"What idea, pray?"

"Well, talking straight and side-stepping subterfuge, this is a lonely place for a woman like you, and our mutual friend ain't altogether unattractive."

Cherry's cheeks flamed, but her tone was icy. "This is entirely a business matter."

"Hm—m—! I ain't never heard you touted none as a business woman," said the adventurer.

"Have you ever heard me"—the color faded from the girl's face, and it was a trifle drawn—"discussed in any way?"

"You know, Emerson makes me uncomfortable sometimes, he is so damn moral," Fraser replied, indirectly. "He won't stand for anything off color. He's a real square guy, he is, the kind you read about."

"You didn't answer my question," insisted Cherry.

Again Fraser evaded the issue. "Now, if this Marsh is going after you in earnest this summer, why don't you let me stick around here till spring and look-out your game? I'll drop a monkey-wrench in his gear-case or put a spider in his dumpling; and it's more than an even shot that if him and I got to know each other right well, I'd own his cannery before fall."

"Thank you, I can take care of myself!" said the girl, in a tone that closed the conversation.

Late one stormy night—Constantine had been gone a week—the two men whom they were expecting blew in through the blinding smother, half frozen and well-nigh exhausted, with the marks of hard travel showing in their sunken cheeks and in the bleeding pads of their dog-team. But although a hundred miles of impassable trails lay behind them, Balt refused rest or nourishment until he had learned why Cherry had sent for him.

"What's wrong?" he demanded of her, staring with suspicious eyes at the strangers.

As briefly as possible she outlined the situation the while Boyd Emerson took his measure, for no person quite like this fisherman had ever crossed the miner's path. He saw a huge, barrel-chested creature whose tremendous muscles bulged beneath his nondescript garments, whose red, upstanding bristle of hair topped a leather countenance from which gleamed a pair of the most violent eyes Emerson had ever beheld, the dominant expression of which was rage. His jaw was long, and the seams from nostril and lip, half hidden behind a stiff stubble, gave it the set of granite. His hands were gnarled and cracked from an age-long immersion in brine, his voice was hoarse with the echo of drumming ratlines. He might have lived forty, sixty years, but every year had been given to the sea, for its breath was in his lungs, its foaming violence was in his blood.

As the significance of Cherry's words sank into his mind, the signs of an unholy joy overspread the fisherman's visage; his thick lips writhed into an evil grin, and his hairy paws continued to open and close hungrily.

"Do you mean business?" he bellowed at Emerson.

"I do."

"Can you fight?"

"Yes."

"Will you do what I tell you, or have you got a lot of sick notions?"

"No," the young man declared, stoutly, "I have no scruples; but I won't do what you or anybody else tells me. I'll do what I please. I intend to run this enterprise absolutely, and run it my way."

"This gang won't stop at anything," warned Balt.

"Neither will I," affirmed the other, with a scowl and a dangerous down- drawing of his lip corners. "I've got to win, so don't waste time wondering how far I'll go. What I want to know is if you will join my enterprise."

The giant uttered a mirthless chuckle. "I'll give my life to it."

"I knew you would," flashed Cherry, her eyes beaming.

"And if we don't beat Willis Marsh, by God, I'll kill him!" Balt shouted, fully capable of carrying out his threat, for his bloodshot eyes were lit with bitter hatred and the memory of his wrongs was like gall in his mouth. Turning to the girl, he said:

"Now give me something to eat. I've been living on dog fish till my belly is full of bones."

He ripped the ragged parka from his back and flung it in a sodden heap beside the stove; then strode after her, with the others following.

She seated him at her table and spread food before him—great quantities of food, which he devoured ravenously, humped over in his seat like a bear, his jaw hanging close to his plate. His appetite was as ungoverned as his temper; he did not taste his meal nor note its character, but demolished whatever fell first to his hand, staring curiously up from under his thatched brows at Emerson, now and then grunting some interruption to the other's rapid talk. Of Cherry and of "Fingerless" Fraser, who regarded him with awe, he took not the slightest heed. He gorged himself with sufficient provender for four people; then observing that the board was empty, swept the crumbs and remnants from his lips, and rose, saying:

"Now, let's go out by the stove. I've been cold for three days."

Cherry left the two of them there, and long after she had gone to bed she heard the murmur of their voices.

"It's all arranged," they advised her at the breakfast-table. "We leave to-morrow."

"To-morrow?" she echoed, blankly.

"To-morrow?" likewise questioned Fraser, in alarm. "Oh, say! You can't do that. My feet are too sore to travel. I've certainly got a bad pair of 'dogs.'"

"We start in the morning. We have no time to waste."

Cherry turned to the fisherman. "You can't get ready so soon, George."

"I'm ready now," answered the big fellow.

She felt a sudden dread at her heart. What if they failed and did not return? What if some untoward peril should overtake them on the outward trip? It was a hazardous journey, and George Balt was the most reckless man on the Behring coast. She cast a frightened glance at Emerson, but none of the men noticed it. Even if they had observed the light that had come into those clear eyes, they would not have known it for the dawn of a new love any more than she herself realized what her reasonless fears betokened. She had little time to ponder, however, for Emerson's next words added to her alarm:

"We'll catch the mail-boat at Katmai."

"Katmai!" she broke in, sharply. "You said you were going by the Iliamna route."

"The other is shorter."

She turned on Balt, angrily. "You know better than to suggest such a thing."

"I didn't suggest it," said Balt. "It's Mr. Emerson's own idea; he insists."

"I'm for the long, safe proposition every time," Fraser announced, as if settling the matter definitely, languidly filling his pipe.

Boyd's voice broke in curtly upon his revery. "You're not going with us."

"The hell I ain't!" exploded the other. "Why not?"

"There won't be room. You understand—it's hard travelling with three."

"Oh, see here, now, pal! You promised to take me to the States," the adventurer demurred. "You wouldn't slough me at this gravel-pit, after you promised?" He was visibly alarmed.

"Very well," said Emerson, resignedly, "If you feel that way about it, come along; but I won't take you east of Seattle."

"Seattle ain't so bad," Fraser replied. "I guess I can pick up a pinch of change there, all right. But Kalvik—Wow!"

"Why do you have to go so soon?" Cherry asked Emerson, when the two others had left them.

"Because every day counts."

"But why the Katmai route? It's the stormy season, and you may have to wait two weeks for the mail-boat after you reach the coast."

"Yes; but, on the other hand, if we should miss it by one day, it would mean a month's delay. She ought to be due in about ten days, so we can't take any chances."

"I shall be dreadfully worried until I know you are safely over," said the girl, a new note of wistful tenderness in her voice.

"Nonsense! We've all taken bigger risks before."

"Do you know," she began, hesitatingly, "I've been thinking that perhaps you'd better not take up this enterprise, after all."

"Why not?" he asked, with an incredulous stare. "I thought you were enthusiastic on the subject."

"I am—I—believe in the proposition thoroughly," Cherry limped on, "but— well, I was entirely selfish in getting you started, for it possibly means my own salvation, but—"

"It's my last chance also," Boyd broke in. "That's only another reason for you to continue, however. Why have you suddenly weakened?"

"Because I see you don't realize what you are going into," she said, desperately. "Because you don't appreciate the character of the men you will clash with. There is actual physical peril attached to this undertaking, and Marsh won't hesitate to—to do anything under the sun to balk you. It isn't worth while risking your life for a few dollars."

"Oh, isn't it!" Emerson laughed a trifle harshly. "My dear girl, you don't know what I am willing to risk for those 'few dollars'; you don't know what success means to me. Why, if I don't make this thing win, I'll be perfectly willing to let Marsh wreak his vengeance upon me—I might even help him."

"Oh no!"

"You may rest assured of one thing: if he is unscrupulous, so shall I be. If he undertakes to check me, I'll—well, I'll fight fire with fire."

His face was not pleasant to look at now, and the girl felt an access of that vague alarm which had been troubling her of late. She saw again that old light of sullen desperation in the man's eye, and marked with it a new, dogged, dangerous gleam as of one possessed, which proclaimed his extreme necessity.

"But what has occurred to make you change your mind?" he asked, causing the faintest flush to rise in her cheeks.

"A few days ago you were a stranger, now you are a friend," she replied, steadily. "One's likes and dislikes grow rapidly when they are not choked by convention. I like you too well to see you do this. You are too good a man to become the prey of those people. Remember George Balt."

"Balt hasn't started yet. For the first time he is a real menace to Willis Marsh."

"Won't you take my advice and reconsider?" urged the girl.

"Listen!" said the young man. "I came to this country with a definite purpose in mind, and I had three years in which to work it out. I needed money—God, how I needed money! They may talk about the emptiness of riches, and tell you that men labor not for the 'kill' but for the pursuit, not for the score but for the contest. Maybe some of them do; but with me it was gold I needed, gold I had to have, and I didn't care much how I got it, so long as I got it honestly. I didn't crave the pleasure of earning it nor the thrill of finding it; I just wanted the thing itself, and came up here because I thought the opportunities were greater here than elsewhere. I'd have gone to the Sahara or into Thibet just as willingly. I left behind a good many things to which I had been raised, and forsook opportunities which to most fellows of my age would seem golden; but I did it eagerly, because I had only three years of grace and knew I must win in that time. Well, I went at it. No chance was too desperate, no peril was too great, no hardship too intense for me. I bent every effort to my task, until mind and body became sleepless, unresting implements for the working out of my purpose. I lost all sensibility to effort, to fatigue, to physical suffering; I forgot all things in the world except my one idea. I focussed every power upon my desire, but a curse was on me. A curse! Nothing less.

