Rock and his companion pulled up the bank and in among the windowless cabins during the afternoon; they had halted their dogs before the Mounted Police station, only to find the building locked and cold. The few faithful Forty-Milers who came out to exchange greetings explained that both occupants of the barracks had gone down-river to succor some sick Indians.

Rock was disgusted, but his next question elicited information that cheered him. Yes, a pair of strangers had just passed through, one of them an active, heavy-set fellow, the other a tall, dark, sinister man with black eyes and a stormy demeanor. They had come fast and they had tarried only long enough to feed their dogs and to make some inquiries. Upon learning that the local police were on the main river somewhere below, they had held a consultation and then had headed up the Forty Mile.

"UP Forty Mile?" Rock cried, in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"We seen 'em go," his informant declared. "That's what made us think there was something wrong. That's why we been on the lookout for you. We figgered they was on the dodge and hard pressed, but we couldn't do nothing about it. You see, it's only about twenty- three miles to the Line up Forty Mile. Down the Yukon it's forty. They been gone 'most two hours, now."

"What do you want 'em for?" another bystander inquired.

"Murder," Rock exclaimed, shortly; then he heaved his sled into motion once more, for 'Poleon had started his team and was making off through the town. Down into the bed of the smaller stream the pursuers made their way and up this they turned. Again they urged their dogs into a run. It took some effort to maintain a galloping pace now, for the teams were tiring, and after some mental calculations Rock shook his head doubtfully. Of course, his quarry was at a disadvantage, there being two men to one sled, but— twenty-three miles, with a two-hour start! It was altogether too great a handicap. The lieutenant had figured on that last forty miles, the last five or ten, in fact, but this change of direction had upset all his plans and his estimates. Evidently the McCaskeys cared not how nor where they crossed the Line, so long as they crossed it quickly and got Canadian territory behind them. Barring accident, therefore, which was extremely unlikely, Rock told himself regretfully that they were as good as gone. Two hours! It was too much. On the other hand, he and 'Poleon now had a fresh trail to follow, while the fleeing brothers had unbroken snow ahead of them, and that meant that they must take turns ahead of their dogs. Then, too, fifty miles over drifted trails at this season of the year was a heavy day's work, and the McCaskeys must be very tired by now, for neither was in the best of condition. In the spring, when the snows were wet and sled runners ran as if upon grease, such a journey would have been no great effort, but in this temperature the steel shoes creaked and a man's muscles did not work freely. Men had been known to play out unexpectedly. After all, there was a possibility of pulling them down, and as long as there was that possibility the Mounted Policeman refused to quit.

Rock assured himself that this flight had established one thing, at least, and that was Pierce Phillips' innocence of the Courteau killing. The murderers were here; there could be no doubt of it. Their frantic haste confessed their guilt. Friendship for the boy, pride in his own reputation, the memory of that ovation he had received upon leaving, gave the officer new strength and determination, so he shut his teeth and spurred his rebellious limbs into swifter action. There was no longer any opportunity of riding the sled, even where the trail was hard, for some of the Police dogs were limping and loafing in their collars. This was indeed a race, a Marathon, a twenty-three-mile test of courage and endurance, and victory would go to him who could call into fullest response his last uttermost ounce of reserve power.

Doret had promised that he would show his trail-mate how to travel, and that promise he had made good; all day he had held the lead, and without assistance from the lash. Even now his dogs, while not fresh, were far from exhausted. As for the man himself, Rock began to feel a conviction that the fellow could go on at this rate eternally.

Luck finally seemed to break in favor of the pursuers; accident appeared to work in their behalf. The day was done, night was again upon them, when Doret sent back a cry of warning, and, leaping upon his sled, turned his leader at right angles toward the bank.

His companion understood the meaning of that move, but the Police team was less responsive to command, and before Rock could swing them he felt his feet sink into soft slush.

"Dam' overflow!" Doret panted when the two teams were safely out upon the bank. "You wet your feet, eh?"

Apprehensively the officer felt of his moccasins; they were wet to the touch, but as yet no moisture had penetrated his socks. "You yelled in the nick of time," he declared, as he dried his soles in the loose snow.

"Dem feller got in it ankle-deep. I bet we fin' camp-fire soon."

This prediction came true. As the travelers rounded the next bluff they smelled the odor of burning spruce and came upon a trampled bed of boughs beside which some embers were still smoldering.

"Jove! That gives us a chance, doesn't it?" Rock panted.

His companion smiled. "We goin' start travel now, for sure. Dey can't be more 'n a mile or two ahead."

Down upon the river-bed the teams rushed. With biting lash and sharp commands the drivers urged them into a swifter run. Rock was forcing his dogs now; he made the smoke fly from their hides when they lagged. He vowed that he would not permit this French Canadian to outdistance him. He swore a good deal at his malamutes; he cursed himself as a weakling, a quitter; anger at his fatigue ran through him.

The travelers were up among the hills by now. Occasionally they passed a deserted cabin, home of some early gold-digger. Valleys dark with night opened up to right and to left as the Forty Mile wound higher, deeper into the maze of rounded domes: the Boundary was close at hand. The hillsides hid their feet in black thickets of spruce, but their slopes were thinly timbered, their crests were nearly bare, and the white snow gave off a dim radiance that made traveling possible even after the twilight had deepened. By and by it grew lighter and the north horizon took on a rosy flush that spread into a tremendous flare. The night was still, clear, crackly; it was surcharged with some static force, and so calm was the air, so deathlike the hush, that the empty valley rang like a bell. That mysterious illumination in the north grew more and more impressive; great ribbons, long pathways of quivering light, unrolled themselves and streamed across the sky; they flamed and flickered, they writhed and melted, disappearing, reappearing, rising, falling. It was as if the lid had been lifted from some stupendous caldron and the heavens reflected the radiance from its white-hot contents. Mighty fingers, like the beams of polar search-lights, groped through the voids overhead; tumbling waves of color rushed up and dashed themselves away into space; the whole arch of the night was lit as from a world in flames. Red, yellow, orange, violet, ultra-violet—the tints merged with one another bewilderingly and the snows threw back their flicker until coarse print would have been readable. Against that war of clashing colors the mountain-crests stood out in silhouette and the fringe of lonely wind-twisted trunks high up on their saddles were etched in blackest ink.

