"You're a very smart-looking woman," he cried, with some reluctance. "You're beautiful, Hilda. I don't blame the young fool for falling. But you're too old, too wise—"

Hilda nodded. "You've said it. Too old and too wise. If I'd been as young and as silly as when I met you—who knows? He's a handsome boy."

Again the husband's anger blazed up.

"But I'm not young and silly," his wife interrupted.

"Just the same, you played me a rotten trick," the Count exploded. "And I don't forget. As for him"—he swore savagely—"he'll learn that it's not safe to humiliate me, to rob me of any woman—wife or mistress. You've never told me the half; I've had to guess. But I'm patient, I know how to wait and to use my eyes and my ears. Then to strike me! Perdition! I'll follow this through, never fear."

"How did you get a thousand dollars, Henri?" the wife inquired, curiously.

Courteau's gaze shifted. "What difference? I won it on a turn at the North Star; it was given to me; I found it. Anyhow, I had it. It was a good night for me; yes, a very good night. I had my revenge and I showed my friends that I'm a man to be reckoned with."

In a tone unexpectedly humble the woman said: "I had no idea you cared very much what I did or how I carried on. After all, it was your own fault."

"Mine?" The Count laughed in derision and astonishment.

"Exactly! If you had taken the trouble to show me that you cared— well, things might have been different. However—" The Countess rose, and with another change of voice and manner said: "Come along. Let's do something for your eye."

The Count stared at her in bewilderment, then he turned away, crying: "Bah! I want no help." At the door he paused to jeer once more. "Pierce Phillips! A common thief, a despicable creature who robs the very man he had most deeply injured. I've exposed him to the law and to public scorn. Sleep on that, my dear. Dream on it." With a chuckle he traced an uncertain course to the stairs, mounted them to his room, and slammed his door behind him.

He had undressed and flung himself into bed, but he had not yet fallen asleep when the door reopened and his wife entered, bearing in her hand a steaming pitcher of hot water. This she deposited; into it she dipped a folded towel.

"I'm sorry you're disfigured, Henri," she told him, quietly.

Despite his surly protests, she bathed and soothed his swollen features until he dropped asleep, after which she stole out and down to her room on the floor below. There, however, she paused, staring back up the empty stairway, a look of deepest loathing upon her face. Slowly, carefully, she wiped her hands as if they were unclean; her lips curled into a mirthless smile; then she passed into her chamber and turned the key behind her.

Rock had spoken truly in assuring 'Poleon that Pierce Phillips' lot would be made as easy for him as possible. That is what happened. No one at the Barracks appeared to take much stock in Courteau's charge, and even Colonel Cavendish, the commandant, took the trouble to send for him early the next morning and to ask for the whole story in detail. When Pierce had given it the officer nodded. "It looks very much like a spite case. I couldn't imagine your doing such a thing, my boy."

"It is a spite case, nothing else."

"Courteau is a rotter, and your affair with his wife explains his animosity."

"It wasn't exactly an 'affair,' sir." Pierce colored slightly as he went on to explain. "You see, I was perfectly honest. I didn't know there was a count, and when I learned there was I up stakes and ended it. She was the first woman who ever—Well, sir, I admired her tremendously. She—impressed me wonderfully."

"No doubt," the colonel smiled. "She's an impressive person. Are you still fond of her?"

"Not in the same way."

"What about this girl Laure?"

This time Pierce flushed uncomfortably. "I've no excuses to offer there, sir—no explanations. We—just drifted together. It was a long trip and the Yukon does that sort of thing. Force of circumstance as much as anything, I presume. I've been trying to break away, but—" he shrugged.

"You've been a pretty foolish lad." Pierce remained silent at this accusation, and the colonel went on: "However, I didn't bring you here to lecture you. The Royal Mounted have other things to think about than young wasters who throw themselves away. After all, it's a free-and-easy country and if you want to play ducks and drakes it's your own business. I merely want you to realize that you've put yourself in a bad light and that you don't come into court with clean hands."

"I understand. I put in a wakeful night thinking about it. It's the first time in a long while that I've done any serious thinking."

"Well, don't be discouraged. A little thinking will benefit you. Now then, I'm going to put Rock at work on your case, and meanwhile you may have the liberty of the Barracks. You're a gentleman, and I trust you to act as one."

Pierce was only too grateful for this courtesy, and to realize that he retained the respect of this middle-aged, soldierly officer, whom he had long admired, filled him with deep relief. He gave his promise readily enough.

Later in the day Broad and Bridges came in to see him, and their indignation at the outrage, their positive assertion that it was nothing less than a deliberate conspiracy, and so considered among the Front Street resorts, immensely cheered him.

"You remember the holler I let up when them Sheep-Campers wanted to hang McCaskey?" Broad inquired. "It was my mistake. His ear and a hemp knot would go together like rheumatism and liniment."

Bridges agreed. "Funny, us three bein' tillicums, ain't it?" he mused. "Especially after the way we dredged you. We didn't need your loose change, but—there it was, so we took it."

"You'd of done better if you'd turned on the hollow of your foot that day and romped right back to the old farm," Broad asserted. "You'd never of doubled up with the McCaskeys and you'd still be the blushing yokel you was."

"Yes, you're a different kid, now." Both gamblers, it seemed, were in the melancholy mood for moralizing. "Why, we was talkin' to Rouletta about you this morning. She's all bereaved up over this thing; she sent us here to cheer you. You was clean as an apple, then—and easier to pick—now you're just a common bar-fly, the same as us. Laure done it. She's the baby vampire that made a bum of you."

"You're not very flattering." Phillips smiled faintly.

"Oh, I'm sort of repeatin' what Letty said. She put me to thinkin'. She's quite a noisy little missionary when she gets started."

"Missionary!" Broad exclaimed, in disdain. "I don't like the word. Them birds is about useful as a hip pocket in an undershirt. Why, missionaries don't do no real, lasting good outside of Indian villages! Us sure-thing guys are the best missionaries that ever struck this country. Look at the good we done around Dyea and Skagway. Them gospel-bringers never touched it. We met the suckers on the edge of the Frozen North and we turned 'em back by the score. Them three walnut husks done more good than the Ten Commandments. Yes, sir, a set of cheatin' tools will save more strayed lambs than a ship-load of Testaments."

"Letty figgers that somebody tossed that goldsack over the top of the cage after you follered the Count out."

"Impossible," Pierce declared.

"I got an idea." It was Broad speaking again. "The mere contemplation of physical violence unmans that Frog. He'd about as soon have a beatin' as have a leg cut off with a case-knife. S'pose me and the Kid lure him to some lonely spot—some good yellin'-place—and set upon him with a coupla pick-handles. We'll make him confess or we'll maim and meller him till he backs out through his bootlegs. What d'you say?"

Pierce shook his head. "Something must be done, but I doubt if that's it. It's tough to be—disgraced, to have a thing like this hanging over you. I wouldn't mind it half so much if I were up for murder or arson or any man's-sized crime. Anything except STEALING!"

"A mere matter of choice," the former speaker lightly declared. "We got boys around the Rialto that has tried 'em all. They don't notice no particular difference."

For some time the three friends discussed the situation, then, when his visitors rose to go, Pierce accompanied them to the limits of the Barracks premises and there stood looking after them, realizing with a fresh pang that he was a prisoner. It was an unfortunate predicament, he reflected, and quite as unpleasant as the one which had brought him into conflict with the angry men of Sheep Camp. That had been an experience fraught with peril, but his present plight was little better, it seemed to him, for already he felt the weight of the Dominion over him, already he fancied himself enmeshed in a discouraging tangle of red tape. There was no adventurous thrill to this affair, nothing but an odious feeling of shame and disgrace which he could not shake off.

He was staring morosely at the ground between his feet when he heard a voice that caused him to start. There, facing him with a light of pleasure in her blue eyes, was the girl of the skees.

"Hello!" said she. She extended her hand, and her mitten closed over Pierce's fingers with a firm clasp. "I'm awfully glad to see you again, Mr—" She hesitated, then with a smile confessed, "Do you know, you're my only pupil and yet I've never heard your name."

"Phillips," said he.

"You don't deserve to be remembered at all, for you didn't come to the dance. And after you had promised, too."

"I couldn't come," he assured her, truthfully enough.

"I looked for you. I was quite hurt when you failed to appear. Then I thought perhaps you expected something more formal than a mere verbal invitation, and in that way I managed to save my vanity. If I'd known who you were or how to find you I'd have had my father send you a note. If it wasn't that, I'm glad. Well, there's another dance this week and I'll expect you."

"I—I'm not dancing," he stammered. "Not at the Barracks, anyhow."

The girl was puzzled; therefore Pierce summoned his courage and explained, with as brave an attempt at lightness as he could afford: "You see before you a victim of unhappy circumstance," a person to be shunned. I'm worse than a case of smallpox. I don't think you should be seen talking to me."

"What are you driving at?"

"I'm getting up the spiritual momentum necessary to tell you that I'm a thief! Truly. Anyhow, three choice gentlemen are so sure of it that they went to the trouble of perjuring themselves and having me arrested—"

"Arrested? YOU?"

"Exactly. And the evidence is very strong. I almost think I must be guilty."

"Are you?"

Pierce shook his head.

"Of course you're not. I remember, now—something father said at breakfast, but I paid no attention. You fought with that good- looking French count, didn't you?"

"Thank you for reminding me of the one cheerful feature connected with the entire affair. Yes, I raised my hand to him in anger—and let it fall, but Lieutenant Rock spoiled the whole party."

"Tell me everything, please."

Pierce was more than willing to oblige, and he began his recital at the time of his first meeting with Joe McCaskey on the beach at Dyea. While he talked the girl listened with that peculiar open- eyed meditative gravity he had noted upon their former meeting. When he had finished she cried, breathlessly:

"Why, it's as exciting as a book!"

"You think so? I don't. If I were only a clever book character I'd execute some dramatic coup and confound my enemies—book people always do. But my mind is a blank, my ingenuity is at a complete standstill. I feel perfectly foolish and impotent. To save me, I can't understand how that gold got where it was, for the cashier's cage is made of wire and the door has a spring-lock. I heard it snap back of me when I followed the Count outside. I had an insane idea that his nose would stretch if I pulled it and I believe yet it would. Well, I've spent one night in the dungeon and I'm not cut out to enjoy that mode of life. All I can think about is the Prisoner of Chillon and the Man in the Iron Mask and other distressing instances of the law's injustice. I feel as if I'd grown a gray beard in the last twelve hours. Do I look much older than when we met?"

