Boyd scanned the speaker's face sharply before speaking.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean she can work him if she tries, the same way she worked Hilliard."

"Marsh isn't in the mood to listen to arguments. I have tried that."

"Who said anything about arguments? You know what I mean."

"I don't care to listen to that sort of talk."

"Why not? I'm entitled to have my say in things." Clyde was growing indignant. "I put in ten thousand of my own money and twenty-five thousand besides, on your assurances. That's thirty-five thousand more than you put up—"

"Nevertheless, it doesn't give you the right to insult the girl."

"Insult her! Bah! You're no fool, Boyd. Why did Hilliard advance that loan?"

"Because he wanted to, I dare say."

"What's the use of keeping that up? You know as well as I do that she worked him, and worked him well. She'd do it again if you asked her. She'd do anything for you."

Boyd broke out roughly: "I tell you. I've heard enough of that talk, Alton. Anybody but an idiot would know that Cherry is far too good for what you suggest. And when you insult her, you insult me."

"Oh, she's good enough," said Clyde. "They're all good, but not perhaps in the way you mean—"

"How do you know?"

"I don't know, but Fraser does. He's known her for years. Haven't you, Fraser?" But the adventurer's face was like wood as they turned toward him.

"I don't know nothing," replied "Fingerless" Fraser, with an admirable show of ignorance.

"Well, judge for yourself." Clyde turned again to Emerson. "Who is she? Where did she come from? What is she doing here alone? Answer that. Now, she's interested in this deal just as much as any of us, and if you don't ask her to take a hand, I'm going to put it up to her myself."

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" Boyd cried, savagely.

Clyde rose hastily, and his voice was shaking with excitement as he stammered:

"See here, Boyd, you're to blame for this trouble, and now you either get us out of it or buy my stock."

"You know that I can't buy your stock."

"Then I'll sell wherever I can. I've been stung, and I want my money. Only remember, I offered the stock to you first."

"You've got a swell chance to make a turn in Kalvik," said Fraser. "Why don't you take it to Marsh?"

"I will!" declared Alton.

"You wouldn't do a trick like that?" Emerson questioned, quickly.

"Why not? You won't listen to my advice. You're playing with other people's money, and it doesn't matter, to you whether you win or lose. If this enterprise fails, I suppose you can promote another."

"Get out!" Boyd ordered, in such a tone that the speaker obeyed with ludicrous haste.

"Fingerless" Fraser broke the silence that fell upon the young man's exit.

"He's a nice little feller! I never knew one of those narrow-chested, five-o'clock-tea-drinkers that was on the level. He's got eighteen fancy vests, and wears a handkerchief up his sleeve. That put him in the end book with me, to start with."

"Did you know Cherry before you came to Kalvik?" Boyd asked, searching his companion's face with a look the man could not evade.

"Only casual."

"Where?"

"Nome—the year of the big rush."

"During the mining troubles, eh?"

"Sure."

"What was she doing?"

"Minding her business. She's good at that." Fraser's eyes had become green and fishy, as usual.

"What do you know about her?"

"Well, I know that a lot of fellows would 'go through' for her at the drop of a hat. She could have most anything they've got, I guess. Most any of them miners at Nome would give his right eye, or his only child, or any little thing like that if she asked it."

"What else?"

"Well, she was always considered a right good-looking party—"

"Yes, yes, of course. But what do you know about the girl herself? Who is she? What is her history?"

"Now, sir, I'm an awful poor detective," confessed "Fingerless" Fraser. "I've often noticed that about myself. If I was the kind that goes snooping around into other people's business, listening to all the gossip I'm told, I'd make a good witness. But I ain't. No, sir! I'm a rotten witness."

Despite this indirect rebuke, Boyd might have continued his questioning had not George Balt's heavy step sounded outside. A moment later the big fellow entered.

"What did you find at the traps?" asked Emerson, eagerly.

"Nothing." George spoke shortly. "The fish struck in this morning, but our trap is corked." He wrenched off his rubber boots and flung them savagely under a bench.

"What luck with the boats?"

"Not much. Marsh's men are trying to surround our gill-netters, and we ain't got enough boats to protect ourselves." He looked up meaningly from under his heavy brows, and inquired: "How much longer are we going to stand for this?"

"What do you mean? I've got men out hunting for new hands."

"You know what I mean," the giant rumbled, his red eyes flaming. "You and I can get Willis Marsh."

Emerson shot a quick glance at Fraser, who was staring fixedly at Big George.

"He's got us right enough, and it's bound to come to a killing some day, so the sooner the better," the fisherman ran on. "We can get him to-night if you say so. Are you in on it?"

Boyd faced the window slowly, while the others followed him with anxious eyes. Inside the room a death-like silence settled. In the distance they heard the sound of the canning machinery, a sound that was now a mockery. To Balt this last disaster was the culmination of a persecution so pitiless and unflagging that its very memory filled his simple mind with the fury of a goaded animal. To his companion it meant, almost certainly, the loss of Mildred Wayland—the girl who stood for his pride in himself and all that he held most desirable. He thought bitterly of all the suffering and hardship, the hunger of body and soul, that he had endured for her sake. Again he saw his hopes crumbling and his dreams about to fade; once more he felt his foothold giving way beneath him, as it had done so often in the past, and he was filled with sullen hate. Something told him that he would never have the heart to try again, and the thought left him cold with rage.

Ever since those fishermen had walked out on the evening before, he had clung to the feeble hope that once the run began in earnest, George's trap would fill and save the situation; but now that the salmon had struck in and the trap was useless, his discouragement was complete; for there were no idle men in Kalvik, and there was no way of getting help. Moreover, Mildred Wayland was soon to arrive—the yacht was expected daily—and she would find him a failure. What was worse, she would find that Marsh had vanquished him. She had kept her faith in him, he reflected, but a woman's faith could hardly survive humiliation, and it was not in human nature to lean forever upon a broken reed. She would turn elsewhere—perhaps to the very man who had contrived his undoing. At thought of this, a sort of desperation seemed to master him; he began to mutter aloud.

"What did you say?" queried Balt.

"I said that you are right. The time is close at hand for some sort of a reckoning," answered Boyd, in a harsh, strained voice.

"Good!"

Emerson was upon the point of turning when his eyes fell upon a picture that made him start, then gaze more intently. Out upon the placid waters, abreast of the plant, the launch in which Cherry had departed was approaching, and it was loaded down with men. Not only were they crowded upon the craft itself, but trailing behind it, like the tail of a kite, was a long line of canoes, and these also were peopled.

"Look yonder!" cried Boyd.

"What?"

"Cherry has got—a crew!" His voice broke, and he bolted toward the door as Big George leaped to the window.

"Injuns, by God!" shouted the giant, and without stopping to stamp his feet into his boots, he rushed out barefoot after Boyd and Fraser; together, the three men reached the dock in time to help Cherry up the ladder.

"What does this mean?" Boyd asked her, breathlessly. "Will these fellows work?"

"That's what they're here for," said the girl. After her swarmed a crowd of slant-eyed, copper-hued Aleuts; those in the kyaks astern cast off and paddled toward the beach.

"I've got fifty men, the best on the river; I tried to get more, but— there aren't any more."

"Fingerless" Fraser slapped himself resoundingly upon the thigh and exploded profanely; Boyd seized the girl's hands in his and wrung them.

"Cherry, you're a treasure!" The memory of his desperate resolution of a moment before swept over him suddenly, and his voice trembled with a great thankfulness.

"Don't thank me!" Cherry exclaimed. "It was more Constantine's work than mine."

"But I don't understand. These are Marsh's men."

"To be sure, but I was good to them when they were hungry last winter, and I prevailed upon them to come. They aren't very good fishermen; they're awfully lazy, and they won't work half as hard as white men, but it's the best I could do." She laughed gladly, more than repaid by the look in her companion's face. "Now, get me some lunch. I'm fairly starved."

Big George, when he had fully grasped the situation, became the boss fisherman on the instant; before the others had reached the cook-house he was busied in laying out his crews and distributing his gear. The impossible had happened; victory was in sight; the fish were running—he cared to know no more.

That night the floors of the fish-dock groaned beneath a weight of silver- sided salmon piled waist-high to a tall man. All through the cool, dim-lit hours the ranks of Chinese butchers hacked and slit and slashed with swift, sure, tireless strokes, while the great building echoed hollowly to the clank of machines and the hissing sighs of the soldering-furnaces.



CHAPTER XXIII

IN WHICH MORE PLANS ARE LAID



It seemed to Boyd that he had never felt such elation as during the days that followed. He trod upon air, his head was in the clouds. He joked with his men, inspiring them with his own good-humor and untiring energy. He was never idle save during the odd hours that he snatched for sleep. He covered the plant from top to bottom, and no wheel stopped turning, no mechanical device gave way, without his instant attention. So urgent was he that George Balt became desperate; for the Indians were not like white men, and proved a sad trial to the big fellow, who was accustomed to drive his crews with the cruelty of a convict foreman. Despite his utmost endeavors, he could not keep the plant running to capacity, and in his zeal he took the blame wholly upon himself.