It was a weird, an unearthly effect; it was exciting, too. As always when the Aurora is in full play, the onlookers marveled that such a tremendous exhibition of energy could continue in such silence. That was the oddest, the most impressive feature of all, for the crash of avalanches, the rumble of thunder, the diapason of a hundred Niagaras, should have accompanied such appalling phenomena. It seemed odd indeed that the whine of sled runners, the scuff of moccasins, the panting of dogs, should be the only audible sounds.

There were other overflows underfoot now, but the cold had frozen them and the going was getting constantly better. The snow was thin and in places the sleds slewed sidewise and the dogs ran on slack traces across long stretches of bare glare ice. It was while negotiating such a place as this that Rock paid the price of his earlier carelessness. Doret's dry moose-skin soles had a sure grip, hence he never hesitated, but the lieutenant's moccasins were like a pair of tin shoes now and, without warning, he lost his footing. He was running swiftly at the moment; he strove to save himself, to twist in midair, but he failed. 'Poleon heard a cry of pain and dismay, so he halted his team and came striding back. Rock raised himself, then took a step, but faltered and clung helplessly to the handlebars. He began to curse furiously; he undertook to estimate the extent of his injury, then explained:

"My foot doubled under me and I came down on it like a ton of bricks. By Heavens! I believe something broke!"

'Poleon was solicitous. He blamed himself, too. "It's dem wet moccasin'. I should have stop' an' mak' you change," said he.

"We can't stop," Rock groaned. "I'll be all right as soon as—" The words ended in another explosive oath as he again put his weight upon the injured member. Blasphemy poured from his lips as repeatedly he tried to force his foot to carry him. He cursed himself for a clumsy, blundering ass; he shouted at his dogs; he sent his sled forward and lurched along behind it, half supporting himself, until 'Poleon finally halted him.

"It's no good mak' bad t'ing worse, M'sieu'," the woodsman declared. "You bus' him for sure, an' it's no use goin' furder. S'pose mebbe we boil de kettle, eh?"

"And let them get away clean? When we had 'em? They can't be a mile ahead. Let 'em slip between our fingers?" raved the officer. "I can't. I won't—"

"We mak' li'l fire an' look him over dat foot. Me, I t'ink you don' walk no more for two, free week'."

"You go! I'll deputize you! Get 'em, Doret, quick! You can do it! I'll wait! Go ahead!"

The other nodded. "Sure, I can get 'em! I never have no doubt 'bout dat in de least, but it's better we fix you comfor'ble."

"They'll be across, I tell you—over the Line—"

"I came pas' dat place more 'n once or twice"—the French Canadian grinned—"an' I never seen it no Line." He forced his companion to lower himself upon the sled, then swung it toward the river-bank, calling upon his own lead dog to follow. Up and into the shelter of the spruce he drove the Police team; quickly he felled dry wood and kindled a fire. This took but a few moments, but Rock was wet with sweat and in consequence he was shivering wretchedly; his teeth were chattering even before the blaze had taken hold. 'Poleon continued to work with what speed he could, and in a surprisingly short time he had built a snug wickiup and filled it with boughs. This done, he unhitched and fed both teams, spread Rock's sleeping-bag under the shelter, and set a pail of snow to melt. By the light of the fire he examined the latter's injury, but could make little of it, for already it was badly swollen and every manipulation caused its owner extreme pain. There were no remedies available; there was not even a vessel of sufficient size in which to bathe the foot; hence 'Poleon contented himself by bandaging it and helping his trail-mate into bed.

Not since leaving Dawson had either man tasted hot food, but their hunger was as nothing to their thirst. Even in this length of time their bodies had shrunk, withered, inside their clothing, and for perhaps an hour they took turns greedily draining the pail of its tepid contents. Under intense cold the human body consumes itself at a rapid rate. Once it has burned itself out it preys upon those deep-hidden forces which nature holds in reserve, and the process of recuperation waits upon a restoration of a normal balance of moisture.

Both men were weighed down by an aching, nightmare fatigue, and as they sat gulping hot water, absorbing heat from within and without, their muscles set and they felt as if their limbs had turned to stone.

But, once the first mad craving for drink had been assuaged, they fried bacon and made tea. Like wolves they fell upon the salt meat; they dipped the hot grease up in their spoons and swallowed it with relish; they crunched their hardtack and washed the powdery mouthfuls down with copious draughts from the blackened pail. When the tea was gone they brewed another scalding bucketful.

Rock lay back, finally, but the movement caused him to bare his teeth in agony. At 'Poleon's quick inquiry he shook his head.

"I'm all right," he declared. "Good for the night. You can pull out any time you want to."

"Dere's plenty tam." 'Poleon lit his pipe and reached again for the tea-bucket.

"Better go before you stiffen up."

"I go bimeby—sooner I get li'l drinkin' done."

"They'll fight," Rock announced, after a silence of perhaps five minutes. "I feel pretty rotten, playing out like this."

"You done firs' rate," the woodsman told him. "If I come alone I catch 'em ten mile below, but—li'l tam, more less, don' mak' no differ."

"I believe you WOULD have got 'em," the officer acknowledged. After a time he persisted: "They'll put up a battle, Doret. You'll need to be careful."

'Poleon was squatted Indian fashion over the blaze; he was staring fixedly into the flames, and an aboriginal reticence had settled upon him. After a long time he answered: "Mebbe so I keel de beeg feller. I dunno. So long one is lef' I mak' him clear dat boy Phillips."

"Decent of you to take a chance like that for Pierce," Rock resumed. "It's different with me; I have to do it. Just the same, I wouldn't care to follow those fellows over the Boundary. I don't think you'd better try it."

In spite of his suffering, the lieutenant fell into a doze; whether he slept ten minutes or an hour he never knew, but he awoke, groaning, to find the big woodsman still bulked over the campfire, still smoking, still sipping tea. Rock ate and drank some more; again he slept. For a second time his pain roused him, and once more he marveled to discover 'Poleon occupied as before. It seemed to him that the fellow would never satisfy himself. Eventually, however, the latter arose and made preparations to leave.