The girl shook her head. "It's tremendously dramatic. Think what a story it will make when it's over and when you look back on it."

"Do you feel that way, too?" Pierce inquired, curiously. "As if everything is an adventure? I used to. I used to stand outside of myself and look on, but now—I'm on the inside, looking out. I suppose it's the effect of the gray beard. Experience comes fast in this country. To one thing I've made up my mind, however; when I get out of this scrape, if I ever do, I'm going away up into the hills where the wind can blow me clean, and stay there."

"It's a perfect shame!" the girl said, indignantly. "I shall tell father to fix it. He fixes everything I ask him to. He's wonderful, as you probably know."

"Inasmuch as I haven't the faintest idea who he is—"

"Why, he's Colonel Cavendish! I'm Josephine Cavendish. I thought everybody knew me."

Pierce could not restrain a start of surprise. Very humbly he inquired:

"Now that you understand who I am and what I'm charged with, do you want to—know me; be friends with me?"

"We ARE friends," Miss Cavendish warmly declared. "That's not something that may happen; it has happened. I'm peculiar about such matters; I have my own way of looking at them. And now that we're friends we're going to be friends throughout and I'm going to help you. Come along and meet mother."

"I—don't know how far my parole extends," Pierce ventured, doubtfully.

"Nonsense! There's only one authority around here. Father thinks he's it, but he isn't. I am. You're my prisoner now. Give me your word you won't try to escape—"

"Escape!" Pierce smiled broadly. "I don't much care if I never get out. Prisons aren't half as bad as they're pictured."

"Then come!"



CHAPTER XXV

"You really must do something for this boy Pierce Phillips." Mrs. Cavendish spoke with decision.

The newspaper which the colonel was reading was barely six weeks old, therefore he was deeply engrossed in it, and he looked up somewhat absentmindedly.

"Yes, yes. Of course, my dear," he murmured. "What does he want now?"

"Why, he wants his liberty! He wants this absurd charge against him dismissed! It's a shame to hold a boy of his character, his breeding, on the mere word of a man like Count Courteau."

Colonel Cavendish smiled quizzically. "You, too, eh?" said he.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, you're the fourth woman who has appealed to me since his arrest. I dare say I'll hear from others. I never saw a fellow who had the female vote so solidly behind him. I'm beginning to regard him as a sort of domestic menace."

"You surely don't believe him guilty?"

When her husband refused to commit himself Mrs. Cavendish exclaimed, "Rubbish!"

"First Josephine came to me," the colonel observed. "She was deeply indignant and considerably disappointed in me as a man and a father when I refused to quash the entire proceedings and apologize, on behalf of the Dominion Government, for the injury to the lad's feelings. She was actually peeved. What ails her I don't know. Then the Countess Courteau dropped in, and so did that 'lady dealer' from the Rialto. Now you take up his defense." The speaker paused thoughtfully for an instant. "It's bad enough to have the fellow hanging around our quarters at all hours, but Josephine actually suggested that we have him DINE with us!"

"I know. She spoke of it to me. But he isn't 'hanging around at all hours.' Josephine is interested in his case, just as I am, because—"

"My dear! He's a weigher in a saloon, a gambling-house employee. D'you think it wise to raise such a dust about him? I like the boy myself—can't help liking him—but you understand what he's been doing? He's been cutting up; going the pace. I never knew you to countenance a fellow—"

"I never saw a boy toward whom I felt so—motherly," Mrs. Cavendish said, with some irrelevance. "I don't like wild young men any better than you do, but—he isn't a thief, of that I'm sure."

"Look here." Colonel Cavendish laid down his paper, and there was more gravity than usual in his tone. "I haven't told you everything, but it's evidently time I did. Phillips was mixed up with bad associates, the very worst in town—"

"So he told me."

"He couldn't have told you what I'm about to. He had a most unfortunate affair with a dance-hall girl—one that reflects no credit upon him. He was on the straight path to ruin and going at a gallop, drinking, gambling—everything."

"All the more reason for trying to save him. Remember, you were pretty wild yourself."

"Wait! I don't say he's guilty of this charge; I want to believe him innocent—I'd like to help prove it. For that very reason it occurred to me that Laure—she's the dance-hall girl—might throw some light on the matter, so I put Rock to work on her. Well, his report wasn't pleasant. The girl talked, but what she said didn't help Phillips. She confessed that he'd been stealing right along and giving her the money."

Mrs. Cavendish was shocked, incredulous. After a moment, however, she shook her head positively and exclaimed, "I don't believe a word of it."

"She's going to swear to it."

"Her oath would be no better than her word—"

"Good Lord!" the colonel cried, testily. "Has this young imp completely hypnotized you women? The Kirby girl is frightened to death, and the Countess—well, she told me herself that her husband's jealousy was at the bottom of the whole thing. Laure, in spite of what she said to Rock, is behaving like a mad person. I dropped in at the Rialto this evening and she asked me what was the worst Pierce could expect. I made it strong, purposely, and I thought she'd faint. No, it's a nasty affair, all through. And, by Jove! to cap the climax, you and Josephine take part in it! I flatter myself that I'm democratic, but—have him here to dine! Gad! That's playing democracy pretty strong."

"It isn't fair to imply that he's nothing more than a ladies' man. They're detestable. The men like Phillips, too."

"True," Cavendish admitted. "He has the God-given faculty of making friends, and for that alone I can forgive him almost anything. It's a wonderful faculty—better than being born lucky or rich or handsome. I'm fond of him, but I've favored him all I can. If I thought Josephine were seriously interested in him— well, I wouldn't feel so friendly." The speaker laughed shortly, "No. The man who claims that girl's attention must be clean through and through. He must stand the acid test."

When his wife silently approved this sentiment the colonel picked up Ms paper and resumed his reading.

Pierce's friends were indeed uniformly indignant, and without exception they maintained their faith in his innocence; most of them, in fact, actually applied themselves to the task of clearing him of Courteau's charge. But of the latter the one who applied herself the most thoughtfully, the most seriously, was the Countess Courteau. Having reasoned that she herself was indirectly responsible for his plight, she set about aiding him in a thoroughly feminine and indirect manner. It was an unpleasant undertaking; she took it up with intense abhorrence; it required her utmost determination to carry it on. Her plan had formed itself immediately she had learned what had happened; her meeting with the Count that evening and her unexpected solicitude, her unbidden attention to his injury, were a part of it. As time went on she assumed an air that amazed the man. She meekly accepted his reproaches, she submitted to his abuse; cautiously, patiently she paved the way to a reconciliation.

It was by no means easy, for she and Henri had long lived in what was little better than a state of open hostility, and she had been at no pains to conceal the utter disregard and contempt she felt for him. He, of course, had resented it; her change of demeanor now awoke his suspicion. He was a vain and shallow person, however; his conceit was thoroughly Latin, and Hilda's perseverance was in a way rewarded. Slowly, grudgingly he gave ground before her subtle advances—they were, in fact, less advances on her part than opportunities for him—he experienced a feeling of triumph and began to assume a masterful air that was indeed trying to one of her disposition. Before his friends he boasted that his energetic defense of his honor had worked a marvel in his home; in her presence he made bold to take on a swagger and an authority hitherto unknown.

Hilda stood it, with what cost no one could possibly understand. In some manner she managed to convey the idea that he dominated her and that she cringed spiritually before him. She permitted him occasionally to surprise a look of bewilderment, almost of fright, in her eyes, and this tickled the man immensely. With a fatuous complacency, thoroughly typical, he told himself that she feared and respected him—was actually falling in love with him all over again. When he felt the impulse to scout this idea he went to his mirror and examined himself critically, Why not? he asked himself. He was very pleasing. Women had always been wax in his hands; he had a personality, an air, an irresistible something that had won him many conquests. It seemed not unlikely that Hilda had been shocked into a new and keener realization of his many admirable qualities and was ready to make up, if, or when, he graciously chose to permit her.

On the very evening that Colonel Cavendish and his wife were discussing Pierce Phillips' affair, Courteau, feeling in a particularly jubilant mood, decided to put the matter to a test; therefore he surprised his wife by walking into her room unannounced.

"My dear," he began, "it's high time we had a talk."

"Indeed!" said she. "What about?"

"About you, about me, about our affairs. Are we husband and wife or are we not? I ask you."

With a queer flicker of her eyelids she answered: "Why—of course. You have appeared to forget it sometimes, but—"

"No reproaches, please. The past is gone. Neither of us is without blame. You've had your fling, too, but I've shown you that I'm made of stern stuff and will tolerate no further foolishness. I am a different Courteau than you ever knew. I've had my rebirth. Now then, our present mode of life is not pleasing to me, for I'm a fellow of spirit. Think of me—in the attitude of a dependent!"

"I share generously with you. I give you money—"

"The very point,' he broke in, excitedly. "You give; I accept. You direct; I obey. It must end now, at once. I cannot play the accompaniment while you sing. Either I close my eyes to your folly and forgive, utterly—either we become man and wife again and I assume leadership—or I make different plans for the future."

"Just what do you propose, Henri?"

The fellow shrugged. "I offer you a reconciliation; that, to begin with. You've had your lesson and I flatter myself that you see me in a new light. The brave can afford to be generous. I—well, I've always had a feeling for you; I've never been blind to your attractions, my dear. Lately I've even experienced something of the—er—the old spell. Understand me? It's a fact.' I'm actually taken with you, Hilda; I have the fire of an impetuous lover."

Courteau's eyes gleamed; there was an unusual warmth to his gaze and a vibrance to his tone. He curled his mustache, he swelled his chest, he laughed lightly but deeply. "What do you say, eh? I'm not altogether displeasing. No? You see something in me to admire? I thrill you? Confess."

The wife lowered her eyes. "You have some power—" she murmured.

"Power! Precisely." The Count nodded and there was a growing vivacity and sparkle to him. "That is my quality—a power to charm, a power to achieve, a power to triumph. Well, I choose now to win you again for myself. It is my whim. To rekindle a love which one has lost is a test of any man's power, n'est-ce pas? You are fond of me. I see it. Am I not right, my sweet?"