While the daily output was disappointing, Emerson drew consolation from the prospect that his pack would be large enough at least to avert utter ruin, and he argued that once he had won through this first season no power that Marsh could bring to bear would serve to crush him. He saw a moderate success ahead, if not the overwhelming victory upon which he had counted.

Up at the Trust's headquarters Willis Marsh was in a fine fury. As far as possible, his subordinates avoided him. His superintendents, summoned from their work, emerged from the red-painted office on the hill with dampened brows and frightened glances over their shoulders. Many of them held their places through services that did not show upon the Company's books, but now they shook their heads and swore that some things were beyond them.

Except for one step on Emerson's part, Marsh would have rested secure, and let time work out his enemy's downfall; but Boyd's precaution in contracting to sell his output in advance threatened to defeat him. Otherwise, Marsh would simply have cut down his rival's catch to the lowest point, and then broken the market in the fall. With the Trust's tremendous resources back of him, he could have afforded to hammer down the price of fish to a point where Emerson would either have been ruined or forced to carry his pack for a year, and in this course he would have been upheld by Wayne Wayland. But as matters stood, such tactics could only result in a serious loss to the brokers who had agreed to take Boyd's catch, and to the Trust itself. It was therefore necessary to work the young man's undoing here and now.

Marsh knew that he had already wasted too much time in Kalvik, for he was needed at other points far to the southward; but he could not bear to leave this fight to other hands. Moreover, he was anxiously awaiting the arrival of The Grande Dame, with Mildred and her father. One square of the calendar over his desk was marked in red, and the sight of it gave him fresh determination.

On the third day after Boyd's deliverance, Constantine sought him out, in company with several of the native fishermen, translating their demand to be paid for the fish they had caught.

"Can't they wait until the end of the week?" Emerson inquired.

"No! They got no money—they got no grub. They say little baby is hongry, and they like money now. So soon they buy grub, they work some more."

"Very well. Here's an order on the book-keeper."

Boyd tore a leaf from his note-book and wrote a few words on it, telling the men to present it at the office. As Constantine was about to leave, he called to him:

"Wait! I want to talk with you."

The breed halted.

"How long have you known Mr. Marsh?"

"Me know him long time."

"Do you like him?"

A flicker ran over the fellow's coppery face as he replied:

"Yes. Him good man."

"You used to work for him, did you not?"

"Yes."

"Why did you quit?"

Constantine hesitated slightly before answering: "Me go work for Cherry."

"Why?"

"She good to my little broder. You savvy little chil'ren—so big?"

"Yes. I've seen him. He's a fine little fellow. By the way, do you remember that night about two weeks ago when I was at Cherry's house?—the night you and your sister went out?"

"I 'member."

"Where did you go?"

Constantine shifted his walrus-soled boots. "What for you ask?"

"Never mind! Where did you go when you left the house?"

"Me go Indian village. What for you ask?"

"Nothing. Only—if you ever have any trouble with Mr. Marsh, I may be able to help you. I like you—and I don't like him."

The breed grunted unintelligibly, and was about to leave when Boyd reached forth suddenly and plucked the fellow's sheath-knife from its scabbard. With a startled cry, Constantine whirled, his face convulsed, his nostrils dilated like those of a frightened horse; but Emerson merely fingered the weapon carelessly, remarking:

"That is a curious knife you have. I have noticed it several times." He eyed him shrewdly for a moment, then handed the blade back with a smile. Constantine slipped it into its place, and strode away without a word.

It was considerably later in the day when Boyd discovered the Indians to whom he had given the note talking excitedly on the dock. Seeing Constantine in argument with them, he approached to demand an explanation, whereupon the quarter-breed held out a silver dollar in his palm with the words:

"These men say this money no good."

"What do you mean?"

"It no good. No can buy grub at Company store."

Boyd saw that the group was eying him suspiciously.

"Nonsense! What's the matter with it?"

"Storekeeper laugh and say it come from you. He say, take it back. He no sell my people any flour."

It was evident that even Constantine was vaguely distrustful.

Another native extended a coin, saying;

"We want money like this."

Boyd took the piece and examined it, whereupon a light broke upon him. The coin was stamped with the initials of one of the old fishing companies, and he instantly recognized a ruse practiced in the North during the days of the first trading concerns. It had been the custom of these companies to pay their Indians in coins bearing their own impress and to refuse all other specie at their posts, thus compelling the natives to trade at company stores. By carefully building up this system they had obtained a monopoly of Indian labor, and it was evident that Marsh and his associates had robbed the Aleuts in the same manner during the days before the consolidation. Boyd saw at once the cause of the difficulty and undertook to explain it, but he had small success, for the Indians had learned a hard lesson and were loath to put confidence in the white man's promises. Seeing that his words carried no conviction, Emerson gave up at last, saying:

"If the Company store won't take this money, I'll sell you whatever you need from the commissary. We are not going to have any trouble over a little thing like this."

He marched the natives in a body to the storehouse, where he saw to it that they received what provisions they needed and assisted them in loading their canoes.

But his amusement at the episode gave way to uneasiness on the following morning when the Aleuts failed to report for work, and by noon his anxiety resolved itself into strong suspicion.

Balt had returned from the banks earlier in the morning with news of a struggle between his white crew and Marsh's men. George's boats had been surrounded during the night, nets had been cut, and several encounters had occurred, resulting in serious injury to his men. The giant, in no amiable mood, had returned for reinforcements, stating that the situation was becoming more serious every hour. Hearing of the desertion of the natives, he burst into profanity, then armed himself and returned to the banks, while Boyd, now thoroughly alarmed, took a launch and sped up the river to Cherry's house, in the hope that she could prevail upon her own recruits to return.

He found the girl ready to accompany him, and they were about to embark when Chakawana came running from the house as if in sudden fright.

"Where you go?" she asked her mistress.

"I am going to the Indian village. You stay here—"

"No, no! I no stop here alone. I go 'long too." She cast a glance over her shoulder.

"But, Chakawana, what is the matter? Are you afraid?"

"Yes." Chakawana nodded her pretty head vigorously.

"What are you afraid of?" Boyd asked; but she merely stared at him with eyes as black and round as ox-heart cherries, then renewed her entreaty. When she had received permission and had hurried back to the house, her mistress remarked, with a puzzled frown:

"I don't know what to make of her. She and Constantine have been acting very strangely of late. She used to be the happiest sort of creature, always laughing and singing, but she has changed entirely during the last few weeks. Both she and Constantine are forever whispering to each other and skulking about, until I am getting nervous myself." Then as the Indian girl came flying back with her tiny baby brother in her arms, Cherry added: "She's pretty, isn't she? I can't bear ugly people around me."

At the native village, in spite of every effort she and Boyd could make, the Indians refused to go back to work. Many of them, so they learned, had already reported to the other canneries, evidently still doubtful of Emerson's assurances, and afraid to run the risk of offending their old employers. Those who were left were lazy fellows who did not care to work under any circumstances; these merely listened, then shrugged their shoulders and walked away.

"Since they can't use your money at the store, they don't seem to care whether it is good or not," Cherry announced, after a time.

"I'll give them enough provisions to last them all winter," Boyd offered, irritated beyond measure at such stupidity. "Tell them to move the whole blamed village down to my place, women and all. I'll take care of them." But after an hour of futile cajolery, he was forced to give up, realizing that Marsh had been at work again, frightening these simple people by threats of vengeance and starvation.

"You can't blame the poor things. They have learned to fear the hand of the companies, and to know that they are absolutely dependent upon the cannery stores during the winter. But it's maddening!" She stamped her foot angrily. "And I was so proud of my work. I thought I had really done something to help at last. But I don't know what more we can do. I've reached the end of my rope."

"So have I," he confessed. "Even with those fifty Aleuts, we weren't running at more than half capacity, but we were making a showing at least. Now!" He flung up his hands in a gesture of despair. "George is in trouble, as usual. Marsh's men have cut our nets, and the yacht may arrive at any time."

"The yacht! What yacht?"

"Mr. Wayland's yacht. He is making a tour of this coast with the other officers of the Trust and—Mildred."

"Is—is she coming here?" demanded Cherry, in a strained voice.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know, I didn't think you would be interested."

"So she can't wait? She is so eager that she follows you from Chicago clear up into this wilderness. Then you won't need my assistance any more, will you?" Her lids drooped, half hiding her eyes, and her face hardened.

"Of course I shall need your help. Her coming won't make any difference."

"It strikes me that you have allowed me to make a fool of myself long enough," said Cherry, angrily. "Here I have been breaking my heart over this enterprise, while you have known all the time that she was coming. Why, you have merely used me—and George, and all the rest of us, for that matter—" She laughed harshly.

"You don't understand," said Boyd. "Miss Wayland—"

"Oh yes, I do. I dare say it will gratify her to straighten out your troubles. A word from her lips and your worries will vanish like a mist. Let us acknowledge ourselves beaten and beg her to save us."

Boyd shook his head in negation, but she gave him no time for speech.

"It seems that you wanted to pose as a hero before her, and employed us to build up your triumph. Well, I am glad we failed. I'm glad Willis Marsh showed you how very helpless you are. Let her come to your rescue now. I'm through. Do you understand? I'm through!"