The Northern Lights had flickered out now; the empty sky was sprinkled with a million stars which glittered like scintillating frost jewels frozen into the dome of heaven; there were no sounds whatever to break the deathlike silence of the night, for the Arctic wastes are all but lifeless. There were no bird-calls, no sounds of insects, not even the whisper of running water, for the river was locked deep beneath its icy armor.

"You got 'nough wood to las' long tam," 'Poleon declared. "If I don' come back, dem Forty Mile Police is sure to pick you up."

"I can go in alone if I have to," the injured man declared. "Au revoir and good luck."

'Poleon made no attempt to hurry his tired team; for several miles he plodded along behind them, guiding them to right or left by a low-spoken word. Years before, he had rocked on the bars of this stream; therefore its landmarks were familiar to him, and in spite of the darkness he readily identified them. In time he made out the monuments marking the International Boundary, and a short distance beyond that point he unhitched his dogs, then took a carbine from his sled and slipped it full of shells. Next he removed his lash rope, coiled it, and placed it in his pocket, after which he resumed his journey alone.

Occasionally he dimly glimpsed deserted cabins, habitations built by the gold-diggers of other days. Carefully he followed the all but indistinguishable sled tracks ahead of him until they swerved abruptly in toward the bank. Here he paused, pulled a mitten, and, moistening a finger, held it up to test the wind. What movement there was to the air seemed to satisfy him, for, step by step, he mounted the steep slope until his head finally rose over its crest. Against the skyline he now made out a small clearing; straining his eyes, he could see the black square of a cabin wall. No light shone from it, therefore he argued that his men had supped and were asleep. He had assumed that they would not, could not, go far beyond the Boundary; he had purposely allowed them sufficient time in which to overcome the first agony of fatigue and to fall asleep. He wondered apprehensively where they had put their dogs, and if by any evil chance the McCaskey team included an "outside" dog of the watchful, barking variety.

Gingerly he stepped out, and found that the snow underfoot gave off only the faintest whisper. Like a shadow he stole closer to the hut, keeping the imperceptible night breeze in his face.

So noiseless was his approach that the tired dogs, snugly curled each in its own deep bed of snow, did not hear him—your malamutes that are broken to harness are bad watch-dogs at best. Not until he had melted into the gloom beneath the wide overhang above the cabin door did the first disturbance come. Then something started into life and the silence was broken.

'Poleon saw that a canvas sled-cover had been used to curtain the door opening, and during the instant following the alarm he brushed the tarpaulin aside and stepped into the pitch-black interior.

It had been a swift maneuver, the result of a lightning-like decision, and not so reckless as it appeared.

He stood now with his back to the rough log wall, every muscle in his body taut, his ears strained for some sound, some challenge. He had been prepared for a shot out of the darkness, but nothing came. His lungs were filling with the first deep breath of relief when a sleepy voice spoke:

"That you, Frank?" 'Poleon remained fixed in his tracks. "Frank!" There was a moment's pause, then, "FRANK!"

Followed a rustle as of a body turning, then a startled mumble in answer.

"Was that you?" Joe McCaskey's voice again demanded.

"Me? What—?"

"Was you outside?"

"Outside?"

"I heard the dogs rowing. They're stirring now. Hear 'em? I'll swear I saw that fly drop—" McCaskey's words died out and again the interior of the cabin became soundless.

"Who's there?" the former speaker suddenly barked.

When another moment had dragged by, a sulphur match was struck. For a second or two it shed a sickly blue radiance sufficient only to silhouette a pair of hands cupped over it; then, as the flame ignited the tiny shaft, it burst into a yellow glow and sent the shadows of the cabin leaping.

Joe McCaskey uttered a cry, a scream. The flame was crushed in his palms and again the cabin was ink black. It remained as silent as before except for a dry rattling of breath in the elder brother's throat.

"Wha—what'd you—see?" the younger one gasped. Both men were now fully awake, but, disregarding the question, Joe cried, wildly:

"Who are you? What d'you want?" And then, when no answer came: "Christ! SAY something."

'Poleon could hear the wretch moisten his dry lips; he could picture both men sitting bolt upright in their sleeping-bags; he could feel the terror that was creeping over them.

"Who'd you see?" Frank whispered again.

"S-something big! Right there! By God! Something's in here!"

Joe's tone was firmer now; nevertheless, fright still held him motionless, paralyzed. He was staring with blind eyes into the velvet blackness, and his flesh was rippling with a superstitious horror of that formless creature he had glimpsed. What was it that had walked in out of the night and now crouched ready to spring? Nothing human, nothing natural, that was sure.

Similar thoughts raced madly through his brother's brain, and the latter let forth a thin wail—almost a sob. The sound set Joe into motion. Swiftly but clumsily he fumbled through the dry grass with which his bunk was filled. He uttered a throaty curse, for he had laid his revolver by his side, right where his hand would fall upon it. Where was the thing—?

Joe's body turned rigid, his shaking fingers grew stiff and useless, when out of the darkness came a sigh—faint but unmistakable; whence it issued neither brother could tell.

With another shriek Frank fell back and burrowed into his sleeping-bag.



CHAPTER XXIX

Rouletta Kirby spent an anxious and a thoughtful night. The more she dwelt upon Laure's peculiar behavior the more it roused her suspicions and the more she felt justified in seeking an interview with Colonel Cavendish. She rose early, therefore, and went to Police Headquarters.

Two people were in the office when she entered, one a redcoat, evidently acting in some clerical capacity; the other a girl whom Rouletta had never seen. The colonel was engaged, so Rouletta was told, and she sat down to wait. With furtive curiosity she began to study this other young woman. It was plain that the latter was a privileged person, for she made herself perfectly at home and appeared to be not in the least chilled by the official formality of her surroundings. She wandered restlessly about the room, humming a tune under her breath; she readjusted the window- curtains to her liking; she idly thumbed the books upon the shelves; finally she perched herself upon the table in the midst of the documents upon which the officer was engaged, and began a low-voiced conversation with him.