He laid his soft white hands upon his wife's shoulders and bent an ardent gaze upon her. Hilda faced him with an odd smile; her cheeks were white, her ice-blue eyes were very wide and bright and they held a curious expression.

"Come! A kiss!" he persisted. "Oho! You tremble, you shrink like a maiden. I, too, am exhilarated, but—" With a chuckle he folded her in his embrace and she did not resist. After a moment he resumed: "This is quite too amusing. I wish my friends to see and to understand. Put on your prettiest dress—"

"What for?"

"We are going down-town. We shall celebrate our reunion—we shall drink to it publicly. All Dawson shall take note. They have said, 'Courteau is a loafer, a ne'er-do-well, and he permits another to win his wife away from him.' I propose to show them."

"You mean you propose to show me off. Is that it? Another conquest, eh?"

"Have it as you will. I—"

"I won't go," Hilda cried, furiously. She freed herself from his arms. "You know I won't go. You'd like to parade me in the places you frequent—saloons, dance-halls, gambling-houses. The idea!"

"You won't? Tut, tut! What is this?" Courteau cried, angrily. "Rebellious so soon? Is this recent change of demeanor assumed? Have you been fooling me?"

"What change?" the woman parried. "I don't know—"

"Oh yes, you do! For the first time in years you have treated me as a husband should be treated; half-measures will no longer satisfy me. We have arrived at the show-up. Are you a miserable Delilah or—"

"Please don't ask me to go out with you, Henri," the woman pleaded, in genuine distress, now that she saw he was in earnest. "To be paraded like an animal on a chain! Think of my feelings."

"Indeed! Think of mine," he cried. "This is my hour, my triumph; I propose to make it complete. Now that I carefully consider it, I will put you to the test. You've had a fine time; if you pay a price for it, whose fault is that? No! One must be cruel to be kind."

"Cruel! Kind!" Hilda sneered. "It merely pleases you to humiliate me."

"Very well!" blazed the Count. "If it pleases me, so be it. That is my attitude now and henceforth—my will is to be law. Come! Your prettiest dress and your prettiest smile, for we celebrate. Yes, and money, too; I'm as poverty-ridden as usual. We will treat my friends, we will gamble here and there, we will watch the shows to an accompaniment of popping corks so that every one shall see us and say: 'Yonder is Courteau and his wife. They have made up and she adores him like a mistress. Parbleu! The man has a way with women, eh!' It shall be a great night for me."

"Are you really serious?"

Courteau stamped his felt-shod foot. "Anger me no more."

Hilda's face was colorless, her eyes were still glowing with that peculiar light of defiance, of desperation, of curiosity; nevertheless, she turned away and began to dress herself.

Courteau was not disappointed. His appearance in the river-front resorts, accompanied by his wife, created a sensation indeed. And Hilda's bearing, under the circumstances, added to his gratification, for, now that the die was cast, she surrendered completely, she clung to him as if feeling a new dependence, and this filled his cup to overflowing. It was an outrageous thing to do; no one save a Courteau would have thought of subjecting the woman who bore his name to such a humiliation. But he was a perverse individual; his mind ran in crooked courses; he took a bizarre delight in the unusual, and morality of the common sort he knew not. To smirch her, even a little bit, to subject her to seeming disgrace, not only taught her a lesson, but also united them more closely, so he told himself. That he had the ability to compel her to do anything against her will immensely tickled his vanity, for her stubborn independence had always been a trial to him. He knew that her social status was not of the highest; nevertheless, her reputation was far better than his, and among all except the newest arrivals in Dawson she bore a splendid name. To be, himself, the cause of blackening that name, in order to match his own, gratified his feelings of resentment. All in all, it was a night of nights for him and he was at no pains to conceal his satisfaction. From one place to another he led her, taking malicious enjoyment from the distress he caused.

Courteau was not loud nor blatant; nevertheless, his triumphant demeanor, his proprietary air, fairly shouted the fact that he had tamed this woman and was exhibiting her against her inclinations. At every bar he forced her to drink with him and with his friends; he even called up barroom loafers whom he did not know and introduced them with an elaborate flourish. The money he spent was hers, of course, but he squandered it royally, leaving a trail of empty champagne-bottles behind. Champagne, at this time, sold for twenty dollars a quart and, although Hilda saw her earnings melting away with appalling rapidity, she offered no protest. Together they flung their chips broadcast upon the gambling- tables, and their winnings, which were few, went to buy more popularity with the satellites who trailed them.

As time passed and Hilda continued to meet the test, her husband's satisfaction gained a keener edge. He beamed, he strutted, he twisted his mustache to needle-points. She was a thoroughbred, that he assured himself. But, after all, why shouldn't she do this for him? The women with whom he was accustomed to associate would not have counted such an evening as this a sacrifice, and, even had they so considered it, he was in the habit of exacting sacrifices from women. They liked it; it proved their devotion.

Her subjugation was made complete when he led her into a box at the Rialto Theater and insisted upon the two McCaskeys joining them. The brothers at first declined, but by this time Courteau's determination carried all before it.

Joe halted him outside the box door, however, to inquire into the meaning of the affair.

"It means this," the Count informed him. "I have effected a complete reconciliation with my adorable wife. Women are all alike—they fear the iron, they kiss the hand that smites them. I have made her my obedient slave, mon ami. That's what it means."

"It don't look good to me," Joe said, morosely. "She's got an ace buried somewhere."

"Eh? What are you trying to say?"

"I've got a hunch she's salving you, Count. She's stuck on Phillips, like I told you, and she's trying to get a peek at your hole card."

It was characteristic of Courteau that he should take instant offense at this reflection upon his sagacity, this doubt of his ability as a charmer.

"You insult my intelligence," he cried, stiffly, "and, above all, I possess intelligence. You—do not. No. You are coarse, you are gross. I am full of sentiment—"

"Rats!" McCaskey growled. "I get that way myself sometimes. Sentiment like yours costs twenty dollars a quart. But this ain't the time for a spree; we got business on our hands."

The Count eyed his friend with a frown. "It is a personal affair and concerns our business not in the least. I am a revengeful person; I have pride and I exact payment from those who wound it. I brought my wife here as a punishment and I propose to make her drink with you. Your company is not agreeable at any time, my friend, and she does you an honor—"

"Cut out that tony talk," Joe said, roughly. "You're a broken- hipped stiff and you're trying to grab her bank-roll. Don't you s'pose I'm on? My company was all right until you got your hand in the hotel cash-drawer; now I'm coarse. Maybe she's on the square— she fell for you once—but I bet she's working you. Make sure of this, my high and mighty nobleman"—for emphasis the speaker laid a heavy hand upon the Count's shoulder and thrust his disagreeable face closer—"that you keep your mouth shut. Savvy? Don't let her sweat you—"

The admonitory words ended abruptly, for the door of the box reopened and Joe found the Countess Courteau facing him. For an instant their glances met and in her eyes the man saw an expression uncomfortably reminiscent of that day at Sheep Camp when she had turned public wrath upon his brother Jim's head. But the look was fleeting; she turned it upon her husband, and the Count, with an apology for his delay, entered the box, dragging McCaskey with him.

Frank, it appeared, shared his brother's suspicions; the two exchanged glances as Joe entered; then when the little party had adjusted itself to the cramped quarters they watched the Countess curiously, hoping to analyze her true intent. But in this they were unsuccessful. She treated both of them with a cool, impartial formality, quite natural under the circumstances, but in no other way did she appear conscious of that clash on the Chilkoot trail. It was not a pleasant situation at best, and Joe especially was ill at ease, but Courteau continued his spendthrift role, keeping the waiters busy, and under the influence of his potations the elder McCaskey soon regained some of his natural sang-froid. All three men drank liberally, and by the time the lower floor had been cleared for dancing they were in a hilarious mood. They laughed loudly, they shouted greetings across to other patrons of the place, they flung corks at the whirling couples below.

Meanwhile, they forced the woman to imbibe with them. Joe, in spite of his returning confidence, kept such close watch of her that she could not spill her glass into the bucket, except rarely. Hilda hated alcohol and its effect; she was not accustomed to drinking. As she felt her intoxication mounting she became fearful that the very medium upon which she had counted for success would prove to be her undoing. Desperately she battled to retain her wits. More than once, with a reckless defiance utterly foreign to her preconceived plans, she was upon the point of hurling the bubbling contents of her glass into the flushed faces about her and telling these men how completely she was shamming, but she managed to resist the temptation. That she felt such an impulse at all made her fearful of committing some action equally rash, of dropping some word that would prove fatal.

It was a hideous ordeal. She realized that already the cloak of decency, of respectability, which she had been at such pains to preserve during these difficult years, was gone, lost for good and all. She had made herself a Lady Godiva; by this night of conspicuous revelry she had undone everything. Not only had she condoned the sins and the shortcomings of her dissolute husband, but also she had put herself on a level with him and with the fallen women of the town—his customary associates. Courteau had done this to her. It had been his proposal. She could have throttled him where he sat.

The long night dragged on interminably. Like leeches the two McCaskeys clung to their prodigal host, and not until the early hours of morning, when the Count had become sodden, sullen, stupefied, and when they were in a condition little better, did they permit him to leave them. How Hilda got him home she scarcely knew, for she, too, had all but lost command of her senses. There were moments when she fought unavailingly against a mental numbness, a stupor that rolled upward and suffused her like a cloud of noxious vapors, leaving her knees weak, her hands clumsy, her vision blurred; again waves of deathly illness surged over her. Under and through it all, however, her subconscious will to conquer remained firm. Over and over she told herself:

"I'll have the truth and then—I'll make him pay."

Courteau followed his wife into her room, and there his maudlin manner changed. He roused himself and smiled at her fatuously; into his eyes flamed a desire, into his cheeks came a deeper flush. He pawed at her caressingly; he voiced thick, passionate protestations. Hilda had expected nothing less; it was for this that she had bled her flesh and crucified her spirit these many hours.

"You're—wonderful woman," the man mumbled as he swayed with her in his arms. "Got all the old charm and more. Game, too!" He laughed foolishly, then in drunken gravity asserted: "Well, I'm the man, the stronger vessel. To turn hate into love, that—"

"You've taken your price. You've had your hour," she told him. Her head was thrown back, her eyes were closed, her teeth were clenched as if in a final struggle for self-restraint.