Emerson gazed at her in astonishment, the outburst had been so unexpected, but he realized that he owed her too much to take offence.

"Miss Wayland will take no hand in my affairs. I doubt if she will even realize what this trouble is all about," he said, a trifle stiffly. "I suppose I did want to play the hero, and I dare say I did use you and the others, but you knew that all the time."

"Why won't she help you?" queried Cherry. "Doesn't she care enough about you? Doesn't she know enough to understand your plight?"

"Yes, but this is my fight, and I've got to make good without her assistance. She isn't the sort to marry a failure, and she has left me to make my own way. Besides, she would not dare go contrary to her father's wishes, even if she desired—that is part of her education. Oh, Wayne Wayland's opposition isn't all I have had to overcome. I have had to show his daughter that I am one of her own kind, for she hates weakness."

"And you think that woman loves you! Why, she isn't a woman at all—she doesn't know what love means. When a woman loves, do you imagine she cares for money or fame or success? If I cared for a man, do you think I'd stop to ask my father if I might marry him or wait for my lover to prove himself worthy of me? Do you think I'd send him through the hell you have suffered to try his metal?" She laughed outright. "Why, I'd become what he was, and I'd fight with him. I'd give him. all I had—money, position, friends, influence; if my people objected, I'd tell them to go hang, I'd give them up and join him! I'd use every dollar, every wile and feminine device that I possessed in his service. When a woman loves, she doesn't care what the world says; the man may be a weakling, or worse, but he is still her lover, and she will go to him."

The words had come tumbling forth until Cherry was forced to pause for breath.

"You don't understand," said Boyd. "You are primitive; you have lived in the open; she is exactly your opposite. Conservatism is bred in her, and she can't help her nature. It was hard even for me to understand at first; but when I saw her life, when I saw how she had been reared from childhood, I understood perfectly. I would not have her other than she is; it is enough for me to know that in her own way she cares for me."

Cherry tossed her head in derision. "For my part, I prefer red blood to sap, and when I love I want to know it—I don't want to have it proved to me like a problem in geometry. I want to love and hate, and do wild, impulsive things against my own judgment."

"Have you ever loved in that way?" he inquired, abruptly.

"Yes," she answered, without hesitation, looking him squarely in the eye with an expression he could not fathom. "Thank Heaven, I'm not the artificial kind! As you say, I'm primitive. I have lived!" Her crimson lips curled scornfully.

"I didn't expect you to understand her," he said. "But she loves me. And I—well, she is my religion. A man must have some God; he can't worship his own image."

Cherry Malotte turned slowly to the landing-place and made her way into the launch. All the way back she kept silence, and Boyd, confused by her attack upon the citadel of his faith and strangely sore at heart, made no effort at speech.

"Fingerless" Fraser met him at the water's edge.

"Where in the devil have you been?" he cried, breathlessly.

"At the Indian village after help. Why?"

"Big George is in more trouble; he sent for help two hours ago. I was just going to 'beat it' down there."

"What's up?"

"There's six of your men in the bunk-house all beat up; they don't look like they'd fish any more for a while. Marsh's men threw their salmon overboard, and they had another fight. Things are getting warm."

"We can't allow ourselves to be driven from the banks," said Boyd, quickly. "I'll get the shoremen together right away. Find Alton, and bring him along; we'll need every man we can get."

"Nothing doing with that party; he's quit like a house cat, and gone to bed."

"Very well; he's no good, anyhow; he's better out of the way."

He hurried through the building, now silent and half deserted, gathering a crew; then, leaving only the Orientals and the watchman to guard the plant, he loaded his men into the boats and set out.

All that afternoon and on through the long, murky hours of the night the battle raged on the lower reaches of the Kalvik. Boat crews clashed; half- clad men cursed each other and fought with naked fists, with oars and clubs; and when these failed, they drove at one another with wicked one- tined fish "pues." All night the hordes of salmon swarmed upward toward the fatal waters of their birth, through sagging nets that were torn and slit; beneath keels that rocked to the impact of struggling, heedless bodies.



CHAPTER XXIV

WHEREIN "THE GRANDE DAME" ARRIVES, LADEN WITH DISAPPOINTMENTS



As the sun slanted up between the southward hills, out from the gossamer haze that lay like filmy forest smoke above the ocean came a snow-white yacht. She stole inward past the headlands, as silent as a wraith, leaving a long, black streamer penciled against the sky; so still was the dawn that the breath from her funnel lay like a trail behind her, slowly fading and blending with the colors of the morning.

The waters were gleaming nickel beneath her prow, and she clove them like a blade; against the dove-gray sky her slender rigging was traced as by some finely pointed instrument; her sides were as clean as the stainless breasts of the gulls that floated near the shore.

As she came proudly up through the fleets of fishing-boats, perfect in every line and gliding with stately dignity, the grimy little crafts drew aside as if in awe, while tired-eyed men stared silently at her as if at a vision.

To Boyd Emerson she seemed like an angel of mercy, and he stood forth upon the deck of his launch searching her hungrily for the sight of a woman's figure. When he had first seen the ship rounding the point he had uttered a cry, then fallen silent watching her as she drew near, heedless of his surroundings. His heart was leaping, his breath was choking him. It seemed as if he must shout Mildred's name aloud and stretch his arms out to her. Of course, she would see him as The Grande Dame passed—she would be looking for him, he knew. She would be standing there, wet with the dew, searching with all her eyes. Doubtless she had waited patiently at her post from the instant land came into sight. Seized by a sudden panic lest she pass him unnoticed, he ordered his launch near the yacht's course, where he could command a view of her cabin doors and the wicker chairs upon her deck. His eyes roved over the craft, but all he saw was a uniformed officer upon the bridge and the bronzed faces of the watch staring over the rail. By now The Grande Dame was so close that he might have flung a line to her, and above the muffled throbbing of her engines he heard the captain give some low-spoken command. Yet nowhere could he catch a glimpse of Mildred. He saw close-drawn curtains over the cabin windows, indicating that the passengers were still asleep. Then, as he stood there, heavy-hearted, drooping with fatigue, his wet body chilled by the morning's breath, The Grande Dame glided past, and he found the shell beneath his feet rocking in her wake.

As he turned shoreward George Balt hailed him, and brought his own launch alongside.

"What craft is that?" he inquired.

"She is the Company's yacht with the N. A. P. A. officers aboard."

The big fellow stared curiously after the retreating ship.

"Some of our boys is hurt pretty bad," he observed. "I've told them to take in their nets and go back to the plant."

"We all need breakfast."

"I don't want nothing. I'm going over to the trap."

Emerson shrugged his shoulders listlessly; he was very tired. "What is the use? It won't pay us to lift it."

"I've watched that point of land for five years, and I never seen fish act this way before," Balt growled, stubbornly. "If they don't strike in to- day, we better close down. Marsh's men cut half our nets and crippled more than half our crew last night." He began to rumble curses. "Say! We made a mistake the other day, didn't we? We'd ought to have put that feller away. It ain't too late yet."

"Wait! Wayne Wayland is aboard that yacht; I know him. He's a hard man, and I've heard strange stories about him, but I don't believe he knows all that Marsh has been doing. I'm going to see him and tell him everything."

"S'pose he turns you down?"

"Then there will be time enough to—to consider what you suggest. I don't like to think about it."

"You don't have to," said Balt, lowering his voice so that the helmsmen could not hear. "I've been thinking it over all night, and it looks like I'd ought to do it myself. Marsh is coming to me anyhow, and—I'm older than you be. It ain't right for a young feller like you to take a chance. If they get me, you can run the business alone."

Boyd laid his hand on his companion's shoulder.

"No," he said. "Perhaps I wouldn't stick at murder—I don't know. But I won't profit by another man's crime, and if it comes to that, I'll take my share of the risk and the guilt. Whatever you do, I stand with you. But we'll hope for better things. It's no easy thing for me to go to Mr. Wayland asking a favor. You see, his daughter is—Well, I—I want to see her very badly."

Balt eyed him shrewdly.

"I see! And that makes it dead wrong for you to take a hand. If it's necessary to get Marsh, I'll do it alone. With him out of the way, I think you can make a go of it. He's like a rattler—somebody's got to stomp on him. Now I'm off for the trap. Let me know what the old man says."

Boyd returned to the cannery with the old mood of self-disgust and bitterness heavy upon him. He realized that George's offer to commit murder had not shocked him as much as upon its first mention. He knew that he had thought of shedding human blood with as little compunction as if the intended victim had been some noxious animal. He felt, indeed, that if his love for Mildred made him a criminal, she too would be soiled by his dishonor, and for her sake he shrank from the idea of violence, yet he lacked the energy at that time to put it from him. Well, he would go to her father, humble himself, and beg for protection. If he failed, then Marsh must look out for himself. He could not find it in his heart to spare his enemy.

At the plant he found Alton Clyde tremendously excited at the arrival of the yacht, and eager to visit his friends. He sent him to the launch, and, after a hasty breakfast, joined him.