"At first I took misfortune philosophically; but when it came and slept with me, I began to rage at it. Month after month, year by year, it rose with me at dawn and lay down by me at night. Misfortune beleaguered me and dogged my heels, until it became a thing of amusement to every one except myself. To me it was terrifying, because my time was shortening, and the last day of grace was rushing toward me.

"Just to show you what luck I played in:—at Dawson I found a prospect that would have made most men rich, and although such a thing had never happened in that particular locality before, it pinched out. I tried again and again and again, and finally found another mine, only to be robbed of it by the Canadian laws in such a manner that there wasn't the faintest hope of my recovering the property. Men told me about opportunities they couldn't avail themselves of, and, although I did what they themselves would have done, these chances proved to be ghastly jokes. I finally shifted from mining to other ventures, and the town burned. I awoke in a midnight blizzard to see my chance for a fortune licked up by flames, while the hiss of the water from the firemen's hose seemed directed at me and the voice of the crowd sounded like jeers.

"I was among the first at Nome and staked alongside the discoverers, who undertook to put me in right for once; but although the fellows around me made fortunes in a day, my ground was barren and my bed-rock swept clean by that unseen hand which I always felt but could never avoid. I leased proven properties, only to find that the pay ceased without reason. I did this so frequently that owners began to refuse me and came to consider me a thing of evil omen. Once a broken snow-shoe in a race to the recorder's office lost me a fortune; at another time a corrupt judge plunged me from certainty to despair, and all the while my time was growing shorter and I was growing poorer.

"Two hours after the Topkuk strike was made I drove past the shaft, but the one partner known to me had gone to the cabin to build a fire, and the other one lied to me, thinking I was a stranger. I heard afterward that just as I drove away my friend came to the door and called after me, but the day was bitter, and my ears were muffled with fur, while the dry snow beneath the runners shrieked so that it drowned his cries. Me chased me for half a mile to make me rich, but the hand of fate lashed my dogs faster and faster, while that hellish screeching outdinned his voice. Six hours later Topkuk was history. You've seen stampedes—you understand.

"My name became a by-word and caused people to laugh, though they shrank from me, for miners and sailors are equally superstitious. No man ever had more opportunities than I, and no man was ever so miserably unfortunate in missing them. In time I became whipped, utterly without hope. Yet almost from habit I fought on and on, with my ears deaf to the voices that mocked me.

"Three years isn't very long as you measure time, but the death-watch drags, and the priest's prayers are an eternity when the hangman waits outside. But the time came and passed at length, and I saw my beautiful breathing dream become a rotting corpse. Still, I struggled along, until one day something snapped and I gave up—for all time. I realized, as you said, that I was 'miscast,' that I had never been of this land, so I was headed for home. Home!" Emerson smiled bitterly. "The word doesn't mean anything to me now, but anyhow I was headed for God's country, an utter failure, in a worse plight than when I came here, when you put this last chance in front of me. It may be another ignis fatuus, such as the others I have pursued, for I have been chasing rainbows now for three years, and I suppose I shall go on chasing them; but as long as there is a chance left, I can't quit—I can't. And something tells me that I have left that ill-omened thing behind at last, and I am going to win!"

Cherry had listened eagerly to this bitter tirade, and was deeply touched by the pathos of the youth's sense of failure. His poignant pessimism, however, only seemed to throw into relief the stubborn fixedness of his dominant purpose. The moving cause of it all, whatever it was—and it could only be a woman—aroused a burning curiosity in her, and she said:

"But you're too late. You say your time was up some time ago."

"Perhaps," he returned, staring into the distances. "That's what I was going out to ascertain. I thought I might have a few days of grace allowed me." He turned his eyes directly upon her, and concluded, in a matter-of- fact tone: "That's why I can't quit, now that you've set me in motion again, now that you've given me another chance. That's why we leave to- morrow and go by way of the Katmai Pass."



CHAPTER VI

WHEREIN BOREAS TAKES A HAND



All that day the men busied themselves in preparation for the start. Balt was ferociously exultant, Emerson was boiling with impatience, while Fraser, whose calm nothing disturbed, slept most of the time, observing that this was his last good bed for a while, and therefore he wished to make it work.

Beneath her quiet cheerfulness, Cherry nursed a forlorn heart; for when these men were gone she would be left alone and friendless again, buried in the heart of an inaccessible wilderness, given over to her fears and the intrigues of her enemies. She had eyes mainly for Emerson, and although in her glance there was good-fellowship, in her heart was hot resentment—first at him because he had awakened in her the warm interest she felt for him, and, second, at herself for harboring any such interest. Why should this self-centred youth, wrapped up in his own affairs to her own utter exclusion, give her cause to worry? Why should she allow him to step into her quiet life and upset her well-ordered existence?

"How do you like him?" she asked Balt, once.

"He's my style, all right," said the big man. "He's desp'rate, and he'll fight; that's what I want—somebody that won't blench at anything when the time comes." He ground his teeth, and his red eyes flamed, reflecting the sense of injury that seared his brain. "What he don't know about the business, I do, and we'll make it win. But, say, ain't he awful at asking questions? My head aches and my back is lame from answering him. Seems like he remembers it all, too."

Goaded by the wrong he had suffered, and almost maniacal in his eagerness for the coming struggle, the giant's frenzy told Cherry that the fight would be an unrelenting one, and again a vague tremor of regret at having drawn this youth into the affair crept over her and sharpened the growing pain at her heart.

During the evening Emerson left the two other men in the store, and, seeking her out in the little parlor, asked her to play for him. She consented gladly, and, as on their first evening together, he sang with her. Again the blending of their voices brought them closer, his aloofness wore off, and he became an agreeable, accomplished companion whose merry wit and boyish sympathy stirred emotions in the girl that threatened her peace of mind. This had been the only companionship with her own kind she had enjoyed for months, and with his melting mood came a softening of her own nature, in which she appeared before him gracious and irresistible. Banteringly, and rising out of his elation, he tried to please her, and, in the same spirit that calls the bird to its mate, she responded. It was their last hour together before embarking on his perilous journey in search of the Golden Fleece, and his starved affections clamored for sympathy, while the iron in his blood felt the magnetic propinquity of sex. When he said good-night it was with a wholly new conception of his hostess, and of her power to charm as well as manage men and affairs; but he could well have dispensed with an uncomfortable feeling that came over him as he reviewed the events of the evening over a last pipe, that he had been playing with fire. For her part, she lay awake far into the morning hours, now blissfully floating on the current of half-formed desires, now vaguely fearing some dread that clutched her.

The good-byes were brief and commonplace; there was time for nothing more, for the dogs were straining to be off and the December air bit fiercely. But Cherry called Emerson aside, and in a rather tremulous voice begged him again to consider well this enterprise before finally committing himself to it. "If this were any other country, if there were any law up here or any certainty of getting a square deal, I'd never say a word, I'd urge you to go the limit. But—"

He was about to laugh off her fears as he had done before, when the plaintive wrinkle between her brows and the forlorn droop of her lips stayed him. Without thought of consequences, and prompted largely by his leaping spirits, he stooped and, before she could divine his purpose, kissed her.

"Good-bye!" he laughed, with dancing eyes. "That's my answer!" and the next second was at the sled. The dogs leaped at his shout, and the cavalcade was in motion.

The others had not observed his leave-taking, and now cried a final farewell; but the girl stood without sound or gesture, bareheaded under the wintry sky, a startled, wondering light in her eyes which did not fade until the men were lost to view far up the river trail. Then she breathed deeply and turned into the house, oblivious to Constantine and the young squaw, who held the sick baby up for her inspection.

The hazards of winter travel in the North are manifold at best, but the country which Emerson and his companions had to traverse was particularly perilous, owing to the fact that their course led them over the backbone of the great Alaskan Range, that desolate, skyscraping rampart which interposes itself between the hate of the Arctic seas and the tossing wilderness of the North Pacific. This range forms a giant, ice-armored tusk thrust out to the westward and curved like the horn of an African rhino, its tip pointed eight hundred miles toward the Asiatic coast, its soaring peaks veiled in perpetual mist and volcanic fumes, its slopes agleam with lonely ice-fields. It is a saw-toothed ridge, for the most part narrow, unbroken, and cruel, and the rival winter gales roar over it in a never-ceasing war. On the north lies the Forgotten Land, to the south are the tempered reaches of the Pacific. In summer the stern sweep of rock and tundra is soaked with weeping rains, and given over to the herding caribou or the great grass-eating bear; but when from the polar regions the white hand of winter stretches forth, the grieving seas lift themselves, the rain turns to bitter, hail-burdened hurricanes that charge and retreat in a death-dealing conflict, sheathing the barrier anew, and confounding the hearts of men on land and sea. The coast is unlighted and badly mapped, hence the shore is a graveyard for ships, while through the guts, which at intervals penetrate the range, the blizzards screech until travellers burrow into drifts to avoid their fury or lie out in stiff sleeping-bags exposed to their anger. It is a region of sudden storms, a battle-ground of the elements, which have swept it naked of cover in ages past, and it is peopled scantily by handfuls of coughing natives, whose igloos are hidden in hollows or chained to the ground with cables and ship's gear.