Courteau pressed his lips to hers; then in a sudden frenzy he crushed her closer and fell to kissing her cheeks, her neck, her throat. He mistook her shudder of abhorrence for a thrill responsive to his passion, and hiccoughed:

"You're mine again, all mine, and—I'm mad about you. I'm aflame. This is like the night of our marriage, what?"

"Are you satisfied, now that you've made me suffer? Do you still imagine I care for that foolish boy?"

"Phillips? Bah! A noisy swine." Again the Count chuckled, but this time his merriment ran away with him until he shook and until tears came to his eyes.

Without reason Hilda joined in his laughter. Together they stood rocking, giggling, snickering, as if at some excruciating jest.

"He—he tried to steal you—from me. From ME. Imagine it! Then he struck me. Well, where is he now, eh?"

"I never dreamed that you cared enough for me to—do what you did. To risk so much."

"Risk?"

Hilda nodded, and her loose straw-gold hair brushed Courteau's cheek. "Don't pretend any longer. I knew from the start. But you were jealous. When a woman loses the power to excite jealousy it's a sign she's growing old and ugly and losing her fire. She can face anything except that."

"Fire!" Henri exclaimed. "Parbleu! Don't I know you to be a volcano?"

"How did you manage the affair—that fellow's ruin? It frightens me to realize that you can accomplish such things."

The Count pushed his wife away. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Oh, very well! Carry it out if you wish," she said, with a careless shrug. "But you're not fooling me in the least. On the contrary, I admire your spirit. Now then, I'm thirsty. And you are, too." With a smile she evaded his outstretched arms and left the room. She was back in a moment with a bottle and two glasses. The latter she filled; her own she raised with a gesture, and Courteau blindly followed suit.

In spite of his deep intoxication the man still retained the embers of suspicion, and when she spoke of Pierce Phillips they began to glow and threatened to burst into flame. Cunningly, persistently she played upon him, however. She enticed, she coquetted, she cajoled; she maddened him with her advances; she teased him with her repulses; she drugged him with her smiles, her fragrant charms. Time and again he was upon the point of surrender, but caught himself in time.

She won at last. She dragged the story from him, bit by bit, playing upon his vanity, until he gabbled boastfully and took a crapulent delight in repeating the details. It was a tale distorted and confused, but the truth was there. She made an excuse to leave him, finally, and remained out of the room for a long time. When she returned it was to find him sprawled across her bed and fast asleep.

For a moment she held dizzily to the bedpost and stared down at him. Her mask had slipped now, her face was distorted with loathing, and so deep were her feelings that she could not bear to touch him, even to cover him over. Leaving him spread-eagled as he was, she staggered out of his unclean presence.

Hilda was deathly sick; objects were gyrating before her eyes; she felt a hideous nightmare sensation of unreality, and was filled with an intense contempt, a tragic disgust for herself. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she strove to gather herself together; then slowly, passionately she cursed the name of Pierce Phillips.



CHAPTER XXVI

Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk toiled slowly up the trail toward their cabin. Both men were bundled thickly in clothing, both bewhiskered visages bore grotesque breath-masks of ice; even their eyebrows were hoary with frost. The partners were very tired.

Pausing in the chip-littered space before their door, they gazed down the trail to a mound of gravel which stood out raw and red against the universal whiteness. This mound was in the form of a truncated cone and on its level top was a windlass and a pole bucket track. From beneath the windlass issued a cloud of smoke which mounted in billows, as if breathed forth from a concealed chimney—smoke from the smothered drift fires laid against the frozen face of pay dirt forty feet below the surface. Evidently this fire was burning to suit the partners; after watching it a moment, Tom took a buck-saw and fell stiffly to work upon a dry spruce log which lay on the saw-buck; Jerry spat on his mittens and began to split the blocks as they fell.

Darkness was close at hand, but both men were so fagged that they found it impossible to hurry. Neither did they speak. Patiently, silently they sawed and chopped, then carried the wood into the chilly cabin; while one lit the lamp and went for a sack of ice, the other kindled a fire. These tasks accomplished, by mutual consent, but still without exchanging a word, they approached the table. From the window-sill Tom took a coin and balanced it upon his thumb and forefinger; then, in answer to his bleak, inquiring glance, Jerry nodded and he snapped the piece into the air. While it was still spinning Jerry barked, sharply:

"Tails!"

Both gray heads bent and near-sightedly examined the coin.

"Tails she is," Tom announced. He replaced the silver piece, crossed the room to his bunk, seated himself upon it, and remained there while Jerry, with a sudden access of cheerfulness, hustled to the stove, warmed himself, and then began culinary preparations.

These preparations were simple, but precise; also they were deliberate. Jerry cut one slice of ham, he measured out just enough coffee for one person, he opened one can of corn, and he mixed a half-pan of biscuits. Tom watched him from beneath a frown, meanwhile tugging moodily at the icicles which still clung to his lips. His corner of the cabin was cold, hence it was a painful process. When he had disposed of the last lump and when he could no longer restrain his irritation, he broke out:

"Of course you had to make BREAD, didn't you? Just because you know I'm starving."

"It come tails, didn't it?" Jerry inquired, with aggravating pleasantness. "It ain't my fault you're starving, and you got all night to cook what YOU want—after I'm done. I don't care if you bake a layer cake and freeze ice-cream. You can put your front feet in the trough and champ your swill; you can root and waller in it, for all of ME. I won't hurry you, not in the least."

"It's come tails every time lately," grumbled the former speaker.

Jerry giggled. "I always was right lucky, except in pickin' pardners," he declared. In a cracked and tuneless voice he began humming a roundelay, evidently intended to express gaiety and contentment.

Unable longer to withstand his gnawing hunger, Tom secured for himself a large round hardtack, and with this he tried to ward off the pangs of starvation. But he had small success with the endeavor, for his teeth were poor. He flung the thing of adamant aside, finally, and cried, testily:

"My God! Ain't it bad enough to EAT a phonograph record without having to listen to the damn' machine? Shut up, will you? You've got the indecentest singing voice I ever heard."

"Say!" Jerry looked up belligerently. "You don't have to listen to my singin'. There's plenty of room outside—all the room from here south to Seattle. And you don't have to gum that pilot-bread if your teeth is loose. You can boil yourself a pot of mush—when your turn comes. You got a free hand. As for me, I eat anything I want to and I SING anything I want to whenever I want to, and I'd like to see anybody stop me. We don't have to toss up for turns at singin'." More loudly he raised his high-pitched voice; ostentatiously he rattled his dishes.

Tom settled back in exasperated silence, but as time wore on and his hungry nostrils were assailed with the warm, tantalizing odor of frying ham fat he fidgeted nervously.

Having prepared a meal to his liking, Jerry set the table with a single plate, cup, and saucer, then seated himself with a luxurious grunt. He ate slowly; he rolled every mouthful with relish; he fletcherized it with calculated deliberation; he paused betweentimes to blow loudly upon his coffee and to smack his lips- -sounds that in themselves were a provocation and an insult to his listener. When he had cleaned up his interminable repast and was finishing the last scrap, Tom rose and made for the stove.

Jerry watched him, paralyzed in mid-motion, until his partner's hand was outstretched, then he suddenly shouted:

"Get away from there!"

Tom started. "What for?" he queried, a light of rebellion flaring into his eyes. "Ain't you through with your supper? You been at it long enough."

"You see me eatin', don't you? After I get fed up and my teeth picked I got all my dishes to wash."

"That wasn't our arrangement."

"It was so."

"You'll eat all night," Tom complained, almost tearfully. "You'll set there and gorge till you bust."

"That's my privilege. I don't aim to swaller my grub whole. I'm shy a few teeth and some of the balance don't meet, so I can't consume vittles like I was a pulp-mill. I didn't start this row—"

"Who did?"

"Now ain't that a fool question?" Jerry leaned back comfortably and began an elaborate vacuum-cleaning process of what teeth he retained. "Who starts all our rows, if I don't? No. I'm as easy- going as a greased eel, and 'most anybody can get along with me, but, tread on my tail and I swop ends, pronto. That's me. I go my own even way, but I live up to my bargains and I see to it that others do the same. You get the hell away from that stove!"

Tom abandoned his purpose, and with the resignation of a martyr returned to teeter upon the edge of his bunk. He remained there, glum, malevolent, watchful, until his cabin-mate had leisurely cleared the table, washed and put away his dishes; then with a sigh of fat repletion, unmistakably intended as a provocation, the tormentor lit his pipe and stretched himself luxuriously upon his bed.

Even then Tom made no move. He merely glowered at the recumbent figure. Jerry blew a cloud of smoke, then waved a generous gesture.

"Now then, fly at it, Mr. Linton," he said, sweetly. "I've et my fill; I've had an ample sufficiency; I'm through and in for the night."

"Oh no, you ain't! You get up and wash that skillet."

Mr. Quirk started guiltily.

"Hustle your creaking joints and scrub it out."

"Pshaw! I only fried a slice—"

"Scrub it!" Linton ordered.

This command Jerry obeyed, although it necessitated heating more water, a procedure which, of course, he maliciously prolonged. "Waited till I was all spread out, didn't you," he sneered, as he stooped over the wood-box. "That's like you. Some people are so small-calibered they'd rattle around in a gnat's bladder like a mustard seed in a bass drum."

"I'm particular who I eat after," Tom said, "so be sure you scrub it clean."

"Thought you'd spoil my smoke. Well, I can smoke standin' on my head and enjoy it." There was a silence, broken only by the sound of Jerry's labors. At last he spoke: "Once again I repeat what I told you yesterday. I took the words out of your own mouth. You said the woman was a hellion—"

"I never did. Even if I had I wouldn't allow a comparative stranger to apply such an epithet to a member of my family."

"You did say it. And she ain't a member of your family."

Tom's jaws snapped. "If patience is a virtue," he declared, in quivering anger, "I'll slide into heaven on skids. Assassination ought not to be a crime; it's warranted, like abating a nuisance; it ain't even a misdemeanor—sometimes. She was a noble woman—"

"Hellion! I got it on the authority of her own husband—you!"

Tom rose and stamped over to the stove; he slammed its door and clattered the coffee-pot to drown this hateful persistence. Having had the last word, as usual, Jerry retreated in satisfaction to his bed and stretched his aching frame upon it.