On their way out, Boyd felt a return of that misgiving which had mastered him on his first meeting with Mildred in Chicago. For the second time he was bringing her failure instead of the promised victory. Now, as then, she would find him in the bitterness of defeat, and he could not but wonder how she would bear the disappointment. He hoped at least that she would understand his appeal to her father; that she would see him not as a suppliant begging for mercy, but as a foeman worthy of respect, demanding his just dues. Surely he had proved himself capable. Wayne Wayland could hardly make him contemptible in Mildred's eyes. Yet a feeling of disquiet came over him as he drew near The Grande Dame.

Willis Marsh was ahead of him, standing with Mr. Wayland at the rail. Some one else was with them; Boyd's heart leaped wildly as he recognized her. He would have known that slim figure anywhere—and Mildred saw him too, pointing him out to her companions.

With knees shaking under him, he came stumbling up the landing-ladder, a tall, gaunt figure of a man in rough clothing and boots stained with the sea—salt. He looked older by five years than when the girl had last seen him; his cheeks were hollowed and his lips cracked by the wind, but his eyes were aflame with the old light, his smile was for her alone.

He never remembered the spoken greetings nor the looks the others gave him, for her soft, cool hands lay in his hard, feverish palms, and she was smiling up at him.

Alton Clyde was at his heels, and he felt Mildred disengage her hand. He tore his eyes away from her face long enough to nod at Marsh,—who gave him a menacing look, then turned to Wayne Wayland. The old man was saying something, and Boyd answered him unintelligibly, after which he took Mildred's hands once more with such an air of unconscious proprietorship that Willis Marsh grew pale to the lips and turned his back. Other people, whom Boyd had not noticed until now, came down the deck—men and women with field-glasses and cameras swung over their shoulders. He found that he was being introduced to them by Mildred, whose voice betrayed no tremor, and whose manners were as collected as if this were her own drawing-room, and the man at her side a casual acquaintance. The strangers mingled with the little group, levelled their glasses, and made senseless remarks after the manner of tourists the world over. Boyd gathered somehow that they were officers of the Trust, or heavy stockholders, and their wives. They seemed to accept him as an uninteresting bit of local color, and he regarded them with equal indifference, for his eyes were wholly occupied with Mildred, his ears deaf to all but her voice. At length he saw some of them going over the rail, and later found himself alone with his sweetheart. He led her to a deck-chair, and seated himself beside her.

"At last!" he breathed. "You are here, Mildred. You really came, after all?"

"Yes, Boyd."

"And are you glad?"

"Indeed I am. The trip has been wonderful."

"It doesn't seem possible. I can't believe that this is really you—that I am not dreaming, as usual."

"And you? How have you been?"

"I've been well—I guess I have—I haven't had time to think of myself. Oh, my Lady!" His voice broke with tenderness, and he laid his hand gently upon hers.

She withdrew it quickly.

"Not here! Remember where we are. You are not looking well, Boyd. I don't know that I ever saw you look so badly. Perhaps it is your clothes."

"I am tired," he confessed, feeling anew the weariness of the past twenty- four hours. He covertly stroked a fold of her dress, murmuring: "You are here, after all. And you love me, Mildred? You haven't changed, have you?"

"Not at all. Have you?"

His deep breath and the light that flamed into his face was her answer. "I want to be alone with you," he cried, huskily. "My arms ache for you. Come away from here; this is torture. I'm like a man dying of thirst."

No woman could have beheld his burning eagerness without an answering thrill, and although Mildred sat motionless, her lids drooped slightly and a faint color tinged her cheeks. Her idle hands clasped themselves rigidly.

"You are always the same," she smiled. "You sweep me away from myself and from everything. I have never seen any one like you. There are people everywhere. Father is somewhere close by."

"I don't care-"

"I do."

"My launch is alongside; let me take you ashore and show you what I have done. I want you to see."

"I can't. I promised to go ashore with the Berrys and Mr. Marsh."

"Marsh!"

"Now don't get tragic! We are all going to look over his plant and have lunch there—they are expecting me. Oh, dear!" she cried, plaintively, "I have seen and heard nothing but canneries ever since we left Vancouver. The men talk nothing but fish and packs and markets and dividends. It's all deadly stupid, and I'm wretchedly tired of it. Father is the worst of the lot, of course."

Emerson's eyes shifted to his own cannery. "You haven't seen mine—ours," said he.

"Oh yes, I have. Mr. Marsh pointed it out to father and me. It looks just like all the others." There was an instant's pause before she ran on. "Do you know, there is only one interesting feature about. them, to my notion, and that is the way the Chinamen smoke. Those funny, crooked pipes and those little wads of tobacco are too ridiculous." The lightness of her words damped his ardor, and brought back the sense of failure. That formless huddle of buildings in the distance seemed to him all at once very dull and prosaic. Of course, it was just like scores of others that his sweetheart had seen all the way north from the border-line. He had never thought of that till now.

"I was down with the fishing fleet at the mouth of the bay this morning when you came in. I thought I might see you," he said.

"At that hour? Heavens! I was sound asleep. It was hard enough to get up when we were called. Father might have instructed the captain not to steam so fast."

Boyd stared at her in hurt surprise; but she was smiling at Alton Clyde in the distance, and did not observe his look.

"Don't you care even to hear what I have done?" he inquired.

"Of course," said Mildred, bringing her eyes back to him.

Hesitatingly he told her of his disappointments, the obstacles he had met and overcome, avoiding Marsh's name, and refraining from placing the blame where it belonged. When he had concluded, she shook her head.

"It is too bad. But Mr. Marsh told us all about it before you came. Boyd, I never thought well of this enterprise. Of course, I didn't say anything against it, you were so enthusiastic, but you really ought to try something big. I am sure you have the ability. Why, the successful men I know at home have no more intelligence than you, and they haven't half your force. As for this—well, I think you can accomplish more important things than catching fish."

"Important!" he cried. "Why, the salmon industry is one of the most important on the Coast. It employs ten thousand men in Alaska alone, and they produce ten million dollars every year."

"Oh, let's not go into statistics," said Mildred, lightly; "they make my head ache. What I mean is that a fisherman is nothing like—an attorney or a broker or an architect, for instance; he is more like a miner. Pardon me, Boyd, but look at your clothes." She began to laugh. "Why, you look like a common laborer!"

He became conscious for the first time that he cut a sorry figure. Everything around him spoke of wealth and luxury. Even the sailor that passed at the moment was better dressed than he. He felt suddenly awkward and out of place.

"I might have slicked up a bit," he acknowledged, lamely; "but when you came, I forgot everything else."

"I was dreadfully embarrassed when I introduced you to the Berrys and the rest. I dare say they thought you were one of Mr. Marsh's foremen."

Never before had Boyd known the least constraint in Mildred's presence, but now he felt the rebuke behind her careless manner, and it wounded him deeply. He did not speak, and after a moment she went on, with an abrupt change of subject:

"So that funny little house over there against the hill is where the mysterious woman lives?"

"Who?"

"Cherry Malotte."

"Yes. How did you learn that?"

"Mr. Marsh pointed it out. He said she came up on the same ship with you."

"That is true."

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you write me that she was with you in Seattle?"

"I don't know; I didn't think of it." She regarded him coolly.

"Has anybody discovered who or what she is?"

"Why are you so curious about her?"

Mildred shrugged her shoulders. "Your discussion with Willis Marsh that night at our house interested me very much. I thought I would ask Mr. Marsh to bring her around when we went ashore. It would be rather amusing. She wouldn't come out to the yacht and return my call, would she?" Boyd smiled at her frank concern at this possibility.

"You don't know the kind of girl she is," he said. "She isn't at all what you think; I don't believe you would be able to meet her in the way you suggest."

"Indeed!" Mildred arched her brows. "Why?"

"She wouldn't fancy being 'brought around,' particularly by Marsh."

From her look of surprise, he knew that he had touched on dangerous ground, and he made haste to lead the conversation back to its former channel. He wished to impress Mildred with the fact that if he had not quite succeeded, he had by no means failed; but she listened indifferently, with the air of humoring an insistent child.

"I wish you would give it up and try something else," she said, at last. "This is no place for you. Why, you are losing all your old wit and buoyancy, you are actually growing serious. And serious people are not at all amusing."

Just then Alton Clyde and a group of people, among whom was Willis Marsh, emerged from the cabin, talking and laughing. Mildred arose, saying:

"Here come the Berrys, ready to go ashore."

"When may I see you again?" he inquired, quickly.

"You may come out this evening."

His eyes blazed as he answered, "I shall come!"

As the others came up, she said:

"Mr. Emerson can't accompany us. He wishes to see father."

"I just left him in the cabin," said Marsh. He helped the ladies to the ladder, and a moment later Emerson waved the party adieu, then turned to the saloon in search of Wayne Wayland.

In Mr. Wayland's stiff greeting there was no hint that the two men had ever been friendly, but Emerson was prepared for coolness, and seated himself without waiting for an invitation, glad of the chance to rest his tired limbs. He could not refrain from comparing these splendid quarters with his own bare living shack. The big carved desk, the heavy leather chairs, the amply fitted sideboard, seemed magnificent by contrast. His eyes roved over the walls with their bookshelves and rare paintings, and between velour hangings he caught a glimpse of a bedroom all in cool, white enamel. The unaccustomed feel of the velvet carpet was grateful to his feet; he coveted that soft bed in yonder with its smooth linen. For all these things he felt the savage hunger that comes of deprivation and hardship.