It was thither the travellers were bound, headed toward Katmai Pass, which is no more than a gap between peaks, through which the hibernal gales suck and swirl. This pass is even balder than the surrounding barrens, for it forms a funnel at each end, confining the winds and affording them freer course. Notwithstanding the fact that it had an appalling death-list and was religiously shunned, Emerson would hearken to no argument for a safer route, insisting that they could spare no time for detours. Nothing dampened his spirits, no hardship daunted him; he was tireless, ferocious in his haste.

A week of hard travel found them camped in the last fringe of cottonwood that fronted the glacial slopes, their number augmented now by a native from a Russian village with an unpronounceable name, who, at the price of an extortionate bribe, had agreed to pilot them through. For three days they lay idle, the taut walls of their tent thrumming to an incessant fusillade of ice particles that whirled down ahead of the blast, while Emerson fumed to be gone.

The fourth morning broke still and quiet; but, after a careful scrutiny of the peaks, the Indian shook his head and spoke to Balt, who nodded in agreement.

"What's the matter?" growled Emerson. "Why don't we get under way?" But the other replied:

"Not to-day. Them tips are smoking, see!" He indicated certain gauzy streamers that floated like vapor from the highest pinnacles. "That's snow, dry snow, and it shows that the wind is blowing up there. We dassent tackle it."

"Do you mean we must lie here waiting for an absolutely calm day?"

"Exactly."

"Why, it may be a week!"

"It may be two of them; then, again, it may be all right to-morrow."

"Nonsense! That breeze won't hurt anybody."

"Breeze!" Balt laughed. "It's more like a tornado up yonder. No, we've just got to take it easy till the right moment comes, and then make a dash. It's thirty miles to the nearest stick of timber; and once you get into the Pass, you can't stop till you're through."

Still unconvinced, and surly at the delay, Emerson resigned himself, while Bait saw to their sled, tended the dogs, and made final preparations. "Fingerless" Fraser lay flat on his back and nursed a pair of swollen tendons that had been galled by his snowshoe thongs, reviling at the fortune that had cast him into such inhospitable surroundings, heaping anathemas upon the head of him who had invented snowshoes, complaining of everything in general, from the indigestible quality of baking-powder bread to the odor of the guide who crouched stolidly beside the stove, feeding it with green willows and twisted withes.

The next dawn showed the mountain peaks limned like clean-cut ivory against the steel-blue sky, and as they crept up through the defiles the air was so motionless that the smoke of their pipes hung about their heads, while the creak of their soles upon the dry surface of the snow roused echoes from the walls on either side. At first their progress was rapid, but in time the drifts grew deeper, and they came to bluffs where they were forced to notch footholds, unpack their load and relay it to the top, then free the dogs, and haul the sled up with a rope, hand over hand. These labors, besides being intensely fatiguing, delayed them considerably, added to which the higher altitudes were covered with a soft eider-down that reached nearly to their knees and shoved ahead of the sled in great masses. Thus they dragged their burden through instead of over it.

By mid-day they had gained the summit, and found themselves in the heart of a huge desolation, hedged in by a chaos of peaks and pinnacles, the snows unbroken by twig or bush, untracked by living sign. Here and there the dark face of some white-cowled rock or cliff scowled at them, and although they were drenched with sweat and parched from thirst, nowhere was there the faintest tinkle of running water, while the dry powder under foot scratched their throats like iron filings when they turned to it for relief. All were jaded and silent, save Emerson, who urged them on incessantly.

It was early in the afternoon when the Indian stopped and began testing the air; Balt also seemed suddenly to scent a change in the atmospheric conditions.

"What's wrong now?" Emerson asked, gruffly.

"Feels like wind," answered the big man, with a shake of his head. The native began to chatter excitedly, and as they stood there a chill draught fanned their cheeks. Glancing upward at the hillsides, they saw that the air was now thickened as if by smoke, and, dropping their eyes, they saw the fluff beneath their feet stir lazily. Little wisps of snow-vapor began to dance upon the ridges, whisking out of sight as suddenly as they appeared. They became conscious of a sudden fall in the temperature, and they knew that the cold of interstellar space dwelt in that ghostly breath which smote them. Before they were well aware of the ominous significance of these signs the storm was upon them, sweeping through the chute wherein they stood with rapidly increasing violence. The terrible, unseen hand of the Frozen North had unleashed its brood of furies, and the air rang with their hideous cries. It was Dante's third circle of hell let loose— Cerberus baying through his wide, threefold throat, and the voices of tormented souls shrilling through the infernal shades. It came from behind them, lifting the fur on the backs of the wolf-dogs and filling it with powder, pelting their hides with sharp particles until they refused to stand before it, and turned and crouched with flattened ears in the shelter of the sled. In an instant the wet faces of the men were dried and their steaming garments hardened to shells, while their blood began to move more sluggishly.

Fraser shouted something, but Emerson's whipping garments drowned the words, and without waiting to ascertain what the adventurer had said the young man ran forward and cut the dogs loose, while Balt and the guide fell to unlashing the sled, the tails of their parkas meanwhile snapping like boat sails, their cap strings streaming. As they freed the last knot the hurricane ripped the edge of the tarpaulin from their clumsy fingers, and, seizing a loosely folded blanket belonging to the native, snatched it away. The fellow clutched wildly at it, but the cloth sailed ahead of the blast as if on wings, then, dropping to the surface of the snow, opened out, whereupon some twisting current bore it aloft again, and it swooped down the hill like a great bat, followed by a wail of despair from the owner. Other loose articles on the top of the load were picked up like chaff—coffee pot, frying pan, and dishes—then hurtled away like charges of canister, rolling, leaping, skipping down into the swale ahead, then up over the next ridge and out of sight. But the men were too fiercely beset by the confusion to notice their loss. There was no question of facing the wind, for it was more cruel than the fierce breath of an open furnace, searing the naked flesh like a flame.

All the morning the air had hung in perfect poise, but some change of temperature away out over one of the rival oceans had upset the aerostatic balance, and the wind tore through this gap like the torrent below a broken reservoir.

The contour of the surrounding hills altered, the whole country took on a different aspect, due to the rapid charging of the atmosphere, the limits of vision grew shorter and strangely distorted. Although as yet the snows were barely beginning to move, the men knew they would shortly be forced to grope their way through dense clouds that would blot out every landmark, and the touch of which would be like the stroke of a red-hot rasp.

Balt came close to Emerson, and bellowed into his ear:

"What shall we do? Roll up in the bedding or run for it?"

"How far is it to timber?"

"Twelve or fifteen miles."

"Let's run for it! We're out of grub, anyhow, and this may last for days."

There was no use of trying to secure additional clothing from the supply in the sled, so they abandoned their outfit and allowed themselves to be driven ahead of the storm, trusting to the native's sense of direction and keeping close together. The dogs were already well drifted over, and refused to stir.

Once they were gone a stone's throw from the sled there was no turning back, and although the wind was behind them progress was difficult, for they came upon chasms which they had to avoid; they crossed slippery slopes, where the storm had bared the hard crust and which their feet refused to grip. In such places they had to creep on hands and knees, calling to one another for guidance. They were numbed, blinded, choked by the rage of the blizzard; their faces grew stiff, and their lungs froze. At times they fell, and were skidded along ahead of the blasts. This forced them to crawl back again, for they dared not lose their course. At one place they followed a hog-back, where the rocks came to a sharp ridge like the summit of a roof, this they bestrode, inching along a foot at a time, wearing through the palms of their mittens and chafing their garments. No cloth could withstand the roughened surfaces, and in time the bare flesh of their hands became exposed, but there was little sensation, and no time for rest or means of relief. Soon they began to leave blood stains behind them.

All four men were old in the ways of the North, and, knowing their present extremity, they steeled themselves to suffering, but their tortures were intense, not the least of which was thirst. Exhaustion comes quickly under such conditions.

Much has been written concerning the red man's physical powers of endurance, but as a rule no Indian is the equal of his white brother, due as much perhaps to lack of mental force as to generations of insufficient clothing and inanition, so it was not surprising that as the long afternoon dragged to a close the Aleut guide began to weaken. He paused with more frequency, and it required more effort to start him; he fell oftener and rose with more difficulty, but the others were dependent upon his knowledge of the trail, and could not take the lead.

Darkness found them staggering on, supporting him wherever possible. At length he became unable to guide them farther, and Balt, who had once made the trip, took his place, while the others dragged the poor creature along at the cost of their precious strength.

At one time he begged them to leave him, and both Balt and "Fingerless" Fraser agreed, but Emerson would have none of it.

"He'll die, anyhow," argued the fisherman.

"He's as good as dead now," supplemented Fraser, "and we may be ten miles from timber."

"I made him come, and I'll take him through," said Emerson, stubbornly; and so they crawled their weary way, sore beset with their dragging burden. Slow at best, their advance now became snail-like, for darkness had fallen, and threatened to blot them out. It betrayed them down declivities, up and out of which they had to dig their way. In such descents they were forced to let go the helpless man, whose body rolled ahead of them like a boneless sack; but these very mishaps helped to keep the spark of life in him, for at every disheartening pause the others rubbed and pounded him, though they knew that their efforts were hopeless, and would have been better spent upon themselves.

Fraser, never a strong man, gave out in time, and it looked as if he might overtax the powers of the other two, but Balt's strength was that of a bull, while Emerson subsisted on his nerve, fairly consuming his soul.