The dingy cabin was fragrant with the odor of cooking food for a second time that evening when the sound of voices and a knock at the door brought both old men to their feet.

Before they could answer, the door flew open and in and out of the frosty evening came Rouletta Kirby and 'Poleon Doret. The girl's cheeks were rosy, her eyes were sparkling; she warmly greeted first one partner, then the other. Pausing, she sniffed the air hungrily.

"Goody!" she cried. "We're just in time. And we're as hungry as bears."

"Dis gal 'ain't never got 'nough to eat since she's seeck in W'ite 'Orse," 'Poleon laughed. "For las' hour she's been sayin': 'Hurry! Hurry! We goin' be late.' I 'mos' keel dem dog."

Linton's seamed face softened; it cracked into a smile of genuine pleasure; there was real hospitality and welcome in his voice when he said:

"You're in luck, for sure. Lay off your things and pull up to the fire. It won't take a jiffy to parlay the ham and coffee—one calls three, as they say. No need to ask if you're well; you're prettier than ever, and some folks would call that impossible."

Jerry nodded in vigorous agreement. "You're as sweet as a bunch of jessamine, Letty. Why, you're like a breath of spring! What brought you out to see us, anyhow?"

"Dat's long story," 'Poleon answered. "Sapre! We got plenty talkin' to do. Letty she's goin' he'p you mak' de supper now, an' I fix dem dog. We goin' camp wit' you all night. Golly! We have beeg tam."

The new-comers had indeed introduced a breath of new, clean air. Of a sudden the cabin had brightened, it was vitalized, it was filled with a magic purpose and good humor. Rouletta flung aside her furs and bustled into the supper preparations. Soon the meal was ready. The first pause in her chatter came when she set the table for four and when Jerry protested that he had already dined.

The girl paused, plate in hand. "Then we WERE late and you didn't tell us," she pouted, reproachfully.

"No. I got through early, but Tom—he was held up in the traffic. You see, I don't eat much, anyhow. I just nibble around and take a cold snack where I can get it."

"And you let him!" Rouletta turned to chide the other partner. "He'll come down sick, Tom and you'll have to nurse him again. If you boys won't learn to keep regular meal hours I'll have to come out and run your house for you. Shall I? Speak up. What am I offered?"

Now this was the most insidious flattery. "Boys" indeed! Jerry chuckled, Tom looked up from the stove and his smoke-blue eyes were twinkling.

"I can't offer you more 'n a half-interest in the 'lay.' That's all I own."

"Is dis claim so reech lak people say?" 'Poleon inquired. "Dey're tellin' me you goin' mak' hondred t'ousan' dollar."

"We're just breastin' out—cross-cuttin' the streak, but—looky." Jerry removed a baking-powder can from the window-shelf and out of it he poured a considerable amount of coarse gold which the visitors examined with intense interest. "Them's our pannin's."

"How splendid!" Rouletta cried.

"I been clamorin' to hire some men and take life easy. I say put on a gang and h'ist it out, but"—Jerry shot a glance at his partner—"people tell me I'm vi'lent an' headstrong. They say, 'Prove it up.'"

Linton interrupted by loudly exclaiming, "Come and get it, strangers, or I'll throw it out and wash the skillet."

Supper was welcome, but, despite the diners' preoccupation with it, despite Tom's and Jerry's effort to conceal the fact of their estrangement, it became evident that something was amiss. Rouletta finally sat back and, with an accusing glance, demanded to know what was the matter.

The old men met her eyes with an assumption of blank astonishment.

"'Fess up," she persisted. "Have you boys been quarreling again?"

"Who? Us? Why, not exactly—"

"We sort of had words, mebbe."

"What about?"

There was an awkward, an ominous silence. "That," Mr. Linton said, in a harsh and firm voice, "is something I can't discuss. It's a personal matter." "It ain't personal with me," Jerry announced, carelessly. "We was talkin' about Tom's married life and I happened to say—"

"DON'T!" Linton's cry of warning held a threat. "Don't spill your indecencies in the presence of this child or—I'll hang the frying-pan around your neck. The truth is," he told Letty, "there's no use trying to live with a horn' toad. I've done my best. I've let him defame me to my face and degrade me before strangers, but he remains hostyle to every impulse in my being; he picks and pesters and poisons me a thousand times a day. And snore! My God! You ought to hear him at night."

Strangely enough, Mr. Quirk did not react to this passionate outburst. On the contrary, he bore it with indications of a deep and genuine satisfaction.

"He's workin' up steam to propose another divorce," said the object of Tom's tirade.

"That I am. Divorce is the word," Linton growled.

"WHOOP-EE!" Jerry uttered a high-pitched shout. "I been waitin' for that. I wanted him to say it. Now I'm free as air and twice as light. You heard him propose it, didn't you?"

"Wat you goin' do 'bout dis lay?" Toleon inquired.

"Split her," yelled Jerry.

"Dis cabin, too?"

"Sure. Slam a partition right through her."

"We won't slam no partition anywhere," Tom declared. "Think I'm going to lay awake every night listening to distant bugles? No. We'll pull her apart, limb from limb, and divvy the logs. It's a pest-house, anyhow. I'll burn my share."

Tom's positive refusal even to permit mention of the cause of the quarrel rendered efforts at a reconciliation difficult; 'Poleon's and Rouletta's attempts at badinage, therefore, were weak failures, and their conversation met with only the barest politeness. Now that the truth had escaped, neither partner could bring himself to a serious consideration of anything except his own injuries. They exchanged evil glances, they came into direct verbal contact only seldom, and when they did it was to clash as flint upon steel. No statement of the one was sufficiently conservative, sufficiently broad, to escape a sneer and an immediate refutation from the other. Evidently the rift was deep and was widening rapidly.

Of course the facts were revealed eventually—Rouletta had a way of winning confidences, a subtle, sweet persuasiveness—they had to do with the former Mrs. Linton, that shadowy female figure which had fallen athwart Tom's early life. It seemed that Jerry had referred to her as a "hellion."

Now the injured husband himself had often applied even more disparaging terms to the lady in question, therefore the visitors were puzzled at his show of rabid resentment; the most they could make out of it was that he claimed the right of disparagement as a personal and exclusive privilege, and considered detraction out of the lips of another a trespass upon his intimate private affairs, an aspersion and an insult. The wife of a man's bosom, he averred, was sacred; any creature who breathed disrespect of her into the ears of her husband was lower than a hole in the ground and lacked the first qualifications of a friend, a gentleman, or a citizen.

Jerry, on the other hand, would not look at the matter in this light. Tom had called the woman a "hellion," therefore he was privileged to do the same, and any denial of that privilege was an iniquitous encroachment upon HIS sacred rights. Those rights he proposed to safeguard, to fight for if necessary. He would shed his last drop of blood in their defense. No cantankerous old grouch could refuse him free speech and get away with it.

"You're not really mad at each other," Rouletta told them.

"AIN'T we?" they hoarsely chorused.

She shook her head. "You need a change, that's all. As a matter of fact, your devotion to each other is about the most beautiful, the most touching, thing I know. You'd lay down your lives for each other; you're like man and wife, and well you know it."

"Who? US?" Jerry was aghast. "Which one of us is the woman? I been insulted by experts, but none of 'em ever called me 'Mrs. Linton.' She was a tough customer, a regular hellion—"

"He's off again!" Tom growled. "Me lay down MY life for a squawking parrot! He'll repeat that pet word for the rest of time if I don't wring his neck."

"Mebbe so you lak hear 'bout some other feller's trouble," 'Poleon broke in, diplomatically.

"Wal, ma soeur she's come to you for help, queeck."

Both old men became instantly alert. "You in trouble?" Tom demanded of the girl. "Who's been hurting you, I'd like to know?"

Jerry, too, leaned forward, and into his widening eyes came a stormy look. "Sure! Has one of them crawlin' worms got fresh with you, Letty? Say—!" He reached up and removed his six-shooter from its nail over his bed.

Rouletta set them upon the right track. Swiftly but earnestly she recited the nature and the circumstances of the misfortune that had overtaken Pierce Phillips, and of the fruitless efforts his friends were making in his behalf. She concluded by asking her hearers to go his bail.

"Why, sure!" Linton exclaimed, with manifest relief. "That's easy. I'll go it, if they'll take me."

"There you are, hoggin' the curtain, as usual," Jerry protested. "I'll go his bail myself. I got him in trouble at Sheep Camp. I owe him—"

"I've known the boy longer than you have. Besides, I'm a family man; I know the anguish of a parent's heart—"

"Lay off that 'family' stuff," howled Mr. Quirk. "You know it riles me. I could of had as much of a family as you had if I'd wanted to. You'd think it give you some sort of privilege. Why, ever since we set up with Letty you've assumed a fatherly air even to her, and you act like I was a plumb outsider. You remind me of a hen—settin' on every loose door-knob you find."

"If you'd lay off the 'family' subject we'd get along better."

Once again the fray was on; it raged intermittently throughout the evening; it did not die out until bedtime put an end to it.

Rouletta and her three companions were late in reaching town on the following day, for they awakened to find a storm raging, and in consequence the trails were heavy. Out of this white smother they plodded just as the lights of Dawson were beginning to gleam. Leaving the men at the Barracks, the girl proceeded to her hotel. She had changed out of her trail clothes and was upon the point of hurrying down-town to her work when she encountered Hilda Courteau.

"Where in the world have you been?" the latter inquired.

"Nowhere, in the world," Rouletta smiled. "I've been quite out of it." Then she told of her and 'Poleon's trip to the mines and of their success. "Pierce will be at liberty inside of an hour," she declared.

"Well, I've—learned the truth."

Rouletta started; eagerly she clutched at the elder woman. "What? You mean—?"

"Yes. I wrung it out of Courteau. He confessed."

"It WAS a frame-up—a plot? Oh, my dear—!"

"Exactly. But don't get hysterical. I'm the one to do that. What a night, what a day I've put in!" The speaker shuddered, and Rouletta noticed for the first time how pale, how ill she looked.

"Then Pierce is free already? He's out—?"