Mr. Wayland had removed his glasses, and was waiting grimly.

"I have a good deal to say to you, sir," Emerson began, "and I would like you to hear me through."

"Go ahead."

"I am going to tell you some things about Mr. Marsh that I dare say you will disbelieve, but I can verify my statements. I think you are a just man, and I don't believe you know, or would approve, the methods he has used against me."

"If this is to be an arraignment of Mr. Marsh, I suggest that you wait until he can be present. He has gone ashore with the women folks."

"I prefer to talk to you, first. We can call him in later if you wish."

"Before we begin, may I inquire what you expect of me?"

"I expect relief."

"You remember our agreement?"

"I don't want assistance; I want relief."

"Whatever the distinction in the words, I understand that you are asking a favor?"

"I don't consider it so."

"Very well. Proceed."

"When you sent me out three years ago to make a fortune for Mildred, it was understood that there should be fair play on both sides—"

"Have you played fair?" quickly interposed the old man.

"I have. When I came to Chicago, I had no idea that you were interested in the Pacific Coast fisheries, I had raised the money before I discovered that you even knew Willis Marsh. Then it was too late to retreat. When I reached Seattle, all sorts of unexpected obstacles came up. I lost the ship I had chartered; machinery houses refused deliveries; shipments went astray; my bank finally refused its loan, and every other bank in the Northwest followed suit. I was harassed in every possible way. And it wasn't chance that caused it; it was Willis Marsh. He set spies upon me, he incited a dock strike that resulted in a riot and the death of at least one man; moreover, he tried to have me killed."

"How do you know he did that?"

"I have no legal proof, but I know it just the same."

Mr. Wayland smiled. "That is not a very definite charge. You surely don't hold him responsible for the death of that striker?"

"I do; and for the action of the police in trying to fix the crime upon me. You know, perhaps, how I got away from Seattle. When Marsh arrived at Kalvik, he first tried to sink my boilers; failing in that, he ruined my Iron Chinks; then he 'corked' my fish-trap, not because he needed more fish, but purely to spoil my catch. The day the run started he bribed my fishermen to break their contracts, leaving me short-handed. He didn't need more men, but did that simply to cripple me. I got Indians to replace the white men, but he won them away by a miserable trick and by threats that I have no doubt he would make good if the poor devils dared to stand out.

"His men won't allow my fellows to work; we have had our nets cut and our fish thrown out. Last night we had a bad time on the banks, and a number of people were hurt. The situation is growing worse every hour, and there will be bloodshed unless this persecution stops. All I want is a fair chance. There are fish enough for us all in the Kalvik, but that man has used the power of your organization to ruin me—not for business reasons, but for personal spite. I have played the game squarely, Mr. Wayland, but unless this ceases I'm through."

"You are through?"

"Yes. The run is nearly a week old, and I haven't begun to pack my salmon. I have less than half a boat crew, and of those half are laid up."

The president of the Trust stirred for the first time since Boyd had begun his recital; the grim lines about his mouth set themselves deeper, and, staring with cold gray eyes at the speaker, he said:

"Well, sir! What you have told me confirms my judgment that Willis Marsh is the right man in the right place."

Completely taken back by this unexpected reply, Boyd exclaimed:

"You don't mean to say that you approve of what he has done?"

"Yes, of what I know he has done. Mr. Marsh is pursuing a definite policy laid down by his board of directors. You have shown me that he has done his work well. You knew before you left the East that we intended to crush all opposition."

Emerson's voice was sharp as he cried: "I understand all that; but am I to understand also that the directors of the N. A. P. A. instructed him to kill me?"

"Tut, tut! Don't talk nonsense. You admit that you have no proof of Willis' connection with the attempt upon your life. You put yourself in the way of danger when you hired scab labor to break that strike. I think you got off very easily."

"If Marsh was instructed to crush the independents, why has he centred all his efforts on me alone? Why has he spent this summer in Kalvik and not among the other stations to the south?"

"That is our business. Different methods are required in different localities."

"Then you have no criticism to make—you uphold him?" Boyd's indignation was getting beyond control.

"None whatever. I cannot agree that Marsh is even indirectly responsible for the collision of the scows, for the damage to your machinery, or for the fighting between the men. On the contrary, I know that he is doing his best to prevent violence, because it interferes with the catch. He hired your men because he needed them. Nobody knows who broke your machinery. As for your fish-trap, you are privileged to build another, or a dozen more, wherever you please. Willis has already told me everything that you have said, and it strikes me that you have simply been outgeneraled. Your complaints do not appeal to me. Even granting your absurd assumption that Marsh tried to put you out of the way, it seems to me that you have more than evened the score."

"How?"

"He is still wearing bandages over that knife-thrust you gave him."

Emerson leaped to his feet.

"He knows I didn't do that; everybody knows it!" he cried. "He lied to you."

"We won't discuss that," said Wayne Wayland, curtly. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to end this persecution. I want you to sail him off."

"In other words, you want me to save you."

Emerson swallowed. "I suppose it amounts to that. I want to be let alone, I want a square deal."

"Well, I won't." Wayne Wayland's voice hardened suddenly; his sound, white teeth snapped together. "You are getting exactly what you deserve. You betrayed me by spying upon me while you broke bread in my house. I see nothing reprehensible in Mr. Marsh's conduct; but even if I did, I would not censure him; any measures are justifiable against a traitor."

Boyd Emerson's face went gray beneath its coating of tan, and his voice threatened to break as he said:

"I am no traitor, and you know it. I thought you a man of honor, and I came to you, not for help but for justice. But I see I was mistaken. I am beginning to believe that Marsh acted under your instructions from the first."

"Believe what you choose."

"You think you've got me, but you haven't. I'll beat you yet."

"You can't beat me at anything." Mr. Wayland's jaws were set like iron.

"Not this year perhaps, but next. You and Marsh have whipped me this time; but the salmon will come again, and I'll run my plant in spite of hell!"

Wayne Wayland made as if to speak, but Boyd went on unheeding: "You've taken a dislike to me, but your conduct shows that you fear me. You are afraid I'll succeed, and I will."

"Brave talk!" said the older man. "But you owe one hundred thousand dollars, and your stockholders will learn of your mismanagement."

"Your persecution, you mean!" cried the other. "I can explain. They will wait another year. I will raise more money, and they will stand by me."

"Perhaps I know more about that than you do."

Emerson strode toward the desk menacingly, crying, in a quivering voice:

"I warn you to keep your hands off of them. By God! don't try any of your financial trickery with me, or I'll—"

Wayne Wayland leaped from his chair, his face purple and his eyes flashing savagely.

"Leave this yacht!" he thundered. "I won't allow you to insult me; I won't stand your threats. I've got you where I want you, and when the time comes you'll know it. Now, get out!" He stretched forth a great square hand and closed it so fiercely that the fingers cracked. "I'll crush you—like that!"

Boyd turned and strode from the cabin.

Half-blinded with anger, he stumbled down the ladder to his launch.

"Back to the plant!" he ordered, then gazed with lowering brows and defiant eyes at The Grande Dame as she rested swanlike and serene at her moorings. His anger against Mildred's father destroyed for the time all thought of his disappointment at her own lack of understanding and her cool acceptance of his failure. He saw only that his affairs had reached a final climax where he must bow to the inevitable, or—Big George's parting words came to him—strike one last blow in reprisal. A kind of sickening rage possessed him. He had tried to fight fair against an enemy who knew no scruple, partly that he might win that enemy's respect. Now he was thoroughly beaten and humbled. After all, he was merely an adventurer, without friends of resources. His long struggle had made him the type of man of whom desperate things might be expected. He might as well act the part. Why should he pretend to higher standards than Wayne Wayland or Marsh? George's way was best. By the time he had reached the cannery, he had practically made up his mind.

It was the hour of his darkest despair—the real crisis in his life. There are times when it rests with fate to make a strong man stronger or turn him altogether to evil. Such a man will not accept misfortune tamely. He is the reverse of those who are good through weakness; it is his nature to sin strongly.

But the unexpected happened, and Boyd's black mood vanished in amazement at the sight which met his eyes. Moored to the fish-dock was a lighter awash with a cargo that made him stare and doubt his vision. He had seen his scanty crew of gill-netters return empty-handed with the rising sun, exhausted, disheartened, depleted in numbers; yet there before him were thousands of salmon. They were strewn in a great mass upon the dock and inside the shed, while from the scow beneath they came in showers as the handlers tossed them upward from their pues. Through the wide doors he saw the backs of the butchers busily at work over their tables, and heard the uproar of his cannery running full for the first time.

Before the launch had touched, he had leaped to the ladder and swung himself upon the dock. He stumbled into the arms of Big George.

"Where—did those—fish come from?" he cried, breathlessly.

"From the trap." George smiled as he had not smiled in many weeks. "They've struck in like I knew they would, and they're running now by the thousands. I've fished these waters for years, but I never seen the likes of it. They'll tear that trap to pieces. They're smothering in the pot, tons and tons of 'em, with millions more milling below the leads because they can't get in. It's a sight you'll not see once in a lifetime."