They grew faint and sick, and knew themselves to be badly frozen; but their leader spurred them on, draining himself in the effort. For the first time Emerson realized that the adventurer had been a drag on him ever since their meeting.

They had long since lost all track of time and place, trusting blindly to a downward course. The hurricane still harried them with unabated fury, when all at once they came to another bluff where the ground fell away abruptly. Without waiting to investigate whether the slope terminated in a drift or a precipice, they flung themselves over. Down they floundered, the two half-insensible men tangled together as if in a race for total oblivion, only to plunge through a thicket of willow tops that whipped and stung them. On they went, now vastly heartened, over another ridge, down another declivity, and then into a grove of spruce timber, where the air suddenly stilled, and only the tree-tops told of the rushing wind above.

It was well-nigh an hour before Balt and Emerson succeeded in starting a fire, for it was desperate work groping for dry branches, and they themselves were on the verge of collapse before the timid blaze finally showed the two more unfortunate ones huddled together.

Cherry had given Emerson a flask of liquor before starting, and this he now divided between Fraser and the guide, having wisely refused it to them until shelter was secured. Then he melted snow in Balt's tin cup and poured pints of hot water into the pair until the adventurer began to rally; but the Aleut was too far gone, and an hour before the laggard dawn came he died.

They walked Fraser around the fire all night, threshing his tortured body and fighting off their own deadly weariness, meanwhile absorbing the insufficient heat of the flames.

When daylight came they tried hard to lash the corpse into a spruce-top, but their strength was unequal to the task, and they were forced to leave the body to the mercy of the wolves as they turned their faces expectantly down the valley toward the village.

The day was well spent when they struggled into Katmai and plodded up to a half-rotted log store, the roof of which was protected from the winter gales by two anchor chains passed over the ridge and made fast to posts well buried in the ground. A globular, quarter-breed Russian trader, with eyes so crossed that he could distinguish nothing at a yard's distance, took them in and administered to their most crying needs, then dispatched an outfit for the guide's body.

The initial stage of the journey, Emerson realized with thanksgiving, was over. As soon as he was able to talk he inquired straightway concerning the mail-boat.

"She called here three days ago, bound west," said the trader.

"That's all right. She'll be back in about a week, eh?"

"No; she won't stop here coming back. Her contract don't call for it."

"What!" Emerson felt himself sickening.

"No, she won't call here till next month; and then if it's storming she'll go on to the westward, and land on her way back."

"How long will that be?"

"Maybe seven or eight weeks."

In his weakened condition the young man groped for the counter to support himself. So the storm's delay at the foot of the Pass had undone him! Fate, in the guise of Winter, had unfurled those floating snow-banners from the mountain peaks to thwart him once more! Instead of losing the accursed thing that had hung over him these past three years, it had merely redoubled its hold; that mocking power had held the bait of Tantalus before his eyes, only to hurl him back into hopeless despair; for, figuring with the utmost nicety, he had reckoned that there was just time to execute his mission, and even a month's delay would mean certain failure. He turned hopelessly toward his two companions, but Fraser had relapsed into a state of coma, while Big George was asleep beside the stove.

For a long time he stood silent and musing, while the fat storekeeper regarded him stupidly; then he fumbled with clumsy fingers at his breast, and produced the folded page of a magazine. He held it for a time without opening it; then crushed it slowly in his fist, and flung the crumpled ball into the open coals.

He sighed heavily, and turned upon the trader a frost-blackened countenance, out of which all the light had gone.

"Give us beds," he said; "we want to sleep."



CHAPTER VII

AND NEPTUNE TAKES ANOTHER



Out of consideration for his companions, Emerson did not acquaint them with the evil tidings until the next morning; moreover, he was swallowed up in black despair, and had no heart left in him for any further exertion. He had allowed the Russian to show him to a bed, upon which he flung himself, half dressed, while the others followed suit. But he was too tired to sleep. His nerves had been filed to such a fine edge that slumber became a process which required long hours of coaxing, during which he tossed restlessly, a prey to those hideous nightmares that lurk on the border-land of dreams. His distorted imagination flung him again and again into the agonizing maelstrom of the last thirty-six hours, and in his waking moments the gaunt spectre of failure haunted him. This was no new apparition, but never before had it appeared so horrible as now. He was too worn out to rave, his strength was spent, and his mind wandered hither and thither like a rudderless ship. So he lay staring into the dark with dull, tragic eyes, utterly inert, his body racked by a thousand pains.

Nor did "Fingerless" Fraser meet with better fortune. He found little rest or sleep, and burdened the night with his groanings. His condition called for the frequent attendance of the trader, who ministered to his needs with the ease and certainty of long practice, rousing him now and then to give him nourishment, and redressing his frozen members when necessary. As for Balt, he slept like an Eskimo dog, wrapped in the senseless trance of complete physical relaxation. Being a creature of no imagination, he had taxed nothing beyond his body, which was capable of tremendous resistance, wherefore he escaped the nerve-racking torment and mental distress of the others.

As warmth and repose gradually adjusted the balance between mind and body, Emerson fell into a deep sleep, and it was late in the day when he awoke, every muscle aching, every joint stiff, every step attended with pain. He found his companions up and already breakfasted, Big George none the worse for his ordeal, while Fraser, bandaged and smarting, was his old shrewd self. Emerson's first inquiry was for the body of the guide.

"They brought him in this morning," answered the fisherman. "He's in cold storage at the church. When the priest comes over next month they'll bury him."

"He was a right nice feller," said Fraser, "but I'm glad I ain't in his mukluks. If you two hadn't stuck to me—well, him and me would have done a brother act at this church festival."

"How are your frost-bites?" Emerson asked, seating himself with painful care.

"Fine—all but the bum hook." He held up his crippled hand, which was well bandaged. "However, I guess I can save my gun-finger, so all is not lost."

"Have you heard about the mail-boat?"

"No."

"We've missed her."

"What d'you mean?" demanded Big George, blankly.

"I mean that the storm delayed us just long enough to ruin us."

"Why—er—let's wait till the next trip," offered the fisherman.

Emerson shook his head. "She may not be back here for eight weeks. No! We're done for."

Balt was like a big boy in distress. His face wrinkled as if he were about to burst into loud lamentations; then a thought seized him.

"I'll tell you what we'll do!" he cried, with a heavy attempt at meeting the problem. "We'll put off the scheme for a year. We'll take plenty of time, and open up a year from next spring."

"No," said Emerson, with a dejected shake of the head. "If I can't put it through on the flash, I can't do it at all. My time is up. I'm down and out. All our pretty plans have gone to smash. You'd better go back to Kalvik, George."

At this suggestion, Balt rose ponderously and began to rave. To see his vengeance slip from his grasp enraged him. He cursed shockingly, clinching his great fists above his head, and grinding forth imprecations which caused Fraser to quail and cry out aghast:

"Hey, you! Quit that! D'you want to hang a Jonah onto us?"

But the fisherman only goaded himself into a greater passion, during which Petellin, the storekeeper, entered, and forthwith began to cross himself devoutly. Observing this fervent pantomime, Balt turned upon the trader and directed his outburst at him:

"Where in hell is this steamer?"

"Out to the westward somewhere."

"Well, she's a mail-boat, ain't she? Then why don't she stop here coming back? Answer me!"

The rotund man shrugged his fat shoulders. "She's got to call at Uyak Bay going east."

Emerson looked up quickly, "Where is Uyak Bay?"

"Over on Kodiak Island," Big George answered; then turned again to vent his spleen on the trader.

"What right have them steamboat people got to cut out this place for an empty cannery? Why, there ain't nobody at Uyak. It's more of that damned Company business. They own this whole country, and run it to suit themselves."

"She ain't my boat," said Petellin. "You'd ought to have got here a few days sooner."

"My God! I'm sorry we waited at the Pass," said Emerson. "The weather couldn't have been any worse that first day than it was when we came across."

Detecting in this remark a criticism of his caution, Big George turned about and faced the speaker; but as he met Emerson's eye he checked the explosion, and, seizing his cap, bolted out into the cold to walk off his mad rage.

"When is the boat due at Uyak?" Emerson asked.

"'Most any time inside of a week."

"How far is that from here?"

"It ain't so far—only about fifty miles." Then, catching the light that flamed into the miner's eyes, Petellin hastened to observe: "But you can't get there. It's across the Straits—Shelikof Straits."

"What of that! We can hire a sail-boat, and—"

"I ain't got any sail-boat. I lost my sloop last year hunting sea-otter."

"We can hire a small boat of some sort, can't we, and get the natives to put us across? There must be plenty of boats here."

"Nothing but skin boats, kyaks, and bidarkas—you know. Anyhow, you couldn't cross at this time of year—it's too stormy; these Straits is the worst piece of water on the coast. No, you'll have to wait."

Emerson sank back into his chair, and stared hopelessly at the fire.

"Better have some breakfast," the trader continued; but the other only shook his head. And after a farewell squint of curiosity, the fat man rolled out again in pursuit of his duties.

"I've heard tell of these Shelikof Straits," Fraser remarked. "I bunked with a bear-hunter from Kodiak once, and he said they was certainly some hell in winter." When Emerson made no reply, the fellow's colorless eyes settled upon him with a trace of solicitude, and he resumed: "I'm doggone sorry you lost out, pal, but mebbe something'll turn up yet." Then, seeing that the young man was deaf to his condolence, he muttered: "So, you've got 'em again, eh? Um!" As usual on such occasions, he fell into his old habit of reading aloud, as it were, an imaginary scene to himself:

"'Yes, I've got 'em again,' says Mr. Emerson, always eager to give entertainment with the English language. 'I am indeed blue this afternoon. Won't you talk to me? I feel that the sound of a dear friend's voice will drive dull care away.'