"Not yet. I'll tell you everything if you'll promise not to breathe a word, not to interfere until Henri has a chance to square himself. I—think I've earned the right to demand that much. I told you the whole thing was counterfeit—was the work of Joe McCaskey. I couldn't believe Henri was up to such villainy. He's dissolute, weak, vain—anything you choose—but he's not voluntarily criminal. Well, I went to work on him. I pretended to- -" the Countess again shivered with disgust. "Oh, you saw what I was doing. I hated myself, but there was no choice. Things came to a climax last night. I don't like to talk about it—think about it—but you're bound to hear. I consented to go out with him. He dragged me through the dance-halls and the saloons—made me drink with him, publicly, and with the scum of the town." Noting the expression on her hearer's face, the Countess laughed shortly, mirthlessly. "Shocking, wasn't it? Low, indecent, wretched? That's what everybody is saying. Dawson is humming with it. God! How he humiliated me! But I loosened his tongue. I got most of the details—not all, but enough. It was late, almost daylight, before I succeeded. He slept all day, stupefied, and so did I, when I wasn't too ill.

"He remembered something about it, he had some shadowy recollection of talking too much. When he woke up he sent for me. Then we had it. He denied everything, of course. He lied and he twisted, but I'm the stronger—always have been. I beat him down, as usual. I could have felt sorry for the poor wretch only for what he had put me through. He went out not long ago."

"Where to? Tell me—"

"To the Police—to Colonel Cavendish. I gave him the chance to make a clean breast of everything and save his hide, if possible. If he weakens I'll take the bit in my teeth."

Rouletta stood motionless for a moment; then in deep emotion she exclaimed: "I'm so glad! And yet it must have been a terrible sacrifice. I think I understand how you must loathe yourself. It was a very generous thing to do, however. Not many women could have risen to it."

"I—hope he doesn't make me tell. I haven't much pride left, but— I'd like to save what remains, for you can imagine what Cavendish will think. A wife betraying her husband for her—for another man! What a story for those women on the hill!"

Impulsively Rouletta bent forward and kissed the speaker. "Colonel Cavendish will understand. He's a man of honor. But, after all, when a woman really—cares, there's a satisfaction, a compensation, in sacrifice, no matter how great."

Hilda Courteau's eyes were misty, their dark-fringed lids trembled wearily shut. "Yes," she nodded, "I suppose so. Bitter and sweet! When a woman of my sort, my age and experience, lets herself really care, she tastes both. All I can hope is that Pierce never learns what he made me pay for loving him. He wouldn't understand- -yet." She opened her eyes again and met the earnest gaze bent upon her. "I dare say you think I feel the same toward him as you do, that I want him, that I'm hungry for him. Well, I'm not. I'm 'way past that. I've been through fire, and fire purifies. Now run along, child. I'm sure everything will come out right."

The earlier snowfall had diminished when Rouletta stepped out into the night, but a gusty, boisterous wind had risen and this filled the air with blinding clouds of fine, hard particles, whirled up from the streets, and the girl was forced to wade through newly formed drifts that rose over the sidewalks, in places nearly to her knees. The wind flapped her garments and cut her bare cheeks like a knife; when she pushed her way into the Rialto and stamped the snow from her feet her face was wet with tears; but they were frost tears. She dried them quickly and with a song in her heart she hurried back to the lunch-counter and climbed upon her favorite stool. There it was that Doret and his two elderly companions found her.

"Well, we sprung him," Tom announced.

"All we done was sign on the dotted line," Jerry explained. "But, say, if that boy hops out of town he'll cost us a lot of money."

"How's he going to hop out?" Tom demanded. "That's the hell of this country—there's no getting away."

Jerry snorted derisively. "No gettin' away? What are you talkin' about? Ain't the Boundary within ninety miles? 'Ain't plenty of people made get-aways? All they need is a dog-team and a few hours' start of the Police."

"Everyt'ing's all fix'," 'Poleon told his sister. "I had talk wit' Pierce. He ain't comin' back here no more."

"Not coming back?" the girl exclaimed.

Doret met her startled gaze. "Not in dis kin' of place. He's cut 'em out for good. I mak' him promise."

"A touch of jail ain't a bad thing for a harum-scarum kid," Tom volunteered, as he finished giving his supper order. "It's a cold compress—takes down the fever—"

"Nothing of the sort," Jerry asserted. "Jails is a total waste of time. I don't believe in 'em. You think this boy's tamed, do you? Well, I talked with him, an' all I got to say is this: keep Courteau away from him or there's one Count you'll lose count of. The boy's got pizen in him, an' I don't blame him none. If I was him I'd make that Frog hop. You hear me."

'Poleon met Rouletta's worried glance with a reassuring smile. "I been t'inkin' 'bout dat, too. W'at you say I go pardners wit' him, eh? I got dog-team an' fine claim on hilltop. S'pose I geeve him half-interes' to go wit' me?"

"WILL you?" eagerly queried the girl.

"Already I spoke it to him. He say mebbe so, but firs' he's got li'l biznesse here."

"Of course! His case. But that will be cleared up. Mark what I say. Yes"—Rouletta nodded happily—"take him with you, 'Poleon— out where things are clean and healthy and where he can get a new start. Oh, you make me very happy!"

The woodsman laid a big hand gently over hers. In a low voice he murmured: "Dat's all I want, ma soeur—to mak' you happy. If dat claim is wort' million dollar' it ain't too much to pay, but—I'm scare' she's 'noder bum."

The song was still sounding in Rouletta's heart when she sat down at the faro-table, and all through the evening it seemed to her that the revelry round about was but an echo of her gladness. Pierce was free, his name was clean. Probably ere this the whole truth was known to the Mounted Police and by to-morrow it would be made public.

Moreover, he and 'Poleon were to be partners. That generous woodsman, because of his affection for her, proposed to take the young fellow into his heart and make a man of him. That was like him—always giving much and taking little. Well, she was 'Poleon's sister. Who could tell what might result from this new union of interests? Of course, there was no pay out there on that mountain- crest, but hard work, honest poverty, an end of these demoralizing surroundings were bound to affect Pierce only for the better. Rouletta blessed the name of Hilda Courteau, who had made this possible, and of 'Poleon Doret, too—'Poleon of the great heart, who loved her so sincerely, so unselfishly. He never failed her; he was a brother, truly—the best, the cheeriest, the most loyal in the world. Rouletta was amazed to realize what a part in her life the French Canadian had played. His sincere affection was about the biggest thing that had come to her, so it seemed.

Occupied with such comforting thoughts, Rouletta failed to note that the evening had passed more quickly than usual and that it was after midnight. When she did realize that fact, she wondered what could have detained Lucky Broad. Promptness was a habit with him; he and Bridges usually reported at least a half-hour ahead of time.

She caught sight of the pair, finally, through the wide archway, and saw that they were surrounded by an excited crowd, a crowd that grew swiftly as some whisper, some intelligence, spread with electric rapidity through the barroom. Yielding to a premonition that something was amiss, Rouletta asked the lookout to relieve her, and, rising, she hurried into the other hall. Even before she had come within sound of Lucky's voice the cause of the general excitement was made known to her. It came in the form of an exclamation, a word or two snatched out of the air. "Courteau!" "Dead!" "Shot—back street—body just found!"

Fiercely Rouletta fought her way through the press, an unvoiced question trembling upon her lips. Broad turned at her first touch.

"Tough, ain't it?" said he. "Me and the Kid stumbled right over him—kicked him out of the snow. We thought he'd been froze."

"We never dreamed he'd been shot till we got him clean down to the drug-store," Bridges supplemented. "Shot in the back, too."

Questions were flying back and forth now. Profiting by the confusion, Rouletta dragged Broad aside and queried, breathlessly:

"Was he dead—quite dead—?"

"Oh, sure!"

"Who—shot him?" The question came with difficulty. Lucky stared at his interrogator queerly, then he shrugged.

"Quien sabe? Nobody seen or heard the shooting. He'd been croaked a long while when we found him."

For a moment the two eyed each other silently. "Do you think—?" Rouletta turned her white face toward the cashier's cage.

"More 'n likely. He was bitter—he made a lot of cracks around the Barracks. The first thing the Police said when we notified 'em was, 'Where's Phillips?' We didn't know the boy was out until that very minute or—we'd 'a' done different. We'd 'a' left the Count in the drift and run Phillips down and framed an alibi. Think of us, his pals, turnin' up the evidence!" Lucky breathed an oath.

"Oh, why—?" moaned the girl. "He—It was so useless. Everything was all right. Perhaps—after all, he didn't do it."

"You know him as well as I do. I'm hoping he had better sense, but—he's got a temper. He was always talking about the disgrace."

"Has he gone? Can't you help him? He might make the Boundary—"

Broad shook his head. "No use. It's too late for that. If he's still here me 'n' the Kid will do our best to swear him out of it."

Rouletta swayed, she groped blindly at the bar rail for support, whereupon her companion cried in a low voice:

"Here! Brace up, or you'll tip it all off! If he stands pat, how they going to prove anything? The Count's been dead for hours. He was all drifted—"

Broad was interrupted by the Mocha Kid, who entered out of the night at that instant with the announcement: "Well, they got him! Rock found him, and he denies it, but they've got him at the Barracks, puttin' him through the third degree. I don't mind sayin' that Frenchman needed croakin', bad, and they'd ought to give Phillips a vote of thanks and a bronx tablet."

Mocha's words added to Rouletta's terror, for it showed that other minds ran as did hers. Already, it seemed to her, Pierce Phillips had been adjudged guilty. Through the murk of fright, of apprehension in which her thoughts were racing there came a name— 'Poleon Doret. Here was deep trouble, grave peril, a threat to her newfound happiness. 'Poleon, her brother, would know what to do, for his head was clear, his judgment was unerring. He never failed her. Blindly she ran for her wraps, hurriedly she flung them on, then plunged out into the night. As she scurried through the street, panic-stricken, beset, one man's name was in her thoughts, but another's was upon her lips. Over and over she kept repeating:

"'Poleon! Oh,'Poleon!"



CHAPTER XXVII

The news of Count Courteau's death traveled fast. 'Poleon Doret was not long in hearing of it, and of course he went at once in search of Rouletta. By the time he found her the girl's momentary panic had been succeeded by a quite unnatural self-possession; her perturbation had changed to an intense but governable agitation, and her mind was working with a clarity and a rapidity more than normal. This power of rising to an emergency she had doubtless inherited from her father. "One-armed" Kirby had been a man of resource, and, so long as he remained sober, he had never lost his head. Swiftly the girl told of the instant suspicion that had attached to Phillips and of his prompt apprehension.