Rouletta was not a little impressed by this stranger. She had never seen a finer, healthier, cleaner-cut girl. Here for once was a "nice" woman of the town who did not stare at her with open and offensive curiosity. She was not surprised when she overheard the Police officer address her as "Miss Cavendish." No wonder this girl had poise and breeding—the Cavendishes were the best people in the community. With a jealous pang the caller reflected that the colonel's daughter was very much what she herself would like to be, very much her ideal, so far as she could judge.

When, eventually, the commandant himself emerged from his sanctum, he paused for a moment at his daughter's side; then he approached Rouletta.

Very briefly the latter made known the reason of her presence, and the colonel nodded.

"You did quite right in coming here," he declared, "and I'm sure this dance-hall girl knows more than she has told. In fact, I was on the point of sending for her. Please wait until she arrives. Perhaps we can straighten out this whole unpleasant affair informally. I'll need Phillips, too. Meanwhile, there's a friend of yours inside." Stepping to the inner door, he spoke to some one, and an instant later the Countess Courteau came forth.

Rouletta had not seen the Countess alone since early the previous evening. She went swiftly to her now and placed an arm about her shoulders. Hilda responded to this mark of sympathy with a weary smile.

"Well, I had to go through with it to the bitter end," she said, in a low voice. "Henri didn't spare me even that."

Rouletta pressed her closer, murmuring: "Colonel Cavendish is a fine man—I'm sure he understands. You've undergone a dreadful ordeal, but—it's nearly over. He's sending for Laure now. She can tell a good deal, if she will."

"About the theft, yes. But what about the—murder? Joe McCaskey did it. There's no doubt about that. Henri weakened, after I gave him his chance. He got to drinking, I hear, and evidently he conceived the notion of telling those men. He may have gone to warn them, to appeal to them. I don't know. Then they must have quarreled. It's all clear enough when you understand the inside facts. Without knowing them, it was natural to suspect Pierce, so- -I did what I had to do. I doubt if Laure knows anything about this part of the affair."

The two women were still talking when Laure entered, in company with the Mounted Police officer who had been sent to fetch her. At sight of them she halted; a sudden pallor came into her cheeks; she cast a glance of alarm about her as if seeking retreat; but Colonel Cavendish grimly invited her to follow him, and stepped into his private office. The new-comer faltered; then with a defiant toss of her head and with lips curled in disdain she obeyed; the door closed behind her.

Rouletta and the Countess Courteau fell silent now. They found nothing to talk about, and in spite of themselves they strained their ears for some sound from the other room. Even Miss Cavendish seemed vaguely to feel the suspense, for she finally took her stand beside a frost-rimed window and engaged herself in tracing patterns thereon with the tip of her finger. An occasional stormy murmur of voices, deadened by the thick log partition, indicated that Laure and her inquisitor were not getting on well together.

Suddenly the girl at the window started; her apathy vanished; her expression of boredom gave place to one of such lively anticipation as to draw the attention of the two other women. A magic change came over her; she became suddenly animated, alive, atingle in every nerve; her eyes sparkled and a new color flooded her cheeks. The alteration interested her observers; they were mystified as to its cause until a quick step sounded in the entry and the door opened to admit Pierce Phillips.

It was natural that he should first see Miss Cavendish, and that he should greet her before recognizing the other occupants of the room. It was natural, too, that he should be a trifle nonplussed at finding Hilda here; nevertheless, he managed to cover his lack of ease. Not so, however, when, a moment later, the door to Colonel Cavendish's office opened and Laure, of all persons, appeared therein. Quickly Pierce inferred the reason for his summons, but, happily for him, he was spared further embarrassment. Cavendish called to him, took him by the hand in the friendliest manner, and again disappeared into his retreat, drawing the young man with him.

Brief as had been the interruption, both Hilda and Rouletta had gathered much from it; their inference was borne out when Laure paused before them and in a voice subdued by the very force of her agitation exclaimed:

"Well, I hope you're satisfied! I got it, and got it good." Her face was livid, her dark eyes were blazing wrathfully. She outthrust a shaking hand and unclenched her fingers, displaying therein a crumpled sheet of pink paper, a printed official form, the telltale tint of which indicated its fateful character. Both of her hearers were familiar with the so-called "pink tickets" of the Mounted Police; every one in the Northwest Territory, in fact, knew what they were—deportation orders. But in a tone hoarse and suppressed Laure read, "'—leave by the first safe conveyance!' That's what it says—the first safe conveyance. I suppose you'd like it better if it were a blue ticket and I had to leave in twenty-four hours. You put it over, but I won't forget. I'll get even with you."

"We had nothing to do with that," the Countess declared, quietly. "I'm sorry you take it so hard, but—it serves you right."

"Who wouldn't take it hard? To be expelled, fired out like a thief, a—" The girl's voice broke; then she pulled herself together and uttered a quavering, artificial laugh. She tossed her head again, with an obvious attempt at defiance. "Oh, it takes more than a pink ticket to down me! Anyhow, I'm sick of this place, sick of the people. I hate them." With a vicious fling of her shoulders she swept on to a seat as far from them as possible and sank into it.

So the girl had confessed, Hilda reflected. She was glad, for Pierce's sake, that this miserable complication was in process of clearing up and that he would be finally and completely exonerated; she was glad, too, that her efforts in his behalf, her humiliation, had borne fruit. He would never know how high he had made her pay, but that was all right. She felt very gently toward him at this moment, and experienced a certain wistful desire that he might understand how unselfish had been her part. It might make a difference; probably it would. Things now were not as they had been. She was a free woman. This thought obtruded itself insistently into the midst of her meditations. Yes, Courteau was gone; there was no reason now why she could not look any man honestly in the eye. Of course, there was the same disparity in years between her and Pierce which she had recognized from the beginning, but, after all, was that necessarily fatal? He had loved her genuinely enough at one time. Hilda recalled that windy night on the shores of Linderman when the whimper of a rising storm came out of the darkness, when the tree-tops tossed their branches to the sky, and when her own soul had broken its fetters and defied restraint. She thrilled at memory of those strong young arms about her, those hot lips pressing hers. That was a moment to remember always. And those dreamy, magic days that had followed, the more delightful, the more unreal because she had deliberately drugged her conscience. Then that night at White Horse! He had told her bitterly, broken-heartedly, that he could never forget. Perhaps even yet—With an effort Hilda Courteau roused herself. Never forget? Why, he had forgotten the very next day, as was quite natural. No, she was a foolish sentimentalist, and he—well, he was just one whom fate had cast for a lover's role, one destined to excite affection in women, good and bad. Some day he would find his mate and—Hilda believed she loved him well enough to rejoice in his happiness when it came. There spoke the maternal instinct which Phillips had the knack of rousing; for want of something better, she determined she would cherish that.