"'Gladly,' says I; 'I am a silent man by birth and training, and my thoughts is jewels, but for you, I'll scatter them at large, and you can take your pick. Now, this salmon business ain't what it's cracked up to be, after all. It's a smelly proposition, no matter how you take it, and a fisherman ain't much better than a Reub; ask any wise guy. I'd rather see you in some profesh that don't stink so, like selling scented soap. There was a feller at Dyea who done well at it. What think you?'

"'It's a dark night without,' says Mr. Emerson, 'and I fear some mischief is afoot!'

"'But what of yonder beauteous—'"

Unheeding this chatter, the disheartened man got up at this juncture, as if a sudden thought impelled him, and followed Balt out into the cold. He turned down the bank to the creek, however, and made a careful examination of all the canoes that went with the village. Fifteen minutes later he had searched out the disgruntled fisherman, and cried, excitedly:

"I've got it! We'll catch that boat yet!"

"How?" growled the big man, sourly.

"There's a large open skin-boat, an oomiak, down on the beach. We'll hire a crew of Indians to put us across to Uyak."

"Can't be done," said Big George, still gruffly. "It's the wrong season. You know the Shelikof Straits is a bad place even for steamships at this time of year. They're like that Pass up yonder, only worse."

"But it's only fifty miles across."

"Fifty miles of that kind of water in an open canoe may be just as bad as five hundred—unless you're lucky. And I ain't noticed anything so damned lucky about us."

"Well, it's that or nothing. It's our only chance. Are you game?"

"Come on," cried Big George, "let's find Petellin!"

When that worthy heard their desire, he uttered a shriek of denial.

"In summer, yes, but now—you can't do it. It has been tried too often. The Straits is always rough, and the weather is too cold to sit all day in an oomiak, you'd freeze."

"We'll chance it."

"No, no, NO! If it comes on to storm, you'll go to sea. The tides are strong; you can't see your course, and—"

"We'll use a compass. Now, you get me enough men to handle that oomiak, that's a good fellow. I'll attend to the rest."

"But they won't go," declared the little fat man. "They know what it means. Why—"

"Call them in. I'll do the talking." And accordingly the storekeeper went in search of the village chief, shaking his head and muttering at the madness of these people.

"Fingerless" Fraser, noticing the change in Balt and Emerson when they re- entered the store, questioned them as to what had happened; and in reply to his inquiry, Big George said:

"We're going to tackle the Straits in a small boat."

"What! Not on your life! Why, that's the craziest stunt I ever heard of. Don't you know—"

"Yes, we know," Emerson shut him up, brusquely. "You don't have to go with us."

"Well, I should say not. Hunh! Do I look like I'd do a thing like that? If I do, it's because I'm sick. I just got this far by a gnat's eyelash, and hereinafter I take the best of it every time."

"You can wait for the mail-boat."

"I certainly can, and, what's more, I will. And I'll register myself, too. There ain't goin' to be any accidents to me whatever."

Although the two men were pleased at the remote chance of catching the steamer, their ardor received a serious set-back when the trader came in with the head man of the village and a handful of hunters, for Emerson found that money was quite powerless to tempt them. Using the Russian as interpreter, he coaxed and wheedled, increasing his offer out of all proportion to the exigencies of the occasion; and still finding them obdurate, in despair he piled every coin he owned upon the counter. But the men only shook their heads and palavered among themselves.

"They say it's too cold," translated Petellin. "They will freeze, and money is no good to dead men." Another native spoke: "'It is very stormy this month,' they say. 'The waves would sink an open boat.'"

"Then they can put us across in bidarkas," insisted Emerson, who had noted the presence of several of these smaller crafts, which are nothing more than long walrus-hide canoes completely decked over, save for tiny cockpits wherein the paddlers sit. "They don't have to come back that way; they can wait at Uyak for the next trip of the steamer. Why, I'm offering them more pay than they can make in ten years."

"Better get them to do it," urged Big George. "You'll get the coin all back from them; they'll have to trade here." But Petellin's arguments were as ineffective as Emerson's, and after an hour's futile haggling the natives were about to leave when Emerson said:

"Ask them what they'll take to sell me a bidarka."

"One hundred dollars," Petellin told him, after an instant's parley.

Emerson turned to George. "Will you tackle it alone with me?"

The fisherman hesitated. "Two of us couldn't make it. Get a third man, and I'll go you." Accordingly Emerson resumed the subject with the Indians, but now their answer was short and decisive. Not one of them would venture forth unless accompanied by one of his own kind, in whose endurance and skill with a paddle he had confidence. It seemed as if fate had laid one final insurmountable obstacle in the path of the two white men, when "Fingerless" Fraser, who had been a silent witness of the whole scene, spoke up, in his voice a bitter complaint:

"Well, that puts it up to me, I suppose. I'm always the fall guy, damn it!"

"You! You go!" cried Emerson, astounded beyond measure at this offer, and still doubting. The fellow had so consistently shirked every hardship, and so systematically refused every hazard, no matter how slight!

"Well, I don't want to," Fraser flared up, "you can just lay a bet on that. But these Siwashes won't stand the gaff, they're too wise; so I've got to, ain't I?" He glared belligerently from one to the other.

"Can you handle a boat?" demanded Big George.

"Can I handle a—Hunh!" sniffed the fellow. "Say, just because you've got corns on your palms as big as pancakes, you needn't think you're the only human that ever pulled an oar. I was the first man through Miles Canon. During the big rush in '98 I ran the rapids for a living. I got fifty dollars a trip, and it only took me three minutes by the watch. That was the only easy money I ever picked up. Why, them tenderfeet used to cry like babies when they got a peek at them rapids. Can I handle a b——Yes, and I wish I was back there right now instead of hitched up with a pair of yaps that don't know when they're well off."

"But, look here, Fraser," Emerson spoke up, "I don't think you are strong enough for this trip. It may take us forty-eight hours of constant paddling against wind and tide to make Uyak. George and I are fit enough, but you know you aren't—"

"Fingerless" Fraser turned violently upon the speaker.

"Now, for Heaven's sake, cut that out, will you? Just because you happened to give me a little lift on this cussed Katmai Pass, I s'pose you'll never get done throwing it up to me. My feet were sore; that's why I petered out. If it hadn't been for my bum 'dogs' I'd have walked both of you down; but they were sore. Can't you understand? My feet were sore."

He was whining now, and this unexpected angle of the man's disposition completely confused the others and left them rather at a loss what to say. But before they could make any comment, he rose stiffly and blazed forth:

"But I won't start to-day. I hurt too much, and my mits is froze. If you want to wait till I'm healed up so I can die in comfort, why, go ahead and buy that fool-killer boat, and we'll all commit suicide together." He stumped indignantly out of the room, his friends too greatly dumfounded even to smile.

For the next two days the men rested, replenishing their strength; but Fraser developed a wolfish temper which turned him into a veritable chestnut burr. There was no handling him. His scars were not deep nor his hurts serious, however, so by the afternoon of the second day he announced, with surly distemper, that he would be ready to leave on the following morning, and the others accordingly made preparation for an early start. They selected the most seaworthy canoe, which at best was a treacherous craft, and stocked it well with water, cooked food, and stimulants.

Since their arrival at Katmai the weather had continued calm; and although the view they had through the frowning headlands showed the Straits black and angry, they prayed that the wind would hold off for another twenty- four hours. Again Petellin importuned them to forego this journey, and again they turned deaf ears to his entreaties and retired early, to awaken with the rickety log store straining at its cables under the force of a blizzard that had blotted out the mountains and was rousing the sea to fury. Fraser openly rejoiced, and Balt's heavy brows, which had carried a weight of trouble, cleared; but Emerson was plunged into as black a mood as that of the storm which had swallowed up the landscape. For three days the tempest held them prisoners, then died as suddenly as it had arisen; but the surf continued to thunder upon the beach for many hours, while Emerson looked on with hopeless, sullen eyes. When at last they did set out—a week, to a day, from their arrival at Katmai—it was to find such a heavy sea running outside the capes that they had hard shift to make it back to the village, drenched, dispirited, and well-nigh dead from the cold and fatigue. Although Fraser had fully recovered from his collapse, he nevertheless complained upon every occasion, and whined loudly at every ache. He voiced his tortures eloquently, and bewailed the fate that had brought his fortunes to such an ebb, burdening the air so heavily with his complaints that Big George broke out, in exasperation:

"Shut up! You don't have to go with us! I'd rather tackle it alone than listen to you!"

"That's right," agreed Emerson, whose patience was also worn out by the rogue's unceasing jeremiad. "We'll try it without him to-morrow."

"Oh, you will, will you?" snorted Fraser, indignantly. "So, after me getting well on purpose to make this trip, you want to dump me here with this fat man. I'll stand as much as anybody, but I won't stand for no deal like that. No, sir! You said I could go, and I'm going. Why, I'd rather drown than stick in this burgh with that greasy Russian porpoise. Gee! this is a shine village."

"Then take your medicine like a man, and quit kicking."

"If you prefer to swallow your groans, you do it. I like to make a fuss when I suffer. I enjoy it more that way."