"Who done dat shootin' if he don't?" Doret inquired, quickly.

"Joe McCaskey—or Frank," Rouletta answered with positiveness. 'Poleon started. Through the gloom he stared incredulously at the speaker.

"I'm sure of it, now that I've had time to think," the girl declared. "That's why I ran for you. Now listen! I promised not to tell this, but—I must. Courteau confessed to his wife that he and the McCaskeys trumped up that charge against Pierce. They paid Courteau well for his part—or they promised to—and he perjured himself, as did they. Hilda got the truth out of him while he was drunk. Of course he denied it later, but she broke him down, and this evening, just before we got home, he promised to go to Colonel Cavendish and make a clean breast of everything. He went out for that purpose, but—evidently he lacked courage to go through with it. Otherwise how did he come to be on the back streets? The McCaskeys live somewhere back yonder, don't they?"

"Sure!" 'Poleon meditated, briefly. "Mebbe so you're right," he said, finally.

"I know I'm right," Rouletta cried. "The first thing to do is find them. Where are they?"

"I don' see 'em no place."

"Then we must tell the colonel to look them up."

But Doret's brows remained puckered in thought. "Wait!" he exclaimed. "I got idea of my own. If dem feller kill Courteau dey ain't nowheres roun' here. Dey beat it, firs' t'ing."

"To Hunker? Perhaps—"

"No. For de Boun'ry." 'Poleon slapped his thigh in sudden enlightenment. "By golly! Dat's why I don' see 'em no place. You stay here. I mak' sure."

He turned and strode away, but Rouletta followed at his heels.

"I'm going, too," she stoutly asserted. "Don't argue. I'll bet ten to one we find their cabin empty."

Together they made their way rapidly out of the brightly illuminated portion of the town and into the maze of blank warehouses and snow-banked cabins which lay behind. At this hour of the night few lamps were burning even in private residences, and, inasmuch as these back streets were unlighted, the travelers had to feel their way. The wind was diminishing, but even yet the air was thick with flying flakes, and new drifts seriously impeded progress. Wading knee-deep in places, stumbling in and out of cuts where the late snow had been removed, clambering over treacherous slopes where other snows lay hard packed and slippery, the two pursued their course.

'Poleon came to a pause at length in the shelter of a pole provision-cache and indistinctly took his bearings. Silently he pointed to the premises and vigorously nodded his head; then he craned his neck for a view of the stove-pipe overhead. Neither sparks nor smoke nor heat was rising from it. After a cautious journey of exploration he returned to Rouletta and spoke aloud:

"Dey gone. Sled, dogs, ever't'ing gone."

He pushed open the cache door, and a moment later there came the sound of rending wood as he shouldered his way into the dark cabin, regardless of lock and bar. Rouletta was close behind him when he struck a match and held it to a candle which he discovered fixed in its own wax beside the window.

Curiously the interlopers surveyed the unfamiliar premises. Rouletta spoke first, with suppressed excitement:

"You were right. And they left in a hurry, too."

"Sure. Beddin' gone, an'—dey got plenty beddin' on Hunker. Here dey mak' grub-pack, see?" 'Poleon ran his finger through a white dust of flour which lay thick upon the table. Striding to the stove, he laid his hand upon it; he lifted the lid and felt of the ashes within. "Dey lef 'bout five hour' ago. Wal, dat's beeg start. I guess mebbe dey safe enough."

"Don't say that," Rouletta implored. "Rock can overtake them. He's a famous traveler."

"I dunno. Dey got good team—"

"He must catch them! Why, he has ninety miles to do it in! He must, 'Poleon, he MUST! Of course this is evidence, but it isn't proof. Remember, Pierce talked wildly. People are prejudiced against him and—you know the Police. They act on suspicion, and circumstances are certainly strong. Poor boy! If these men get away—who knows what may happen to him? I tell you his very life may be in danger, for the law is an awful thing. I—I've always been afraid of it. So was father, to his dying day. We must send Rock flying. Yes, and without a moment's delay."

"You still got deep feelin' for dat feller?" 'Poleon inquired, gravely. The quick look of anguish, the frank nod of assent that he received, were enough. "Bien!" he said, slowly. "I mak' satisfy, dat's all. I never see you so scare' as dis."

"You know how I feel," Rouletta said; then, more curiously: "Why do you need to make sure? Do you think I've changed—?" She hesitated for an instant; there came a faint pucker of apprehension between her brows; into her eyes crept a look of wonder which changed to astonishment, then to incredulity, fright. "Oh—h!" she exclaimed. She raised a faltering hand to her lips as if to stay a further betrayal of the knowledge that had suddenly come to her. "Oh, 'Poleon, my dear! My brother!"

The man smiled painfully as he met her shocked gaze. "I'm fonny feller, ma saeur; always dream-in' de mos' foolish t'ing. Don' pay no'tention."

"I am—I always will be that—your sister. Have I made you unhappy?"

Vigorously he shook his head; his face slowly cleared. "No, no. In dis life one t'ing is give me happiness—one t'ing alone—an' dat is bring you joy. Now come. De grass growin' on our feet."

Together and in silence they hurried back as they had come; then, on the plea that he could make better time alone, 'Poleon left his companion and headed for the Barracks.

Rouletta let him go without protest; her heart was heavier than lead; she could find no words whatever. A new tragedy, it seemed, had risen to face her, for she realized now that she had hurt the man who loved her best of all. That certainty filled her with such regret, such a feeling of guilt, that she could not bear to think of it. A very poignant sense of pain troubled her as she turned into the Rialto, and as a consequence the lively clatter of the place grated upon her sensibilities; she felt a miserable, sick desire to shut her ears to this sound of laughter which was like ribald applause for the death-blow she had dealt. Yes, she had dealt a death-blow, and to one most dear. But how could she have known? How could she have foreseen such a wretched complication as this? Who would have dreamed that gay, careless, laughing 'Poleon Doret was like other men? Rouletta felt the desire to bend her head and release those scalding tears that trembled on her lashes.

Lieutenant Rock was preparing for bed when 'Poleon, after some little difficulty, forced his way in upon him. The officer listened to his caller's recital, and even before it was finished he had begun to dress himself in his trail clothes.

"Courteau confessed, eh? And the McCaskeys have disappeared—taken French leave. Say! That changes the look of things, for a fact. Of course they may have merely gone back to Hunker—"

"In de middle of snow-storm? Dis tam de night? No. Dey makin' run for de Line an' it's goin' tak' fas' team for pull 'em down."

"Well, I've got the best dogs in town."

Rock's caller smiled. "M'sieu', dey goin' travel some if dey keep in sight of me."

"YOU?" Rock straightened himself. "Will you go along? Jove! I'd like that!" he cried, heartily. "I've heard you own a lively bunch of mutts."

"I give you tas'e of Injun travel. Better you dress light an' buckle up dat belt, for I got reason to fin' out who keel Courteau. I ain't goin' sleep no more till I know."

The officer smiled as he declared: "That suits me exactly. We may not catch them, but—they'll know they've been in a race before they thumb their noses at us from across the Boundary. Now see how fast you can harness up."

It was considerably after midnight when 'Poleon swung his dog-team into the lighted space in front of the Rialto; nevertheless, many people were about, for Dawson was a city of sleep-haters. The sight of a racing-team equipped for a flying trip at this hour of the night evoked instant interest and speculation, pointing, as it did, to a new gold discovery and a stampede. Stampedes were frequent, they never failed to create a sensation, therefore the woodsman was soon the center of an inquisitive crowd. Not until he had fully explained the nature of his business was suspicion allayed; then his word that Joe and Frank McCaskey had fled for the Boundary ran up and down the street and caused even greater excitement.

Rouletta came hurrying forth with the others, and to her 'Poleon made known his intention of accompanying the fleet-footed Rock.

"Nobody is able to catch dem feller but him an' me," he explained. "Dey got too long start."

"You think they may get across?" she queried, apprehensively.

"Five, six hour, dat's beeg edge. But me—" The speaker shrugged. "Forty Mile, Circle, Fort Yukon, Rampart, it mak' no differ. I get 'em some place, if I go plumb to St. Michael's. When I get goin' fas' it tak' me long tam for run down."

Rouletta's eyes opened. "But, 'Poleon—you can't! There's the Boundary. You're not an officer; you have no warrant."

"Dem t'ing is dam' nuisance," he declared. "I don' savvy dis law biznesse. You say get 'em. Bien! I do it."

Rouletta stared curiously, wonderingly into the big fellow's face; she was about to put her thoughts into words when a shout arose from the crowd as the Police team streamed into view. Down the street it came at a great pace, flashing through shadows and past glaring lighted fronts, snatching the light hickory sled along behind as if it were a thing of paper. Rock balanced himself upon the runner heels until, with a shout, he put his weight upon the sharp-toothed sled brake and came to a pause near 'Poleon. The rival teams plunged into their collars and set up a pandemonium of yelping, but willing hands held them from flying at one another's throats. Meanwhile, saloon doors were opening, the street was filling; dance-hall girls, white-aproned bartenders, bleary-eyed pedestrians, night-owls—all the queerly assorted devotees of Dawson's vivid and roisterous nocturnal life hastened thither; even the second-story windows framed heads, for this clamor put slumber to flight without delay.

The wind was no longer strong, and already a clearing sky was evidenced by an occasional winking star; nevertheless, it was bitterly cold and those who were not heavily clad were forced to stamp their feet and to whip their arms in order to keep their blood in motion.

Nothing is more exciting, more ominous, than a man-hunt; doubly portentous was this one, the hasty preparations for which went forward in the dead of night. Dawson had seen the start of more than one race for the Boundary and had awaited the outcome with breathless interest. Most of the fugitives overtaken had walked back into town, spent, famished, frost-blackened, but there were some who had returned on their backs, wrapped in robe or canvas and offering mute testimony to the speedy and relentless efficiency of the men from the Barracks. Of that small picked corps Lieutenant Rock was by long odds the favorite. Now, therefore, he was the center of attention, and wagers were laid that he would catch his men, however rapidly they traveled, however great their start. Only a few old-timers—"sour-doughs" from the distant reaches of the Yukon—knew 'Poleon Doret, but those few drew close to him and gave the lieutenant little notice. This French Canadian they regarded as the most tireless traveler in all the North; about him, therefore, they assembled, and to him they addressed their questions and offered their advice.