"That means that we can run the plant—that we'll get all we can use?"

"Hell! We've got fish enough to run two canneries. They've struck their gait I tell you, and they'll never stop now night or day till they're through. We don't need no gill-netters; what we need is butchers and slimers and handlers. There never was a trap site in the North till this one; I told Willis Marsh that years ago." He flung out a long, hairy arm, bared half to the shoulder, and waved it exultantly. "We built this plant to cook forty thousand salmon a day, but I'll bring you three thousand every hour, and you've got to cook 'em. Do you hear?"

"And they couldn't cork us, after all!" Emerson leaned unsteadily against a pile, for his head was whirling.

"No! We'll show that gang what a cannery can do. Marsh's traps will rot where they stand." Big George shook his tight-clinched fist again. "We've won, my boy! We've won!"

"Then don't let us stand here talking!" cried Emerson, sharply. "Hurry! Hurry!" He turned, and sped up the dock.

He had come into his own at last, and he vowed with tight-shut teeth that no wheel should stop, no belt should slacken, no man should leave his duty till the run had passed. At the entrance to the throbbing, clanging building he paused an instant, and with a smile looked toward the yacht floating lazily in the distance. Then, with knees sagging beneath him from weariness, he entered.



CHAPTER XXV

THE CLASH



"I've heard the news!" cried Cherry, later that afternoon, shrieking to make herself heard above the rattle and jar of the machinery.

"There seems to be a Providence that watches over fishermen," said Boyd.

"I am happy, for your sake, and I want to apologize for my display of temper. Come away where I won't have to scream so. I want to talk to you."

"It is music to my ears," he answered, as he led her past the rows of Chinamen bowed before their soldering-torches as if busied with some heathen rites. "But I'm glad to sit down just the same. I've been on my feet for thirty-six hours."

"You poor boy! Why don't you take some sleep?"

"I can't. George is coming with another load of fish, and the plant is so new I am afraid to leave it even for an hour."

"It's too much for one man," she declared.

"Oh, I'll sleep to-morrow."

"Did you see—her?" questioned Cherry.

"Yes!"

"She must be very proud of you," she said, wistfully.

"I—I—don't think she understands what I am trying to do, or what it means. Our talk was not very satisfactory."

"She surely must have understood what Marsh is doing."

"I didn't tell her that."

"Why not?"

"What good would it have done?"

"Why"—Cherry seemed bewildered—"she could put a stop to it; she could use her influence with her father against Marsh. I expected to see your old crew back at work again. Oh, I wish I had her power!"

"She wouldn't take a hand under any circumstances—it wouldn't occur to her—and naturally I couldn't ask her." Boyd flushed uncomfortably. "Thanks to George's trap, there is no need." He went on to tell Cherry of the scene with Mr. Wayland and its stormy ending.

"They have used all their resources to down you," she said, "but luck is with you, and you mustn't let them succeed. Now is the time to show them what is in you. Go in and win her now, against all of them."

He was grateful for her sympathy, yet somehow it made him uncomfortable.

"What was it you wished to see me about?" he asked.

"Oh! Have you seen Chakawana?"

"No."

"She disappeared early this morning soon after the yacht came in; I can't find her anywhere. She took the baby with her and—I'm worried."

"Doesn't Constantine know where she is?"

"Why, Constantine is down here, isn't he?"

"He hasn't been here since yesterday."

Cherry rose nervously. "There is something wrong, Boyd. They have been acting queerly for a long time."

"Then you are alone at your place," he said, thoughtfully. "I think you had better come down here."

"Oh no!"

"I shall send some one up to spend the night at your house. You shouldn't be left unprotected." But just then Constantine came sauntering round the corner of the building.

"Thank Heaven!" cried Cherry. "He will know where the others are."

But when his mistress questioned him, Constantine merely replied: "I don' know. I no see Chakawana."

"They have been gone since morning, and I can't find them anywhere."

"Umph! I guess they all right."

"There is something queer about this," said Emerson. "Where have you been all day?"

"I go sleep. I tired from fighting last night. I come back now and go work. Bime'by Chakawana come back too, I guess."

"Well, I don't need you to-night, so you'd better go back to Cherry's house and stay there till I send for you."

Constantine acquiesced calmly, and a few minutes later accompanied his mistress up the beach.

As she passed Marsh's cannery, Cherry saw a tender moored to the dock, and noticed strangers among the buildings. They stared at her curiously, as if the sight of a white girl attended by a copper-hued giant were part of the picturesqueness they expected. As she drew near her own house, she saw a woman approaching, and while yet a stone's-throw distant she recognized her. A jealous tightening of her throat and a flutter at her breast told her that this was Mildred Wayland.

Cherry would have passed on silently, but Miss Wayland checked her.

"Pardon me," she said. "Will you tell me what that odd-looking building is used for?" She pointed to the village above.

"That is the Greek church."

"How interesting! Are there many Greeks here?"

"No. It is a relic of the Russian days. The natives worship there."

"I intended to go closer; but the walking is not very good, is it?" She glanced down at her dainty French shoes, then at Cherry's hunting-boots. "Do you live here?"

"Yes. In the log house yonder."

"Indeed! I tried to find some one there, but—you were out, of course. You have it arranged very cozily, I see." Mildred's manner was faintly patronizing. She was vexed at the beauty and evident refinement of this woman whom she had thought to find so different.

"If you will go back I will show it to you from the inside, Miss Wayland." Cherry enjoyed her start at the name and the look of cold hostility that followed.

"You have the advantage of me," said Mildred. "I did not think we had met. You are—?" She raised her brows, inquiringly.

"Cherry Malotte, of course."

"I remember. Mr. Marsh spoke of you."

"I am sorry."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I say I am sorry Mr. Marsh ever spoke of me."

Mildred smiled frigidly. "Evidently you do not like him?"

"Nobody in Alaska likes him. Do you?"

"You see, I am not an Alaskan."

It occurred to Cherry that this girl was ignorant of the unexpected change in Boyd's affairs. She decided to sound her—to find out for herself the answer to those questions which Boyd had evaded. He had not spoken to Mildred of Marsh. Perhaps if she knew the truth, she would love him better, and even now her assistance would not be valueless.

"Do you know that Mr. Marsh is to blame for all of Boyd's misfortune?" she said.

"Boyd's?"

"Yes, Boyd's, of course. Oh, let us not pretend—I call him by his first name. I think you ought to know the truth about this business, even if Boyd is too chivalrous to tell you."

"Why do you think he has not told me?"

"I have just come from him."

"If Mr. Emerson blames any one but himself for his failure, I am sure he would have told me."

"Then you don't know him."

"I never knew him to ask another to defend him."

"He never asked me to defend him. I merely thought that if you knew the truth, you might help him."

"I? How?"

"It is for you to find a way. He has met with opposition and treachery at every step; I think it is time some one came to his aid."

"He has had your assistance at all times, has he not?"

"I have tried to help wherever I could, but—I haven't your power."

Mildred shrugged her shoulders. "You even went to Seattle to help him, did you not?"

"I went there on my own business."

"Why do you take such an interest in Mr. Emerson's affairs, may I ask?"

"It was I who induced him to take up this venture," said Cherry, proudly. "I found him discouraged, ready to give up; I helped to put new heart into him. I have something at stake in the enterprise, too—but that's nothing. I hate to see a good man driven to the wall by a scoundrel like Marsh."

"Wait! There is something to be said on both sides. Mr. Marsh was magnanimous enough to overlook that attempt upon his life."

"What attempt?"

"You must have heard. He was wounded in the shoulder."

"Didn't Boyd tell you the truth about that?"

"He told me everything," said Mildred, coldly. This woman's attitude was unbearable. It would seem that she even dared to criticise her, Mildred Wayland, for her treatment of Boyd. She pretended to a truer friendship, a more intimate knowledge of him. But no—it wasn't pretense. It was too natural, too unconscious, for that; and therein lay the sting.

"I shall ask him about it again this evening," she continued. "If there has really been persecution, as you suggest, I shall tell my father."

"You won't see Boyd this evening," said Cherry.

"Oh yes, I shall."

"He is very busy and—I don't think he can see you."

"You don't understand. I told him to come out to the yacht!" Mildred's temper rose at the light she saw in the other woman's face.

"But if he should disappoint you," Cherry insisted, "remember that the fish are running, and you have no time to lose if you are going to help."

Mildred tossed her head. "To be frank with you, I never liked this enterprise of Boyd's. Now that I have seen the place and the people—well, I can't say that I like it better."

"The country is a bit different, but the people are much the same in Kalvik and in Chicago. You will find unscrupulous men and unselfish women everywhere."

Mildred gave her a cool glance that took her in from head to foot.

"And vice versa, I dare say. You speak from a wider experience than I." With a careless nod she picked her way toward the launch, where her friends were already assembling. She was angry and suspicious. Her pride was hurt because she had not been able to feel superior to the other woman. Instead, she had descended to the weak resource of innuendo, while Cherry had been simple and direct. She had expected to recognize instantly the type of person with whom she had to deal, but she found herself baffled. Who was this woman? What was she doing here? Why had Boyd never told her of this extraordinary intimacy? She remembered more than one occasion when he had defended the woman. She resolved to put an end to the affair at once; Boyd must either give up Cherry or—

During the talk between the two young women Constantine had kept at a respectful distance, but when Mildred had gone he came up to Cherry, with the question:

"Who is that?"