Again Petellin called them at daylight, and they were off; this time with better success, for the waves had abated sufficiently for them to venture beyond the partial shelter of the bay. All three knew the desperate chance they were taking, and they spoke little as they made their way out into the Straits. Their craft was strange to them, and the positions they were forced to occupy soon brought on cramped muscles. The bidarka is a frail, narrow framework over which is stretched walrus skin, and it is so fashioned that the crew sits, one behind the other, in circular openings with legs straight out in front. To keep themselves dry each man had donned a native water garment—a loose, hooded shirt manufactured from the bladders of seals. These shirts—or kamlikas, as they are called—are provided with draw-strings at wrists, face, and bottom, so that when the skirt is stretched over the rim of the cockpit and corded tight, it renders the canoe well-nigh waterproof, even though the decks are awash.

The whole contrivance is peculiarly aboriginal and unsuited to the uses of white men; and, while unusually seaworthy, the bidarka requires more skill in the handling than does a Canadian birch bark, hence the wits of the three travellers were taxed to the utmost.

Out across the lonesome waste they journeyed, steadily creeping farther from the village, which of a sudden seemed a very safe and desirable place, with its snug store, its blazing fires, and its warm beds. The sea tossed them like a cork, coating their paddles and the decks of the canoe with ice, which they were at great pains to break off. It wet them in spite of their precautions, and its salt breath searched out their marrow, regardless of their unceasing labors; and these labors were in truth unceasing, for fifty miles of open water lay before them; fifty miles, which meant twelve hours of steady paddling. Gradually, imperceptibly, the mountain shores behind them shrank down upon the gray horizon. It seemed that for once the weather was going to be kind to them, and their spirits rose in consequence. They ate frequently, food being the great fuel of the North, and midday found them well out upon the heaving bosom of the Straits with the Kodiak shores plainly visible. Then, as if tired of toying with them, the wind rose. It did not blow up a gale—merely a frigid breath that cut them like steel and halted their progress. Had it sprung from the north it would have wafted them on their way, but it drew in from the Pacific, straight into their teeth, forcing them to redouble their exertions. It was not of sufficient violence to overcome their efforts, but it held them back and stirred up a nasty cross sea into which the canoe plunged and wallowed. In the hope that it would die down with the darkness, the boatmen held on their course, and night closed over them still paddling silently.

It was nearly noon on the following day when the watchman at the Uyak cannery beheld a native canoe creeping slowly up the bay, and was astonished to find it manned by three white men in the last stages of exhaustion—so stiff and cramped and numb that he was forced to help them from their places when at last they effected a landing. One of them, in fact, was unconscious and had to be carried to the house, which did not surprise the watchman when he learned whence they had come. He did marvel, however, that another of the travellers should begin to cry weakly when told that the mail boat had sailed for Kodiak the previous evening. He gave them stimulants, then prepared hot food for them, for both Bait and Emerson were like sleep-walkers; and Fraser, when he was restored to consciousness, was too weak to stand.

"Too bad you didn't get in last night," said the care-taker, sympathetically. "She won't be back now for a month or more."

"How long will she lie in Kodiak?" Big George asked.

"The captain told me he was going to spend Christmas there. Lefs see—to- day is the 22nd—she'll pull out for Juneau on the morning of the 26th; that's three days."

"We must catch her," cried Emerson, quickly. "If you'll land us in Kodiak on time I'll pay you anything you ask."

"I'd like to, but I can't," the man replied. "You see, I'm here all alone, except for Johnson. He's the watchman for the other plant."

"Then for God's sake get us some natives. I don't care what it costs."

"There ain't any natives here. This ain't no village. There's nothing here but these two plants, and Johnson or me dassent leave."

Emerson turned his eyes upon the haggard man who sprawled weakly in a chair; and Fraser, noting the appeal, answered, gamely, with a forced smile on his lips, though they were drawn and bloodless:

"Sure! I'll be ready to leave in the morning, pal!"

The old Russian village of Kodiak lies on the opposite side of the island from the canneries, a bleak, wind-swept relic of the country's first occupation, and although peopled largely by natives and breeds, there is also a considerable white population, to whom Christmas is a season of thanksgiving and celebration. Hence it was that the crew of the Dora were well content to pass the Yuletide there, where the girls are pretty and a hearty welcome is accorded to every one. There were drinking and dancing and music behind the square-hewn log walls, and the big red stoves made havoc with the salt wind. The town was well filled and the merrymaking vigorous, and inasmuch as winter is a time of rest, during which none but the most foolhardy trust themselves to the perils of the sea, it caused much comment when late on Christmas afternoon an ice-burdened canoe, bearing three strange white men, landed on the beach beside the dock—or were they white men, after all? Their faces were so blackened and split from the frost they seemed to be raw bleeding masks, their hands were cracked and stiff beneath their mittens. They were hollow-eyed and gaunt, their cheeks sunken away as if from a wasting illness, and they could not walk, but crept across the snow-covered shingle on hands and knees, then reaching the street hobbled painfully, while their limbs gave way as if paralyzed. One of them lacked strength even to leave the canoe, and when two sailors ran down and lifted him out, he gabbled strangely in the jargon of the mining camp and the gambling table. Of the other two, one, a great awkward shambling giant of a creature, stumbled out along the dock toward the ship, his head hung low and swinging from side to side, his shoulders drooping, his arms loose-hinged, his knees bending.



But the third voyager, who had with difficulty won his way up to the level of the street, presented the strangest appearance. There was something uncanny about him. As he gained the street, he waved back all proffered assistance, then paused, with his swaying body propped upon widespread legs, staring malignantly into the north. From their deep sockets his eyes glittered like live coals, while his blackened, swollen lips split in a grimace that bared his teeth. He raised his arms slowly and shook his clenched fists defiantly at the Polar skies, muttering unintelligible things, then staggered after his companions.



CHAPTER VIII

WHEREIN BOYD ADMITS HIS FAILURE



A week later Boyd and George were watching the lights of Port Townsend blink out in the gloom astern. A quick change of boats at Juneau had raised their spirits, enabling them to complete the second stage of their journey in less than the expected time, and the southward run, out from the breath of the Arctics into a balmier climate, had removed nearly the last trace of their suffering from the frost.

A sort of meditative silence which had fallen upon the two men was broken at last by George, who for some time had been showing signs of uneasiness.

"How long are we going to stay in Seattle?" he inquired.

"Only long enough," Boyd replied, "for me to arrange a connection with some bank. That will require a day, perhaps."

"I suppose a feller has got to dress pretty swell back there in Chicago," George ventured.

"Some people do."

"Full-dress suits of clothes, eh?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever wear one?"

"Certainly."

"Well, I'll be—" The fisherman checked himself and gazed at his companion as if he saw him suddenly in a new light; in fact, he had discovered many strange phases of this young man's character during the past fortnight. "Right along?" he questioned, incredulously.

"Why, yes. Pretty steadily."

"All day, at a time?"

Boyd laughed. "I haven't worn one in the daytime since I left college. They are used only at night."

George pondered this for some time, while Emerson stared out into the velvet darkness, to be roused again a moment later.

"A feller told me a funny thing once. He said them rich men back East had women come around and clean their finger-nails, and shine 'em up. Is that right?"

"Quite right!"

Another pause, then Balt cleared his throat and said, with an assumption of carelessness:

"Well, I don't suppose—you ever had 'em—shine your finger-nails, did you?"

"Yes."

The big man opened his mouth to speak; then, evidently changing his mind, observed, "Seems to me I'd better stay here on the coast and wait for you."

"No, indeed!" the other answered, quickly. "I will need you in raising that money. You know the practical side of the fishing business, and I don't."

"All right, I'll go. If you can stand for me, I'll stand for the full- dress suits of clothes and the finger-nail women. Anyhow, it won't last long."

"When were you outside last?"

"Four years ago."

"Ever been East?"

"Sure! I've got a sister in Spokane Falls. But I don't like it back there."

"You will have a good time in Chicago." Boyd smiled.

"Fingerless" Fraser came to them from the lighted regions amidship, greeting them cheerfully.

"Well, we're pretty near there, ain't we? I'm glad of it; I've about cleaned up this ship."

The adventurer had left his companions alone much of the time during the trip—greatly to Boyd's relief, for the fellow was an unconscionable bore —and had thus allowed them time to perfect their plans and thresh out numberless details.

"I grabbed another farmer's son at supper—just got through with him. He was good for three-fifty."

"Three hundred and fifty dollars?" questioned Balt.

"Yep! I opened a little stud game for him. Beats all how these suckers fall for the old stuff."

"Where did you get money to gamble with?" inquired Boyd.

"Oh! I won a pinch of change last night in a bridge game with that Dawson Bunch."

"But it must have required a bank-roll to sit in a game with them. They seem to be heavy spenders. How did you manage that?"

"I sold some mining property the day before. I got the captain of the ship." Fraser chuckled.

"Did you swindle that old fellow?" Emerson cried, angrily. "See here! I won't allow—"

"Swindle! Who said I 'swindled' anybody? I wouldn't trim my worst enemy."

"You have no mining claims."

"What makes you think I haven't? Alaska is a big country."

"You told me so."

"Well, I didn't have any claims at that time, but since we came aboard of this wagon at Juneau I have improved each shining hour. While you and George was building canneries I was rustling. And I did pretty well, if I do say it as shouldn't."