The dogs were inspired, now, with the full intoxication of the chase; they strained forward fretfully, their gray plumes waving, their tongues lolling, their staccato chorus adding to the general disturbance. When the word came to go, they leaped into their harness, and with a musical jingle of bells they swept down toward the river; over the steep bank they poured, and were gone. A shout of encouragement followed Rock as he was snapped into the blackness, then noisily the crowd bolted for the warm interiors behind them.

Rouletta was slow in leaving; for some time she stood harkening to the swift diminuendo of those tinkling sleigh-bells, staring into the night as if to fix in her mind's eye the picture of what she had last seen, the picture of a mighty man riding the rail of a plunging basket sled. In spite of the biting cold he was stripped down; a thin drill parka sufficed to break the temper of the wind, light fur boots were upon his feet, the cheek pieces of his otter cap were tied above his crown. He had turned to wave at her and to shout a word of encouragement just before he vanished. That was like him, she told herself—eager to spare her even the pain of undue apprehension. The shock of her discovery of an hour ago was still too fresh in Rouletta's memory; it was still too new and too agitating to permit of orderly thought, yet there it stood, stark and dismaying. This woodsman loved her, no longer as a sister, but as the one woman of his choice. As yet she could not reconcile herself to such a state of affairs; her attempts to do so filled her with mixed emotions. Poor 'Poleon! Why had this come to him? Rouletta's throat swelled; tears not of the wind or the cold stood in her eyes once again; an aching tenderness and pity welled up from her heart.

She became conscious finally that her body was growing numb, so she bestirred herself. She had taken but a step or two, however, when some movement in the shadows close at hand arrested her. Peering into the gloom, she discovered a figure. It was Laure.

The girl wore some sort of wrap, evidently snatched at random, but under it she was clad in her dance-hall finery, and she, too, was all but frozen.

Rouletta was about to move on, when the other addressed her through teeth that clicked like castanets.

"I got here—late. Is it true? Have they—gone after Joe and Frank?"

"Yes."

"What happened? I—I haven't heard. Don't they think—Pierce did it?"

"You KNOW he didn't do it," Rouletta cried. "Neither did he steal Courteau's money."

"What do you mean, 'I know'?" Laure's voice was harsh, imperative. She clutched at the other girl; then, as Rouletta hesitated, she regained control of herself and ran on, in a tone bitterly resentful: "Oh, you'd like to get him out of it—save him for yourself—wouldn't you? But you can't. You can't have him. I won't let you. My God! Letty, he's the only thing I ever cared for! I never had even a dog or a cat or a canary of my own. Think a little bit of me."

Almost dazed by this mingled accusation and appeal, Rouletta at length responded by a question, "Then why haven't you done something to clear him?"

Laure drew her flimsy wrap closer; she was shaking wretchedly. When she spoke her words were spilled from her lips as if by the tremors of her body. "I could help. I would, but—you sha'n't have him. Nobody shall! I'd rather see him dead. I'd—No, no! I don't know what I'm saying. I'd sooner die than hurt him. I'd do my bit, only—McCaskey'd kill me. Say. Will Rock get him, d'you think? I hear he gets his man every time. But Joe's different; he's not the ordinary kind; he's got the devil in him. Frank—he's a dog, but Joe'll fight. He'll kill—at the drop of the hat. So will Rock, I suppose. Maybe he'll kill them both, eh? Or maybe they'll kill him and get away. I don't care which way it goes—"

"Don't talk like that!" Rouletta exclaimed.

"I mean it," Laure ran on, crazily. "Yes, Joe'd kill anybody that stood in his way or doublecrossed him. I guess I know. Why, he told me so himself! And Courteau knew it, perfectly well—the poor fool!—but look at him now. He got his, didn't he?"

Rouletta laid a cold hand upon the shivering, distracted creature before her. Sternly she said:

"I believe you know who committed that murder. You act as if you did."

"I'm a g-good guesser, but—I can keep my mouth shut. I know when I'm well off. That's more than the Count knew."

"And you probably know something about his robbery, too. I mean that gold-sack—"

Laure cast off the hand that rested upon her; she looked up quickly. "If I did, d'you think I'd tell you? Well, hardly. But I don't. I don't know anything, except that—Pierce is a thief. He stole and gave me the money. He did that regularly, and that's more than he'd do for you. You may as well know the truth. Cavendish knows it. You think he's too good for me, don't you? Well, he isn't. And you're no better than I am, either, for that matter. You've got a nerve to put on airs. God! How I hate you and your superior ways."

"Never mind me. I want to know who killed Count Courteau."

"All right. Wait till Rock comes back and ask him. He thinks he'll find out, but—we'll see. Joe McCaskey'll be over the Line and away, thank Heaven! If anything happens and they should overtake him—well, he'll fight. He'll never come in alive, never." Turning, the speaker stumbled toward the lights of the saloon, and as she went Rouletta heard her mutter again: "He'll never come in alive, never. Thank God for that!"



CHAPTER XXVIII

From Dawson City the Yukon flows in a northwesterly direction toward the International Boundary, and although the camp is scarcely more than fifty miles due east of American territory, by the river it is ninety. Since the Yukon is the main artery of travel, both winter and summer—there being no roads or trails—it behooved those malefactors who fled the wrath of the Northwest Mounted Police to obtain a liberal start, for ninety miles of dead flat going is no easy run and the Police teams were fleet of foot. Time was when evil-doers had undertaken to escape up-river, or to lose themselves in the hills to the northward, but this was a desperate adventure at best and had issued in such uniform disaster as to discourage its practice. The Police had won the reputation of never leaving a trail, and, in consequence, none but madmen longer risked anything except a dash for American soil, and even then only with a substantial margin of time in their favor.

But the winter winds are moody, the temper of the Arctic is uncertain, hence luck played a large part in these enterprises. Both Rock and Doret were sufficiently familiar with the hazards and the disappointments of travel at this time of year to feel extremely doubtful of overhauling the two McCaskeys, and so they were by no means sanguine of success as they drove headlong into the night.

Both teams were loaded light; neither driver carried stove, tent, or camp duffle. Sleeping-bags, a little cooked food for themselves, a bundle of dried fish for the dogs, that was the limit the pursuers had allowed themselves. Given good weather, nothing more was needed. In case of a storm, a sudden blizzard, and a drop in temperature, this lack of equipment was apt to prove fatal, but neither traveler permitted himself to think about such things. Burdened thus lightly, the sleds rode high and the malamutes romped along with them. When the late dawn finally came it found them far on their way.

That wind, following the snowfall of the day before, had been a happy circumstance, for in many places it had blown the trail clean, so that daylight showed it winding away into the distance like a thread laid down at random. Here and there, of course, it was hidden; under the lee of bluffs or of wooded bends, for instance, it was drifted deep, completely obliterated, in fact, and in such places even a seasoned musher would have floundered aimlessly, trying to hold it. But 'Poleon Doret possessed a sixth sense, it appeared, and his lead dog, too, had unusual sagacity. Rock, from his position in the rear, marveled at the accuracy with which the woodsman's sled followed the narrow, hard-packed ridge concealed beneath the soft, new covering. Undoubtedly the fellow knew his business and the officer congratulated himself upon bringing him along.

They had been under way for five or six hours when the tardy daylight came, but even thereafter Doret continued to run with his hand upon his sled. Seldom did he ride, and then only for a moment or two when the going was best. For the most part he maintained a steady, swinging trot that kept pace with the pattering feet ahead of him and caused the miles rapidly to drop behind. Through drifts knee-deep, through long, soft stretches he held to that unfaltering stride; occasionally he turned his head and flashed a smile or waved his hand at the man behind.

Along about ten o'clock he halted his team where a dead spruce overhung the river-bank. By the time Rock had pulled in behind him he had clambered up the bank, ax in hand, and was making the chips fly. He sent the dry top crashing down, then explained:

"Dem dogs go better for l'il rest. We boil de kettle, eh?"

Rock wiped the sweat from his face. "You're certainly hitting it off, old man. We've made good time, but I haven't seen any tracks. Have you?"

"We see 'em bimeby."

"Kind of a joke if they hadn't come, after all—if they'd really gone out to Hunker. Gee! The laugh would be on us."

"Dey come dis way," 'Poleon stoutly maintained.

Soon a blaze was going; then, while the ice in the blackened tea- bucket was melting, the drivers sliced a slab of bacon into small cubes and fed it sparingly to their animals, after which they carefully examined the dogs' feet and cleaned them of ice and snow pellets.

The tea was gulped, the hardtack swallowed, and the travelers were under way again almost before their sweaty bodies had begun to chill. On they hurried, mile after mile, sweeping past bends, eagerly, hopefully scanning every empty tangent that opened up ahead of them. They made fast time indeed, but the immensity of the desolation through which they passed, the tremendous scale upon which this country had been molded, made their progress seem slower than an ant-crawl.

Eventually 'Poleon shouted something and pointed to the trail underfoot. Rock fancied he could detect the faint, fresh markings of sled runners, but into them he could not read much significance. It was an encouragement, to be sure, but, nevertheless, he still had doubts, and those doubts were not dispelled until Doret again halted his team, this time beside the cold embers of a fire. Fresh chips were scattered under the bank, charred fagots had embedded themselves in the ice and were frozen fast, but 'Poleon interpreted the various signs without difficulty.

"Here dey mak' breakfas'—'bout daylight," said he. "Dey go slower as us."

"But they're going pretty fast, for all that. We'll never get them this side of Forty Mile."

"You don' spec' it, do you? Dey got beeg scare, dem feller. Dey runnin' so fas' dey can."

Forty Mile, so called because the river of that name enters the Yukon forty miles above the Boundary, was a considerable camp prior to the Dawson boom, but thereafter it had languished, and this winter it was all but deserted. So, too, was Cudahy, the rival trading-post a half-mile below. It was on the bars of this stream that the earliest pioneers had first found gold. Here at its mouth, during the famine days before the steamboats came, they had cached their supplies; here they had brewed their hootch in the fall and held high carnival to celebrate their good luck or to drown their ill-fortune.