Meanwhile Laure sat in her corner, her head bowed, her very soul in revolt. She was tasting failure, disappointment, balked desire, and it was like gall in her mouth. She could have cried out aloud in her rage. She hated these other women whom she blamed for her undoing; she hated Cavendish, Pierce Phillips, herself.

"It serves me right," she told herself, furiously. "I deserve the pink ticket for making a fool of myself. Yes, a FOOL! What has Pierce ever done for me? Nothing. And I—?" Before her mind's eye came a vision of the opportunities she had let slip, the chances she had ignored. She knew full well that she could have had the pick of many men—the new-made millionaires of Dawson—but instead she had chosen him. And why? Merely because he had a way, a smile, a warm and pleasing personality—some magnetic appeal too intangible to identify. It was like her to make the wrong choice— she always did. She had come North with but one desire, one determination—namely, to make money, to reap to the full her share of this free harvest. She had given up the life she liked, the people she knew, the comforts she craved, for that and for nothing else, and what a mess she had made of the venture! Other girls not half so smart, not half so pretty as she, had feathered their nests right here before her eyes, while she was wasting her time. They had kept their heads, and they would go out in the spring, first class, with good clothes and a bank-roll in the purser's safe. Some of them were married and respectable. "Never again!" she whispered to herself. "The next one will pay." Chagrin at the treatment she had suffered filled her with a poisonous hatred of all mankind, and soundlessly she cursed Phillips as the cause of her present plight.

Such thoughts as these ran tumbling through the girl's mind; her rage and her resentment were real enough; nevertheless, through this overtone there ran another note; a small voice was speaking in the midst of all her tumult—a small voice which she refused to listen to. "What I ever saw in him I don't know," she sneered, goading herself to further bitterness and stiffening her courage. "I never really cared for him; I'm too wise for that. I don't care for him now. I detest the poor, simple-minded fool. I—HATE him." So she fought with herself, drowning the persistent piping of that other voice. Then her eyes dropped to that fatal paper in her lap and suddenly venom fled from her. She wondered if Cavendish would tell Pierce that he had given her the pink ticket. Probably not. The Mounted Police were usually close-mouthed about such things, and yet—Laure crushed the paper into a crumpled ball and furtively hid it in the pocket of her coat; then she raised wild, apprehensive eyes to the door. If only she dared slip out now, before Pierce reappeared, before he had a chance to see her. It seemed as if she could not bear to have him know, but—Cavendish had ordered her to wait. "My God!" the girl whispered. "I'll die, if he knows! I'll die!" She began to tremble wretchedly and to wring her hands; she could not remove her gaze from the door.

This waiting-room at the Barracks had housed people of divers and many sorts during its brief history; it had harbored strained faces, it had been the scene of strong emotional conflicts, but never, perhaps, had its narrow walls encompassed emotions in wider contrast than those experienced by the four silent women who waited there at this moment. One object of interest dominated the thoughts of each of them. These thoughts were similar in nature and sprang from the same starting-point. Curiously enough, however, they took channels as wide apart as the poles.

Josephine Cavendish had heard just enough about the incidents of the previous night to awaken her apprehensions and to stir her feeling of loyalty to the depths. The suggestion that Pierce Phillips was in the slightest degree responsible for the death of Count Courteau had roused her indignation and her fighting-blood. Unable to endure the suspense of idle waiting, she had sought relief by assuming a sort of sentinel post where she could watch developments. It was something to be close to his affairs. It was next to being close to him; hence the reason of her presence and her insistence upon remaining.

In her mind there had never been the slightest question of Pierce's innocence; any doubt of it, expressed or implied, awoke in her a sharp and bitter antagonism quite remarkable; no bird could have flown quicker to the aid of her chick, no wolf mother could have bristled more ferociously at threat to her cub, than did this serene, inexperienced girl-woman at hint of peril to Pierce Phillips. And yet, on the surface, at least, she and Pierce were only friends. He had never voiced a word of love to her. But- -of what use are words when hearts are full and when confession lurks in every glance, every gesture; when every commonplace is thrilling and significant?

In her eyes no disgrace whatever attached to him as a result of the notoriety he had suffered. On the contrary, she considered him a martyr, a hero, the object of a deep conspiracy, and his wrongs smarted her. He was, in short, a romantic figure. Moreover, she had recently begun to believe that this entire situation was contrived purely for the purpose of bringing them together, of acquainting them with each other, and of testing the strength of their mutual regard. These other women, whom she saw to-day for the first time, she considered merely extra figures in the drama of which she and Pierce played the leads—witnesses in the case deserving no attention. She would be grateful to them, of course, if they succeeded in helping him, but, at best, they were minor characters, supers in the cast. Once Pierce himself strode into the scene, she forgot them entirely.

What a picture her lover made, she reflected; how he filled her eye! What importance he possessed! Surely the world must see and feel how dominant, how splendid he was. It must recognize how impossible it would be for him to do wrong. The mere sight of him had set her to vibrating, and now inspired in her a certain reckless abandon; guilty or innocent, he was her mate and she would have followed him at a word. But—he was innocent; it was her part to wait here as patiently as she could until the fact was proved and until he could ask that question which forever trembled between them.

Such thoughts as these were impossible to conceal; they were mirrored upon the face of the colonel's daughter as she stood raptly gazing at the door through which Pierce Phillips had disappeared. Her lips were parted; the shadow of the smile his coming had evoked still lingered upon them; her soul was in her shining eyes. Unknown to her, at least one of the other women present had read her sudden emotions and now watched her curiously, with an intent and growing astonishment.