Emerson shrugged his broad shoulders. "You will get into trouble! If you do, I won't come to your rescue. I have helped you all I can."

"Not me!" denied the self-satisfied Fraser. "There ain't a chance. Why? Because I'm on the level, I am. That's why. But say, getting money from these Reubs is a joke. It's like kicking a lamb in the face." He clinked some gold coins in his pocket and began to whistle noiselessly. "When do we pull out for Chi?" he next inquired.

"We?" said Emerson. "I told you I would take you as far as Seattle. I can't stand for your 'work.' I think you had better stop here, don't you?"

"Perhaps it is for the best," Fraser observed, carelessly. "Time alone can tell." He bade them good-night and disappeared to snatch a few hours' sleep, but upon their arrival at the dock on the following morning, without waiting for an invitation he bundled himself into their carriage and rode to the hotel, registering immediately beneath them. They soon lost sight of him, however, for their next move was in the direction of a clothier's, where they were outfitted from sole to crown. The garments they stood up in showed whence they had come; yet the strangeness of their apparel excited little comment, for Seattle is the gateway to the great North Country, and hither the Northmen foregather, going and coming. But to them the city was very strange and exciting. The noises deafened them, the odors of civilization now tantalized, now offended their nostrils; the crowding streams of humanity confused them, fresh from their long sojourn in the silences and solitudes. Every clatter and crash, every brazen clang of gong, caused George to start; he watched his chance and took street- crossings as if pursued.

"If one of them bells rings behind me," he declared, "I'll jump through a plate-glass window." When his roving eyes first lighted upon a fruit stand he bolted for it and filled his pockets with tomatoes.

"I've dreamed about these things for four years," he declared, "and I can't stand it any longer." He bit into one voraciously, and thereafter followed his companion about munching tomatoes at every step, refilling his pockets as his supply diminished. To show his willingness for any sacrifice, he volunteered to wear a dress suit if Emerson would buy it for him, and it required considerable argument to convince him that the garb was unnecessary.

"You better train me up before we get East," he warned, "or I'll make your swell friends sore and spoil the deal. I could wear it on the cars and get easy in it."

"My dear fellow, it takes more than a week to 'get easy' in a dress suit." Boyd smiled, amused at his earnestness, for the big fellow was merely a boy out on a wonderful vacation.

"Well, if there is a Down-East manicure woman in Seattle, show her to me and I'll practice on her," he insisted. "She can halter-break me, at least."

"Yes, it might not hurt to get that off your hands," Emerson acknowledged, at which the clothier's clerk, who had noted the condition of the fisherman's huge paws, snickered audibly.

It was a labor of several hours to fit Big George's bulky frame, and when the two returned to the hotel Emerson found the representative of an afternoon newspaper anxiously awaiting him at the desk.

"We noticed your arrival from the North," began the reporter, "and Mr. Athens sent me down to get a story."

"Athens! Billy Athens?"

"Yes! He is the editor. I believe you two were college mates. He wanted to know if you are the Boyd Emerson of the Michigan football team."

"Well, well!" Boyd mused. "Billy Athens was a good tackle."

"He thought you might have something interesting to tell about Alaska," the newspaper man went on. "However, I won't need to take much of your time, for your partner has been telling me all about you and your trip and your great success."

"My partner?"

"Yes. Mr. Frobisher. He heard me inquire about you and volunteered to give me an interview in your name."

"Frobisher!" said Emerson, now thoroughly mystified.

"Sure, that's him, over yonder." The reporter indicated "Fingerless" Fraser, who, having watched the interview from a distance, now solemnly closed one eye and stuck his tongue into his cheek.

"Oh, yes, yes! Frobisher!" Boyd stammered. "Certainly!"

"He is a character, isn't he? He told me how you rescued that girl when she broke through the ice at Kalvik."

"He did?"

"Quite a romance, wasn't it? It is a good newspaper story and I'll play it up. He is going to let me in on that hydraulic proposition of yours, too. Of course I haven't much money, but it sounds great, and—"

"How far along did you get with your negotiations about this hydraulic proposition?" Boyd asked, curiously.

"Just far enough so I'm all on edge for it. I'll make up a little pool among the boys at the office and have the money down here before you leave to-night."

"I am sorry, but Mr. Frobisher and I will have to talk it over first," said Emerson, grimly. "I think we will keep that 'hydraulic proposition' in the family, so to speak."

"Then you won't let me in?"

"Not just at present."

"I'm sorry! I should like to take a chance with somebody who is really successful at mining. When a fellow drones along on a salary month after month it makes him envious to see you Klondikers hit town with satchels full of coin. Perhaps you will give me a chance later on?"

"Perhaps," acceded Boyd; but when the young man had gone he strode quickly over to Fraser, who was lolling back comfortably, smoking a ridiculously long cigar with an elaborate gold band.

"Look here, Mr. 'Frobisher,'" he said, in a low tone, "what do you mean by mixing me up in your petty-larceny frauds?"

Fraser grinned. "'Frobisher' is hot monaker, ain't it? It sounds like the money. I believe I'll stick to 'Frobisher.'"

"I spiked your miserable little scheme, and if you try anything more like that, I'll have to cut you out altogether."

"Pshaw!" said the adventurer, mildly. "Did you say that hydraulic mine was no good? Too bad! That reporter agreed to take some stock right away, and promised to get his editor in on it, too."

"His editor!" Emerson cried, aghast. "Why, his editor happens to be a friend of mine, whose assistance I may need very badly when I get back from Chicago."

"Oh, well! That's different, of course."

"Now see here, Fraser, I want you to leave me out of your machinations, absolutely. You've been very decent to me in many ways, but if I hear of anything more like this I shall hand you over to the police."

"Don't be a sucker all your life," admonished the rogue. "You stick to me, and I'll make you a lot of money. I like you—"

Emerson, now seriously angry, wheeled and left him, realizing that the fellow was morally atrophied. He could not forget, however, that except for this impossible creature he himself would be lying at Petellin's store at Katmai with no faintest hope of completing his mission, wherefore he did his best to swallow his indignation.

"Hey! What time do we leave?" Fraser called after him, but the young man would not answer, proceeding instead to his room, there to renew his touch with the world through strange clean garments, the feel of which awakened memories and spurred him on to feverish haste. When he had dressed he hurried to a telegraph office and dispatched two messages to Chicago, one addressed to his own tailor, the other to a number on Lake Shore Drive. Over the latter he pondered long, tearing up several drafts which did not suit him, finally giving one to the operator with an odd mingling of timidity and defiance. This done, he hastened to one of the leading banks, and two hours later returned to the hotel, jubilant.

He found Big George in the lobby staring with fascinated eyes at his finger-nails, which were strangely purified and glossy.

"Look at 'em!" the fisherman broke out, admiringly. "They're as clean as a hound's tooth. They shine so I dassent take hold of anything."

"I have made my deal with the bank," Boyd exulted. "All I need to raise now is one hundred thousand dollars. The bank will advance the rest."

"That's great," said Balt, without interrupting the contemplation of his digits. "That's certainly immense. Say! Don't they glisten?"

"They look very nice—"

"Stylish! I think."

"That one hundred thousand dollars makes all the difference in the world. The task is easy, now. We will make it go, sure. These bankers know what that salmon business is. Why, I had no trouble at all. They say we can't lose if we have a good site on the Kalvik River."

"They're wise, all right. I guess that girl took me for a Klondiker," George observed. "She charged me double. But she was a nice girl, though. I was kind of rattled when I walked in and sat down, and I couldn't think of nothing to talk about. I never opened my head all the time, but she didn't notice it. When I left she asked me to come back again and have another nice long visit. She's an awful fine girl."

"Look out!" laughed his companion. "Every Alaskan falls in love with a manicurist at some time or other. It seems to be in the blood. We are going to have no matrimony, mind you."

"Lord! She wouldn't look at me," said the fisherman, suddenly, assuming a lobster pink.

That evening they dined as befits men just out from a long incarceration in the North, first having tried unsuccessfully to locate Fraser; for the rogue was bound to them by the intangible ties of hardship and trail life, and they could not bear to part from him without some expression of gratitude for the sacrifices he had made. But he was nowhere to be found, not even at train time.

"That seems hardly decent," Boyd remarked. "He might at least have said good-bye and wished us well."

"When he's around he makes me sore, and when he's away I miss him," said George. "He's probably out organizing something—or somebody."

At the station they waited until the last warning had sounded, vainly hoping that Fraser would put in an appearance, then sought their Pullman more piqued than they cared to admit. When the train pulled out, they went forward to the smoking compartment, still meditating upon this unexpected defection; but as they lighted their cigars, a familiar voice greeted them:

"Hello, you!"—and there was Fraser grinning at their astonishment.

"What are you doing here?" they cried, together.

"Me? Oh, I'm on my way East."

"Whereabouts East?"

"Chicago, ain't it? I thought that was what you said." He seated himself and lighted another long cigar.

"Are you going to Chicago?" George asked.

"Sure! We've got to put this cannery deal over." The crook sighed luxuriously and began to blow smoke rings. "Pretty nice train, ain't it?"

"Yes," ejaculated Emerson, undecided whether to be pleased or angered at the fellow's presence. "Which is your car?"

"This one—same as yours. I've got the drawing-room."

"What are you going to do in Chicago?"

"Oh, I ain't fully decided yet, but I might do a little promoting. Seattle is too full of Alaskan snares."