"That is Miss Wayland. That is the richest girl in the world, Constantine."

"Humph!"

"And the pity of it is, she doesn't understand how very rich she is. Her father owns all these canneries and many more besides, and lots of railroads—but you don't know what a railroad is, do you?"

"Mebbe him rich as Mr. Marsh, eh?"

"A thousand time richer. Mr. Marsh works for him the way you work for me."

Being too much a gentleman to dispute his mistress' word, Constantine merely shook his head and smiled broadly.

"She fine lady," he acknowledged. "She got plenty nice dress—silik."

"Yes, silk."

"She more han'somer than you be," he added, with reluctant candor. "Mebbe that's lie 'bout Mr. Marsh, eh? White men all work for Mr. Marsh. He no work for nobody."

"No, it is true. Mr. Marsh knows how rich she is, and that is why he wants to marry her."

The breed wheeled swiftly, his soft soles crunching the gravel.

"Mr. Marsh want marry her?" he repeated, as if doubting his ears.

"Yes. That is why he has fought Mr. Emerson—they both want to marry her. That is why Marsh broke Mr. Emerson's machinery, and hired his men away from him, and cut his nets. They hate each other—do you understand?"

"Me savvy!" said Constantine shortly, then strode on beside the girl. "Me think all the time Mr. Emerson goin' marry you."

Cherry gasped. "No, no! Why, he is in love with Miss Wayland."

"S'pose he don' marry her?"

"Than Mr. Marsh will get her, I dare say."

After a moment Constantine announced, with conviction: "I guess Mr. Marsh is damn bad man."

"I'm glad you have discovered that. He has even tried to kill Mr. Emerson; that shows the sort of man he is."

"It's good thing—get marry!" said Constantine, vaguely. "The Father say if woman don' marry she go to hell."

"I'd hate to think that," laughed the girl.

"That's true," the other affirmed, stoutly. "The pries' he say so, and pries' don' lie. He say man takes a woman and don' get marry, they both go to hell and burn forever. Bime'by little baby come, and he go to hell, too."

"Oh, I understand! The Father wants to make sure of his people, and he is quite right. You natives haven't observed the law very carefully."

"He say Indian woman stop with white man, she never see Jesus' House no more. She go to hell sure, and baby go too. You s'pose that's true?"

"I dare say it is, in a way."

"By God! That's tough on little baby!" exclaimed Constantine, fervently.

All that night Boyd stayed at his post, while the cavernous building shuddered and hissed to the straining toil of the machines and the gasping breath of the furnaces. As the darkness gathered, he had gone out upon the dock to look regretfully toward the twinkling lights on The Grande Dame, then turned doggedly back to his labors. Another load had just arrived from the trap; already the plant, untried by the stress of a steady run, was clogged and working far below capacity. He would have sent Mildred word, but he had not a single man to spare.

At ten o'clock the next morning he staggered into his quarters, more dead than alive. In his heart was a great thankfulness that Big George had not found him wanting. The last defective machine was mended, the last weakness strengthened, and the plant had reached its fullest stride. The fish might come now in any quantity; the rest was but a matter of coal and iron and human endurance. Meanwhile he would sleep.

He met "Fingerless" Fraser emerging, decked royally in all the splendor of new clothes and spotless linen.

"Where are you going?" Boyd asked him.

"I'm going out into society."

"Clyde is taking you to the yacht, eh?"

"No! He's afraid of my work, so I'm going out on my own. He told me all about the swell quilts at Marsh's place, so I thought I'd lam up there and look them over. I may cop an heiress." He winked wisely. "If I see one that looks gentle, I'm liable to grab me some bride. He says there ain't one that's got less than a couple of millions in her kick."

Boyd was too weary to do more than wish him success, but it seemed that fortune favored Fraser, for before he had gone far he saw a young woman seated in a patch of wild flowers, plucking the blooms with careless hand while she drank in the beauty of the bright Arctic morning. She was simply dressed, yet looked so prosperous that Fraser instantly decided:

"That's her! I'll spread my checks with this one."

"Good-morning!" he began.

The girl gave him an indifferent glance from two fearless eyes, and nodded slightly. But "Fingerless" Fraser upon occasion could summon a smile that was peculiarly engaging. He did so now, seating himself hat in hand, with the words:

"If you don't mind, I'll rest a minute. I'm out for my morning walk. It's a nice day, isn't it?" As she did not answer, he ran on, glibly: "My name is De Benville—I'm one of the New Orleans branch. That's my cannery down yonder." He pointed in the direction from which he had just come.

"Indeed!" said the young lady.

"Yes. It's mine."

A wrinkle gathered at the corners of the stranger's eyes; her face showed a flicker of amusement.

"I thought that was Mr. Emerson's cannery," she said.

"Oh, the idea! He only runs it for me. I put up the money. You know him, eh?"

The girl nodded. "Yes; I know Mr. Clyde also."

"Who—Alton?" he queried, with reassuring warmth. "Why, you and I have got mutual friends. Alton and me is pals." He shook his head solemnly. "Ain't he a scourge?"

"I beg your pardon."

"I say, ain't he an awful thing? He ain't anything like Emerson. There's a ring-tailed swallow, all right, all right! I like him."

"Are you very intimate with him?"

"Am I? I'm closer to him than a porous plaster. When Boyd ain't around, I'm him, that's all." From her look Fraser judged that he was progressing finely. He hastened to add: "I always like to help out young fellows like him. I like to give 'em a chance. That's my name, you know, Chancy De Benville—always game to take a chance. Is that your yacht?"

"No. My father and I are merely passengers."

"So you trailed the old skeezicks along with you? Well, that's right. Make the most of your father while you've got him. If I'd paid more attention to mine I'd have been better off now. But I was wild." Fraser winked in a manner to inform his listener that all worldly wisdom was his. "I wanted to be a jockey, and the old party cut me off. What I've got now, I made all by myself, but if I'd stayed in Bloomington I might have been president of the bank by this time."

"Bloomington! I understood you to say New Orleans."

"My old man had a whole string of banks," Fraser averred, hastily.

"Tell me—is Mr. Emerson ill?" asked the girl.

"Ill enough to lick a den of wildcats."

"He intended coming out to the yacht last night, but he disappointed us."

"He's as busy as an ant-hill. I met him turning in just as I came out for my constitutional."

"Where had he been all night?" Her voice betrayed an interest that Fraser was quick to detect. He answered, cannily:

"You can search me! I don't keep cases on him. As long as he does his work, I don't care where he goes at quitting time." He resolved that this girl should learn nothing from him.

"There seem to be very few white women in this place," she said, after a pause.

"Only one, till you people came. Maybe you've crossed her trail?"

"Hardly!"

"Oh, she's all right. Take it on the word of a fire-man, she's an ace."

"Mr. Emerson told me about her. He seems quite fond of her."

"I've always said they'd make a swell-looking pair."

"One can hardly blame her for trying to catch him."

"Oh, you can make book that she didn't start no love-making. She ain't the kind to curl up in a man's ear and whisper. She don't have to. All she needs to do is look natural; the men will fall like ripe persimmons."

"They have been together a great deal, I suppose."

"Every hour of the day, and the days are long," said Fraser, cheerfully. "But he ain't crippled; be could have walked away if he'd wanted to. It's a good thing he didn't, though, because she's done more to win this bet for us than we've done ourselves."

"She's unusually pretty," the girl remarked, coldly.

"Yes, and she's just as bright as she is good-looking—but I don't care for blondes." Fraser gazed admiringly at the brown hair before him, and rolled his eyes eloquently. "I'm strong for brunettes, I am. It's the Creole blood in me."

She gathered up her wild flowers and rose, saying:

"I must be going."

"I'll go with you." He jumped to his feet with alacrity.

"Thank you. I prefer to walk alone."

"Couldn't think of it. I'll—" But he paused at the lift of her brows and the extraordinarily frigid look she gave him. He stood in his tracks, watching her descend the river trail.

"Declined with thanks!" he murmured. "I'd need ear-muffs and mittens to handle her. I think I'll build me some bonfire and thaw out. She must own the mint."

At the upper cannery Mildred found Alton Clyde with the younger Berry girl. She called him aside, and talked earnestly with him for several minutes.

"All right," he said, at length. "I'm glad to get out, of course; the rest is up to you."

Mildred's lips were white and her voice hard as she cried:

"I am thoroughly sick of it all. I have played the fool long enough."

"Now look here," Clyde objected, weakly, "you may be mistaken, and—it doesn't look like quite the square thing to do." But she silenced him with an angry gesture.

"Leave that to me. I'm through with him."

"All right. Let's hunt up the governor." Together they went to the office in search of Wayne Wayland.

A half-hour later, when Clyde rejoined Miss Berry, she noticed that he seemed ill at ease, gazing down the bay with a worried, speculative look in his colorless eyes.