Rouletta Kirby had been as quick as the Countess to correctly interpret Laure's chagrin, and she, too, had experienced a tremendous relief. Oddly enough, however, she had felt no such fierce and jealous exultation as she had anticipated; there had been no selfish thrill such as she had expected. What ailed her? she wondered. While groping for an answer, her attention had been challenged by the expression upon Miss Cavendish's face, and vaguely she began to comprehend the truth. Breathlessly now she watched the girl; slowly conviction grew into certainty.

So! That was why the colonel's daughter was here. That was why, at sound of a certain step, she had become glorified. That was why Pierce had been blind to her own and Hilda's presence in the room.

It would be untrue to say that Rouletta was not shocked by this discovery. It came like a thunderclap, and its very unexpectedness jolted her mind out of the ruts it had been following these many days. But, astonishing to relate, it caused her no anguish. After the first moment or two of dizzy bewilderment had passed she found that her whole being was galvanized into new life and that the eyes of her soul were opened to a new light. With understanding came a peculiar emotional let-down, a sudden, welcome relaxation— almost a sensation of relief.

Rouletta asked herself, over and over, what could be the matter with her; why she felt no twinge, no jealousy; why the sight of that eager, breathless girl with the rapturous face failed to cause her a heartache. She was amazed at herself. It could not be that she no longer cared for Pierce, that she had mistaken her feelings toward him. No, he was what he had always been—her ideal—the finest, the most lovable, the dearest creature she had ever met; just the sort of fellow she had always longed to know, the kind any girl would crave for lover, friend, brother. She felt very tender toward him. She was not greatly surprised that the nicest girl in Dawson had recognized his charm and had surrendered to it. Well, he deserved the nicest girl in the world.

Rouletta was startled at the direction her thoughts were taking. Did she love Pierce Phillips as she had believed she did, or had she merely fallen in love with his good qualities? Certainly he had never been dearer to her than he was at this moment, and yet— Rouletta abandoned the problem of self-analysis and allowed her bubbling relief at the turn events had taken to remain a mystery for the time being.

The door to the commandant's office opened without warning. Pierce stood framed in it. His head was up, his shoulders were back, his countenance was alight; with confident tread he entered the big room and crossed it directly to the girl who stood waiting beside the table. He held out his two hands to her and with a flash of her clear blue eyes she placed hers in his. Gladness, trust, blind faith, and adoration were in her face. She murmured something which Rouletta did not hear, for at that instant Colonel Cavendish appeared with the curt announcement:

"That is all, ladies. You needn't remain longer."

Blindly, confusedly, Rouletta rose and fumbled with her wraps. She saw the colonel go to Laure and speak with her in a stiff, formal way. She saw Pierce and Josephine turn away hand in hand, their heads close together—he had not even glanced in her direction; then Cavendish was speaking to her directly.

At first she did not understand him, but finally made out that he was telling her that everything had been cleared up, including even the mystery of Count Courteau's gold-sack.

"Laure confessed that she got a duplicate key to the cashier's cage," she heard the colonel say. "Got it from Pierce. It was she who put the evidence in there during the confusion. Pretty ingenious, I call it, and pretty spiteful."

"Did she—have anything to say about the—the murder?" Rouletta inquired.

"No. But the Countess has that figured out right, I'm sure. We'll have the proof when Rock brings back his prisoners."

As Rouletta moved toward the door Pierce stopped her. There was a ring in his voice as he said:

"Rouletta, I want you to meet Miss Cavendish. I want the two nicest girls in the world to know each other. Josephine, this is Miss Kirby, of whom I've said so much." Then without reason he laughed joyously, and so did the colonel's daughter.

The latter took Rouletta's hand in a warm and friendly clasp. Her smiling lips were tremulous. Engagingly, shyly, she said:

"Pierce has told me how splendid you've been to him, and I'm sure you're as happy as we are, but—things always come out right if we wish for them hard enough. Don't you think so?"

The Countess Courteau was walking slowly when Rouletta overtook her a block or so down the street. She looked up as the younger woman joined her.

"Well," she said, "I presume you saw. Not a look, not a thought for any one but her—that other girl."

"Yes, I saw." There was a pause, then: "She's wonderful. I think I'm very glad."

"Glad?" Hilda raised her brows; she glanced curiously at the speaker.

"If I had a brother I'd want him to love a girl like that."

"But—you have no brother, outside of 'Poleon Doret." Hilda was more than ever amazed when her companion laughed softly, contentedly.

"I know, but if I had one, I'd want him to be like—Pierce. I—My dear, something has changed in me, oh, surprisingly! I scarcely know what it is, but—I'm walking on air and my eyes are open for the first time. And you? We've been honest with each other—how do you feel?"

"I?" The Countess smiled wistfully. "Why—it doesn't matter how I feel! The boy has found himself, and nothing else is of the least importance."



CHAPTER XXX

Joe McCaskey was not a coward, neither was he a superstitious man, but he had imagination. The steady strain of his and Frank's long flight, the certainty of pursuit close behind, had frayed his nerve and rendered him jumpy. For a man in his condition to be awakened out of a trancelike sleep by an intruder at once invisible, dumb; to feel the presence of that mysterious visitor and actually to see him—it—bulked dim and formless among the darting shadows cast by a blazing match—was a test indeed. It was too much for Joe.

As for Frank, he had actually seen nothing, heard nothing except his brother's voice, and then—that sigh. For that very reason his terror was, if anything, even greater than his brother's.

During what seemed an age there was no sound except the stertorous breathing of the McCaskeys themselves and the stir of the dogs outside. The pale square of the single window, over which a bleached-out cotton flour-sack had been tacked, let in only enough light to intensify the gloom. Within the cabin was a blackness thick, tangible, oppressive; the brothers stared into it with bulging eyes and listened with ear-drums strained to the point of rupture. Oddly enough, this utter silence augmented their agitation. Unable finally to smother the evidence of his steadily growing fright, Frank uttered a half-audible moan. Joe in the next bunk put it down as a new and threatening phenomenon. What sort of thing was it that sighed and moaned thus? As evidence of the direction Joe's mind was taking, he wondered if these sounds could be the complaint of Courteau's unshriven spirit. It was a shocking thought, but involuntarily he gasped the dead man's name.