Emerson reflected for a moment before remarking: "I dare say you will tangle me up in some new enterprise that will land us both in jail, so for my own protection I'll tell you what I'll do. I have noticed that you are a good salesman, and if you will take up something legitimate—"

"Legitimate!" Fraser interrupted, with indignation. "Why, all my schemes are legitimate. Anybody can examine them. If he don't like them, he needn't go in. If he weakens on one proposition, I'll get something that suits him better. You've got me wrong."

"If you want to handle something honest, I'll let you place some of this cannery stock on a commission."

"I don't see nothing attractive in that when I can sell stock of my own and keep all the money. Maybe I'll organize a cannery company of my own in Chicago—"

"If you do—" Boyd exploded.

"Very well! Don't get sore. I only just suggested the possibility. If that is your graft, I'll think up something better."

The younger man shook his head. "You are impossible," said he, "and yet I can't help liking you."

Late into the night they talked, Emerson oscillating between extreme volubility and deep abstraction. At one moment he was as gay as a prospective bridegroom, at the next he was more dejected than a man under sentence. And instead of growing calmer his spirits became more and more variable with the near approach of the journey's end.

In Chicago, as in Seattle, Fraser accompanied his fellow-travellers to their hotel, and would have registered himself under some high-sounding alias except for a whispered threat from Boyd. That young gentleman, after seeing his companions comfortably ensconced, left them to their own devices while he drove to the tailor to whom he had telegraphed, returning in a short time garbed in new clothes. He found Fraser sipping a solitary cocktail and visiting with the bartender on the closest terms of intimacy.

"George?" said that one, in answer to his inquiry. "Oh, George has gone on a still-hunt for a manicure parlor. Ain't that a rave? He's gone finger- mad. He'd ought to have them front feet shod. He don't need a manicurist; what he wants is a blacksmith."

"He is rather out of his latitude, so I wish you would keep an eye on him," Boyd said.

"All right! I'll take him out in the park on a leash, but if he tries to bite anybody I'll have to muzzle him. He ain't safe in the heart of a great city; he's a menace to the life and limb of every manicure woman who crosses his path. You gave him an awful push on the downward path when you laid him against this finger stuff."

Promptly at four o'clock Emerson called a cab and was driven toward the North Side. As the vehicle rolled up Lake Shore Drive the excitement under which he had been laboring for days increased until he tapped his feet nervously, clenched his gloved fingers, and patted the cushions as if to accelerate the horse's footfalls. Would he never arrive! The animal appeared to crawl more slowly every moment, the rubber-rimmed wheels to turn more sluggishly with each revolution. He called to the driver to hurry, then found himself of a sudden gripped by an overpowering hesitation, and grew frightened at his own haste. The close atmosphere of the cab seemed to stifle him: he jerked the window open, flung back the lapels of his great coat, and inhaled the sharp Lake air in deep breaths. Why did that driver lash a willing steed? They were nearly there, and he was not ready yet. He leaned out to check their speed, then closed his lips and settled back in his seat, staring at the houses slipping past. How well he remembered every one of them!

The dark stone frowned at him, the leaded windows stared at him through a blind film of unrecognition, the carven gargoyles grinned mockingly at him.

It all oppressed him heavily and crushed whatever hope had lain at his heart when he left the hotel. Never before had his goal seemed so unattainable; never before had he felt so bitterly the cruelty of riches, the hopelessness of poverty.

The vehicle drew up at last before one of the most pretentious residences, a massive pile of stone and brick fronting the Lake with what seemed to him a singularly proud and chilling aspect. His hand shook as he paid the driver, and it was a very pale though very erect young man who mounted the stone steps to the bell. Despite the stiffness with which he held himself, he felt the muscles at his knees trembling weakly, while his lungs did not seem to fill, even when he inhaled deeply. During the moments that he waited he found his body pulsating to the slow, heavy thumping of his heart; then a familiar face greeted him.

"How do you do, Hawkins," he heard himself saying, as a liveried old man ushered him in and took his coat. "Don't you remember me?"

"Yes, sir! Mr. Emerson. You have been away for a long time, sir."

"Is Miss Wayland in?"

"Yes, sir; she is expecting you. This way, please."

Boyd followed, thankful for the subdued light which might conceal his agitation. He knew where they were going: she had always awaited him in the library, so it seemed. And how well he remembered that wonderful book walled room! It was like her to welcome him on the spot where she had bade him good-bye three years ago.

Hawkins held the portieres aside and Boyd heard their velvet swish at his back, yet for the briefest instant he did not see her, so motionless did she stand. Then he cried, softly:

"My Lady!" and strode forward.

"Boyd! Boyd!" she answered and came to meet him, yielding herself to his arms. She felt his heart pounding against hers like the heart of a runner who has spent himself at the tape, felt his arms quivering as if from great fatigue. For a long time neither spoke.



CHAPTER IX

AND IS GRANTED A YEAR OF GRACE



"And so all your privations and hardships went for nothing," said Mildred Wayland, when Boyd had recounted the history of his pilgrimage into the North.

"Yes," he replied; "as a miner, I am a very wretched failure."

She shrugged her shoulders in disapproval.

"Don't use that term!" she cried. "There is no word so hateful to me as 'failure'—I suppose, because father has never failed in anything. Let us say that your success has been delayed."

"Very well. That suits me better, also, but you see I've forgotten how to choose nice words."

They were seated in the library, where for two hours they had remained undisturbed, Emerson talking rapidly, almost incoherently, as if this were a sort of confessional, the girl hanging eagerly upon his every word, following his narrative with breathless interest. The story had been substantially the same as that which, once before, he had related to Cherry Malotte; but now the facts were deeply, intimately colored with all the young man's natural enthusiasm and inmost personal feeling. To his listener it was like some wonderful, far-off romance, having to do with strange people whose motives she could scarcely grasp and pitched amid wild scenes that she could not fully picture.

"And you did all that for me," she mused, after a time.

"It was the only way."

"I wonder if any other man I know would take those risks just for—me."

"Of course. Why, the risk, I mean the physical peril and hardship and discomfort, don't amount to—that." He snapped his fingers. "It was only the unending desolation that hurt; it was the separation from you that punished me—the thought that some luckier fellow might—"

"Nonsense!" Mildred was really indignant. "I told you to fix your own time and I promised to wait. Even if I had not—cared for you, I would have kept my word. That is a Wayland principle. As it is, it was—comparatively easy."

"Then you do love me, my Lady?" He leaned eagerly toward her.

"Do you need to ask?" she whispered from the shelter of his arms. "It is the same old fascination of our girl and boy days. Do you remember how completely I lost my head about you?" She laughed softly. "I used to think you wore a football suit better than anybody in the world! Sometimes I suspect that it is merely that same girlish hero-worship and can't last. But it has lasted—so far. Three years is a long time for a girl like me to wait, isn't it?"

"I know! I know!" he returned, jealously. "But I have lived that time with nothing but a memory, while you have had other things to occupy you. You are flattered and courted by men, scores of men—"

"Oh!"

"Legions of men! Oh, I know. Haven't I devoured society columns by the yard? The papers were six months old, to be sure, when I got them, but every mention of you was like a knife stab to me. Jealousy drove me to memorize the name of every man with whom you were seen in public, and I called down all sorts of curses upon their heads. I used to torture my lonely soul with hideous pictures of you—"

"Hideous pictures of me?" The girl perked her head to one side and glanced at him bewitchingly, "You're very flattering!"

"Yes, pictures of you with a caravan of suitors at your heels."

"You foolish boy! Suitors don't come in caravans they come in cabs."

"Well, my simile isn't far wrong in other respects," he replied, with a flash of her spirit. "But anyhow I pictured you surrounded by all the beautiful things of your life here, forever in the scent of flowers, in the lights of drawing-rooms, in the soft music of hidden instruments. God! how I tortured myself! You were never out of mind for an hour. My days were given to you, and I used to pray that my dreams might hold nothing but you. You have been my fetish from the first day I met you, and my worship has grown blinder every hour, Mildred. You were always out of my reach, but I have kept my eyes raised toward you just the same, and I have never looked aside, never faltered." He paused to feast his eyes upon her, and then in a half-whisper finished, "Oh, my Lady, how beautiful you are!"

And indeed she was; for her face, ordinarily so imperious, was now softly alight; her eyes, which other men found cold, were kindled with a rare warmth of understanding; her smile was almost wistfully sweet. To her lover she seemed to bend beneath the burden of her brown hair, yet her slim figure had the strength and poise which come of fine physical inheritance and high spirit. Every gesture, every unstudied attitude, revealed the grace of the well born woman.

It was this "air" of hers, in fact, which had originally attracted him. He recalled how excited he had been in that far-away time when he had first learned her identity—for the name of Wayland was spoken soundingly in the middle West. In the early stages of their acquaintance he had looked upon her aloofness as an affectation, but a close intimacy had compelled a recognition of it as something wholly natural; he found her as truly a patrician as Wayne Wayland, her father, could wish. The old man's domain was greater than that of many princes, and his power more absolute. His only daughter he spoiled as thoroughly as he ruled his part of the financial world, and wilful Mildred, once she had taken an interest in the young college man so evidently ready to be numbered among her lovers, did not pause half way, but made her preference patent to all, and opened to him a realm of dazzling possibilities. He well remembered the perplexities of those first delirious days when her regard was beginning to make itself apparent. She was so different, so wonderfully far removed from all he knew, that he doubted his own senses.