Boyd Emerson roused from his death-like slumber late in the afternoon, still worn from his long strain and aching in every muscle. He was in wretched plight physically, but his heart was aglow with gladness. Big George was still at the trap, and the unceasing rumble from across the way told him that the fish were still coming in. As he was finishing his breakfast, a watchman appeared in the doorway.

"There's a launch at the dock with some people from above," he announced. "I stopped them, according to orders, but they want to see you."

"Show them to the office." Boyd rose and went into the other building, where, a moment later, he was confronted by Wayne Wayland and Willis Marsh. The old man nodded to him shortly. Marsh began:

"We heard about your good-fortune. Mr. Wayland has come to look over your plant."

"It is not for sale."

"How many fish are you getting?"

"That is my business." He turned to Mr. Wayland. "I hardly expected to see you here. Haven't you insulted me enough?"

"Just a moment before you order me out. I'm a stockholder in this company, and I am within my rights."

"You a stockholder? How much stock do you own? Where did you get it?"

"I own thirty-five thousand shares outright." Mr. Wayland tossed a packet of certificates upon the table. "And I have options on all the stock you placed in Chicago. I said you would hear from me when the time came."

"So you think the time has come to crush me, eh?" said Emerson. "Well, you've been swindled. Only one-third of the capital stock has been sold, and Alton Clyde holds thirty-five thousand shares of that."

The old man smiled grimly. "I have not been swindled."

"Then Clyde sold out!" exploded Boyd.

"Yes. I paid him back the ten thousand dollars he put in, and I took over the twenty-five thousand shares you got Mildred to take."

"Mildred!" Emerson started as if he had been struck. "Are you insane? Mildred doesn't own—Why, Alton never told me who put up that money!"

"Don't tell me you didn't know!" cried Wayne Wayland. "You knew all the time. You worked your friends out, and then sent that whipper-snapper to my daughter when you saw you were about to fail. You managed well; you knew she couldn't refuse."

"How did you find out that she held the stock?"

"She told me, of course."

"Don't ask me to believe that. If she hadn't told you before, she wouldn't tell you now. All I can say is that she acted of her own free will. I never dreamed she put up that twenty-five thousand dollars. What do you intend to do, now that you have taken over these holdings?"

"What do you think? I would spend ten times the money to save my daughter." The old man was quivering.

"You are only a minority stockholder; the control of this enterprise still rests with me and my friends."

"Your friends!" cried Mr. Wayland. "That's what brings me here—you and your friends! I'll break you and your friends, if it takes my fortune."

"I can understand your dislike of me, but my associates have never harmed you."

"Your associates! And who are they? A lawless ruffian, who openly threatened Willis Marsh's murder, and a loose woman from the dance-halls."

"Take care!" cried Emerson, in a sharp voice.

The old man waved his hands as if at a loss for words. "Look here! You can't be an utter idiot. You must know who she is."

"Do you? Then tell me."

Wayne Wayland turned his back in disgust. "Do you really wish to know?" Marsh's smooth voice questioned.

"I do."

"She is a very common sort," said Willis Marsh. "I am surprised that you never heard of her while you were in the 'upper country.' She followed the mining camps and lived as such women do. She is an expert with cards—she even dealt faro in some of the camps."

"How do you know?"

"I looked up her history in Seattle. She is very—well, notorious."

"People talk like that about nearly every woman in Alaska."

"I didn't come here to argue about that woman's character," broke in Mr. Wayland.

"You have said enough now, so that you will either prove your words or apologize."

"If you want proof, take your own relation with her. It's notorious; even Mildred has heard of it."

"I can explain to her in a word."

"Perhaps you can also explain that affair with Hilliard. If so, you had better do it. I suppose you didn't know anything about that, either. I suppose you don't know why he advanced that loan after once refusing it. They have a name for men like you who take money from women of her sort."

Emerson uttered a terrible cry, and his face blanched to a gray pallor.

"Do you mean to say—I sent—her—to Hilliard?"

"Hilliard as good as told me so himself. Do you wonder that I am willing to spend a fortune to protect my girl from a man like you? I'm going to break you. I've got a foothold in this enterprise of yours, and I'll root you out if it takes a million. I'll kick you back into the gutter, where you belong."

Boyd stood appalled at the violence of this outburst. The man seemed insane. He could not find words to answer him.

"You did not come down here to tell me that," he said, at last.

"No. I came here with a message from Mildred; she has told me to dismiss you once and for all."

"I shall take my dismissal from no one but her. I can explain everything."

"I expected you to say that. If you want her own words, read this." With shaking fingers, he thrust a letter before Emerson's eyes. "Read it!"

The young man opened the envelope, and read, in a hand-writing he knew only too well:

"DEAR BOYD,—The conviction has been growing on me for some time that you and I have made a serious mistake. It is not necessary to go into details —let us spare each other that unpleasantness. I am familiar with all that father will say to you, and his feelings are mine; hence there is no necessity for further explanations. Believe me, this is much the simplest way.

"MILDRED."

Boyd crushed the note in his palm and tossed it away carelessly.

"You dictate well," he said, quietly, "but I shall tell her the truth, and she will—"

"Oh no, you won't. You won't see her again. I have seen to that. Mildred is engaged to Willis Marsh. It's all settled. I warn you to keep away. Her engagement has been announced to all our friends on the yacht."

"I tell you I won't take my dismissal from any one but her. I shall come aboard The Grande Dame to-night."

"Mr. Marsh and I may have something to say to that."

Boyd wheeled upon Marsh with a look that made him recoil.

"If you try to cross me, I'll strip your back and lash you till you howl like a dog."

Marsh's florid face went pale; his tongue became suddenly too dry for speech. But Wayne Wayland was not to be cowed.

"I warn you again to keep away from my daughter!" he cried, furiously.

"And I warn you that I shall come aboard the yacht to-night alone."

The president of the Trust turned, and, followed by his lieutenant, left the room without another word.



CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH A SCORE IS SETTLED



Cherry Malotte, coming down to the cannery on her daily visit, saw Willis Marsh and Mr. Wayland leaving it. Wondering, she hurried into the main building in search of Boyd. The place was as busy as when she had left it on the afternoon before, and she saw that the men had been at work all night; many of them were sprawled in corners, where they had sunk from weariness, snatching a moment's rest before the boss kicked them back to their posts. The Chinese hands were stoically performing their tasks, their yellow faces haggard with the strain; at the butchering-tables yesterday's crew was still slitting, slashing, hacking at the pile of fish that never seemed to grow less. Some of them were giving up, staggering away to their bunks, while others with more vitality had stood so long in the slime and salt drip that their feet had swelled, and it had become necessary to cut off their shoes.

Boyd was standing in the door of the office. In a few words he told her of Mr. Wayland's threat.

"Do you think he can injure the company?" she inquired, anxiously.

"I haven't a doubt of it. He can work very serious harm, at least."

"Tell me—why did he turn against you so suddenly? What made Miss Wayland angry with you?"

"I—I would rather not"

"Why? I'm your partner, and I ought to be told, You and George and I will have to work together closer than ever now. Don't let's begin by concealing anything."

"Well, perhaps you had better know the whole thing," said Boyd, slowly. "Mildred does not like you; her father's mind has been poisoned by Marsh. It seems they resent our friendship; they believe—all sorts of things."

"So I am the cause of your trouble, after all."

"They blame me equally—more than you. It seems that Marsh made an inquiry into your—well, your life history—and he babbled all the gossip he heard to them. Of course they believed it, not knowing you as I do, and they misunderstood our friendship. But I can explain, and I shall, to Mildred. Then I shall prove Marsh a liar. Perhaps I can show Mr. Wayland that he was in the wrong. It's our only hope."

"What did Marsh say about me?" asked the girl.

She was pale to the lips.

"He said a lot of things that at any other time I would have made him swallow on the spot. But it's only a pleasure deferred. With your help, I'll do it in their presence. I don't like to tell you this, but the truth is vital to us all, and I want to arm myself."

Cherry was silent.

"You may leave it to me," he said, gently. "I will see that Marsh sets you right."

"There is nothing to set right," said the girl, wearily. "Marsh told the truth, I dare say."

"The truth! My God! You don't know what you're saying!"

"Yes, I do." She returned his look of shocked horror with half-hearted defiance. "You must have known who I am. Fraser knew, and he must have told you. You knew I had followed the mining camps, you knew I had lived by my wits. You must have known what people thought of me. I cast my lot in with the people of this country, and I had to match my wits with those of every man I met. Sometimes I won, sometimes I did not. You know the North."

"I didn't know," he said, slowly. "I never thought—I wouldn't allow myself to think—"

"Why not? It is nothing to you. You have lived, and so have I. I made mistakes—what girl doesn't who has to fight her way alone? But my past is my own; it concerns nobody but me." She saw the change in his face, and her reckless spirit rose. "Oh, I've shocked you! You think all women should be like Miss Wayland. Have you ever stopped to think that even you are not the same man you were when you came fresh from college? You know the world now; you have tasted its wickedness. Would you change your knowledge for your earlier innocence? You know you would not, and you have no right to judge me by a separate code. What difference does it make who I am or what I have done? I didn't ask your record when I gave you the chance to win Miss Wayland, and neither you nor she have any right to challenge mine."