aquila, when you risked Don Silva's ruby, it was to make the yearly payment at the hospital."

"Yes, it was. But the option money from Mr. Banks made it possible to meet all my debts. I did not know they were only assumed—by you. Though, looking back, I wonder I failed to see the truth."

With this she turned and took up the photograph which she had laid on the secretary, and while her glance rested on the picture, Tisdale's regarded her face. "So," he said then, "when the lost letter came back to you, you kept it; Weatherbee never knew."

She looked up. "Yes, I kept it. By that time I believed little Silva's coming and going could make little difference to him."

"And you went on believing all you had heard at Seward?"

She bowed again affirmatively. "Until you told me the true story about Mrs. Barbour that night on the mountain road. I know now that once he must have loved me, as you believed. This house, which is built so nearly like the old hacienda where I was born, must have been planned for me. But, afterwards, when he thought I had failed him, when he contrasted me with Mrs. Barbour, her devotion to her husband, it was different."

She laid the photograph down again to draw the tin box forward. The letters were on the desk with David's watch, but there still remained a calf-bound notebook, such as surveyors use in field work. It fitted snugly enough for a false bottom, and she was obliged to reverse the box to remove it, prying slightly with a paper-knife. Tisdale's name was lettered across the cover, and the first pages were written in his clear, fine draughtsman's hand; then the characters changed to Weatherbee's. She turned to the last ones.

"This is a book you left among some old magazines at David's camp," she explained. "He carried it with him until he discovered the Aurora. He began to use it as a sort of diary. Sometime you will want to read it all, but please read these last notes and this letter now."

She waited a moment, then as he took up the letter and began to unfold it, she turned and went out into the patio.

The letter was from Lilias Barbour. It was friendly, earnest, full of her child and a gentle solicitude for Weatherbee. Hollis read it through twice, slowly. The last paragraph he went over a third time. "You are staying too long in that bleak country,"—so it ran. "Come back to the States, at least for a winter. If you do not, in the spring, Bee and I are going to Alaska to learn the reason. We owe it to you."

The date was the end of August, of the same year David had written that final letter which reached him the following spring at Nome. But the date on the open page of the notebook was the fifteenth of January of that winter, his last at the Aurora mine.

"Last night I dreamed of Beatriz," it began. "I thought I went down to Seward to meet her, and when the steamer came, I saw her standing on the forward deck, waving her hand gaily and smiling just as she did that day I left her at Seattle so long ago. Then, as the ship came alongside the dock, and she walked down the gangway, and I took her hand to kiss her, her face suddenly changed. She was not Beatriz; she was Lilias. My God, if it had been Lilias! Why, she would be here now, she and little Bee, filling this frozen cabin with summer."

The final date was two months later.

"Still snowing," it ran. "Snowing. God, how I want to break away from this hole. Get out somewhere, where men are alive and doing things. Nothing is moving here but the snow and those two black buttes out there. They keep crowding closer through the smother, watching everything I do. I've warned them to keep back. They must, or I'll blow them off the face of the earth. Oh, I'll do it, if it takes all that's left of the dynamite. I won't have them threatening Lilias when she comes. She is coming; she said she would, unless I went out to the States. And I can't go; I haven't heard from Tisdale. I never have told her about those buttes. It's unusual; she might not believe it; she would worry and think, perhaps, I am growing like Barbour. God! Suppose I am. Suppose she should come up here in this wilderness to find me a wreck like him. She must not come. I've got to prevent it. But I've offered my half interest in the Aurora to Tisdale. He will take it. He never failed me yet."

Tisdale closed the book and laid it down. Furrows seamed his face, changing, re-forming, to the inner upheaval. After awhile, he lifted Weatherbee's watch from the desk and mechanically pressed the spring. The lower case opened, but the picture he remembered was not there. In its place was the face of the other child, his namesake, "Bee."

Out in the patio the pool rippled ceaselessly; the fountain threw its silver ribbon of spray, and Beatriz waited, listening, with her eyes turned to the room she had left. At last she heard his step. It was the tread of a man whose decision was made. She sank down on the curb of the basin near one of the palms. Behind her an open door, creaking in the light wind, swung wide, and beyond it the upper flume stretched back to the natural reservoir where she had been imprisoned by the fallen pine tree. His glance, as he crossed the court, moved from her through this door and back to her face.

"You were right," he said. "But it would have been different if David had known about his child. His great heart was starved."

She was silent. Her glance fell to the fountain. A ray of sunshine slanting across it formed a rainbow.

"But my mistake was greater than yours," he went on, and his voice struck its minor chord; "I have no excuse for throwing away those four days. I never can repair that, but I pledge myself to make you forget my injustice to you."

At this she rose. "You were not unjust—knowing David as you did. You taught me how fine, how great he was. Silva—would have been proud of his name."

There was another silence. Tisdale looked off again through the open door to the distant basin, and her glance returned to the fountain. "See!" she exclaimed. "A double rainbow!"

"Fate is with us again," he replied. "She's promising a better fight. But there is one debt more, soldier," and, catching her swift look, he saw the sparkles break softly in her eyes. "My ship sails for Alaska the tenth; I shall stay indefinitely, and I want you to pay me—in full—before I go."

THE END