A guilty conscience is a proven coward-maker; so, too, is a quick, imaginative mind. It took only a moment or two to convince Joe that this nocturnal interloper was not a creature of flesh and blood, but some enormous, unmentionable, creeping thing come out of the other world—out of the cold earth—to visit punishment upon him for his crime. He could hear it stirring, finally, now here, now there; he could make out the rustle of its grave- clothes. There is no doubt that the cabin was full of half- distinguishable sounds—so is any warm habitation—but to Joe's panicky imagination the nature of these particular sounds indicated that they could not come from any normal, living being. There was, for instance, a slow, asthmatic wheezing, like the breath of a sorely wounded man; a stretching and straining as of a body racked with mortal agony; even a faint bubbling choke like a death-rattle heard in an adjoining chamber. These and others as horribly suggestive. Joe's wild agitation distorted all of them, no matter whether they came from his brother Frank, from the poorly seasoned pole rafters overhead, or from the sleepy dogs outside, and 'Poleon Doret, with a grim internal chuckle, took advantage of the fact.

When finally the elder McCaskey heard his own name whispered, the last shred of self-control left to him was whipped away; his wits went skittering, and for a second time he groped with frantic, twitching fingers for his revolver. He raised it and, with a yell, fired at random into the blackness, meanwhile covering his eyes with his left arm for fear of beholding in the sulphurous flash that bloodless, fleshless menace, whatever it might be.

Somehow he managed to get out of bed and to place his back against the wall, and there he cowered until he heard his brother's body threshing about the floor. As a matter of fact, that shot had sent Frank sprawling from his bunk, and he was striving to kick off the hampering folds of his sleeping-bag, nothing more; but the thumping of his knees and elbows bore a dreadful significance to the terrified listener. Evidently the Thing had closed in—had grappled with Frank. Its hands, damp with death sweat, even now were groping for him, Joe. The thought was unbearable.

Blindly the elder brother thrust his revolver at full length in front of him and pulled the trigger; Frank shrieked, but again and again Joe fired, and when the last cartridge was spent he continued to snap the weapon. He desisted only when he heard a voice, faint, but hoarse with agony, crying:

"O God! You've shot me, Joe! You've shot me!"

Then and not until then, did a sort of sanity come to the wretch. The revolver slipped from his fingers; he felt his bones dissolving into water; a horror ten times greater than he had previously suffered fell upon him. He tried to speak, to throw off this hideous nightmare, but his voice came only as a dry, reedy whisper.

Frank was still now; he did not respond to his brother's incoherencies except with a deep groaning that momentarily became more alarming.

"I—I—didn't—Christ! I didn't shoot you ... Frank! ... Answer me! Say something. ..." Even yet the dread of that hobgoblin presence lay like ice upon the elder brother; he feared to move lest he encounter it, lest he touch it and it enfold him; but when Frank's twitching body became still he fell to his knees and went groping forward on all-fours in search of it. Death was here now. He had slain his brother and there was NO LIGHT!

Joe began to sob and to chatter in a maudlin hysteria of fright and apprehension. He succeeded in finding Frank by the sound of his breathing, and he was pawing at him and wildly calling his name when at his back a match was struck.

The sound, the flare, brought a scream from his throat. He cringed and cowered; the pallid face he raised was slack-jawed, his gaze was that of a crazy man.

Slowly, very slowly his dementia left him. His eyes were still distended, to be sure, but into them sanity, recognition, began to creep. He stared dazedly about him, and at last he managed to speak Doret's name.

"Wh-what you doing—here?" he breathed.

"Me? I come to tak' you back." Joe shook his head weakly. "You can't. We're across—safe." His eyes dropped to the prostrate body beside which he knelt, and a new thought swiftly flooded his vacant mind. "Look! You—Now I understand. YOU did it! YOU shot him. I never—BY GOD!" The fellow's insane vehemence, the panting eagerness with which he undertook to absolve himself from the hideous results of his deed, argued that he loved his brother. He rose slowly to his feet, his countenance flaming, his gaze fixed in an arresting expression of mingled rage and horror upon the woodsman's face. "You did it, damn you! Shot him, in the dark, asleep! Now you want me ... Take me back, eh? You can't do it. I'm safe ... safe ... !"

'Poleon uttered a grunt. He leaned his carbine against the wall behind him, and from his pocket he drew a thin cotton sled-rope. With this in his hand he advanced upon the slayer.

McCaskey retreated. Weakly at first he fought off his captor; then, as fear overwhelmed him, he became possessed of a phrenetic energy and struggled with the strength of two men. He struck, he bit, he clawed, he kicked. It was like the battle of a man with a beast—ferocious, merciless—while it lasted. They rocked about the cabin, heedless of the wounded man; the stove came crashing down and they trampled the pipe under their feet.

But McCaskey collapsed as suddenly as he had flown to action. When 'Poleon trussed him up he had neither strength nor spirit either for resistance or for resentment. He was as spineless as a wet sack. With anguished eyes he watched his captor lift Frank into a bunk and then proceed to do what remained to be done. Bleak of face, lifeless of voice, hopeless of expression, he answered the questions put to him and made no feeblest effort at concealment. He was, in fact, no longer capable of any resistance, mental or physical.

Frank died as the first ashen streaks of dawn came through the window and lit the sickly face of the brother who had slain him. There was no longer need of the rope; in fact, Joe implored his captor with such earnestness not to leave him alone that 'Poleon untied his hands, feeling sure that he was impotent. Joe followed him outside, and stood near by while he harnessed the dogs; he accompanied every step the woodsman took—wild horses could not have dragged him away in his present frame of mind—and finally, when they set out back toward the Canadian Line, he shambled along ahead of the team with head down and eyes averted from the gruesome bundle that lay in the sled. His punishment had overtaken him and he was unequal to it.

Dawson was in ferment, for the news of another "strike" had come in and a stampede was under way. Discoveries of gold, or rumors of them, had been common. The camp had thrilled to many Arabian Nights tales, but this one was quite the most sensational of all. So amazing, so unbelievable was it, in truth, that those who had been too often fooled laughed at it and declared it impossible on its face. Some woodcutters on the hills above El Dorado had been getting out dry timber for the drift fires, so ran the report, and in shooting the tree-trunks down into the valley they had discovered a deposit of wash gravel. One of them, possessed of the prospector's instinct, had gophered a capful of the gravel from off the rim where the plunging tree-trunks had dug through the snow and exposed the outcropping bedrock, and, to satisfy his curiosity, had taken it down to camp for a test. He had thawed and panned it; to his amazement, he had discovered that it carried an astonishing value in gold—coarse, rough gold—exactly like that in the creek pay-streak, except with less signs of abrasion and erosion. Rumor placed the contents of that first prospect at ten dollars. Ten cents would have meant the riches of Aladdin, but— ten dollars! No wonder the wiseacres shook their heads. Ten dollars to the pan, on a hilltop! Absurd! How did metal of that specific gravity get up there? How could there be wash gravel on the crest of a mountain? There was no sense to such a proposition.

But such old California placer miners as chanced to hear of it lost no time in hitting the trail. They were familiar with high bars, prehistoric riverbeds, and they went as fast as their old legs would carry them.

More faith was put in the story when it became known that the diggings were being deserted and that the men of El Dorado and Bonanza were quitting their jobs, actually leaving their thawed drifts to freeze while they scattered over the domes and saddles round about, staking claims. That settled matters, so far as Dawson was concerned; men who had dogs hitched them up, those who had none rolled their packs; soon the trail up the Klondike was black and the recorder's office prepared for riotous activity.

Those who had set out thus late met excited travelers hastening townward, and from them obtained confirmation. Yes, the story was true, more than true! The half had not been told as yet. Gold lay under the grass roots where anybody could see it; it was more plentiful than in the creeks—this was the richest thing ever known. "Frenchman's Hill," the discovery had been named, but all the ground for miles round about had been already staked and now men were going even further afield. It was well to hurry.

A frenzy took possession of the hearers, and they pressed on more rapidly. This was like the rush of the autumn previous, from Dyea to the Chilkoot, only here dogs flew under snapping lashes; pedestrians, when shouldered aside, abandoned their burdens and sacrificed all to speed. At the Forks the new arrivals scattered up over the hills, and that night road-houses, cabins, tents, were crowded; men slept on chairs, on floors; they stood around open fires.

Dawson awoke, on the second morning, to behold a long queue of fur-clad miners waiting outside the Gold Commissioner's office; the town took on an electric liveliness. This signified big things; it gave permanence; it meant that Dawson was to be the world's first placer camp. Business picked up, the saloons became thronged, on every corner knots of gossiping men assembled. There began a considerable speculation in claims on Frenchman's Hill; merchants planned larger stocks for the next season; the price of town lots doubled.

Late that afternoon through the streets ran a cry that took every foot-free man hurrying to the river-front. "Rock was coming!" In a jiffy the vantage-points were crowded. Sure enough, far down the Yukon two teams were approaching; with the smoke of Dawson in their nostrils they were coming on the run, and soon the more keen-eyed spectators announced that they could make out 'Poleon Doret. The lieutenant himself, however, was not in evidence. Instantly speculation became rife. Here was a sensation indeed, and when the second runner was identified beyond question as Joe McCaskey, excitement doubled. Where was Rock? Where was the other fugitive? What, in the name of all that was unexpected, had occurred?

A shout of relief issued from the crowd when the teams drew in under the bank and Rock sat up, waving a mittened hand; the shout was quickly hushed as the lookers-on saw what sort of burden Joe McCaskey was driving.

Up into the main street came the cavalcade. The crowd fell in alongside and ran with it to the Barracks, clamoring for details, pouring questions upon the returning travelers. Joe McCaskey, of course, was speechless, this ordeal proving, as a matter of fact, scarcely less trying than that other one at Sheep Camp when he had run the gauntlet. As for Rock and the French Canadian, neither had much to say, and as a result sensational stories soon spread through the resorts. The Mounted Policeman had got his men, as usual, but only after a desperate affray in which Frank McCaskey had fallen and the officer himself had been wounded—so ran the first account. Those who had gone as far as the Barracks returned with a fanciful tale of a siege in the snow and of Rock's single- handed conquest of the two fugitives. These conflicting reports were confusing and served to set the town so completely agog that it awaited fuller details with the most feverish impatience. One thing only was certain—the lieutenant had again made himself a hero; he had put a new feather in his cap. Men lifted glasses to him and to the Force. Such efficiency as this commanded their deepest respect and admiration.

Pierce Phillips, of course, was the most eager member of that welcoming throng. At the earliest moment he bore 'Poleon away to his cabin, and there, when the last morbid curiosity-seeker had been shaken off and the dogs had been attended to, he heard the story.

"You don' got no more worry," 'Poleon told him, with a smile. "Joe keel' de Count."

"He confessed? Really?"

"Rouletta figger' it out jus' right. By golly! Dat's de smartes' gal!"

"She is indeed. But Frank? What happened? How did you manage—?"

'Poleon hesitated. There was a reason why he did not wish the details of that affair on the upper Forty Mile to become public. Joe McCaskey was beginning to talk loudly about his outraged rights, his citizenship, international law, and such incomprehensible things—but stronger by far than any fear of consequences to himself, remote at best, 'Poleon felt a desire to help his friend, the Police lieutenant. Rock was deeply humiliated at his weak failure in living up to his reputation; he felt that he had cut a very sorry figure indeed; and, although he had undertaken to conceal that feeling from 'Poleon, the latter had read him like a book and had secretly made up his mind to give full credit to the officer, eliminating himself as much as possible. There was no reason why the actual facts should be made public, so far as he could see, and, once an artfully colored account of the exploit had gained currency, Rock could not well contradict it. He might, undoubtedly would, make a truthful report to his superiors, but 'Poleon determined that in the eyes of the hero-worshiping people of Dawson the fellow should still remain a hero and stand for one hundred per cent. efficiency. That was quite as it should be.

It was not difficult to distort the story enough to reverse the roles he and the officer had played, and, when he had finished, Pierce was loud in his praise of the Mounted Policeman.

"Well, things happened here, too," the youth declared. Succinctly he told the story of Laure's delayed confession proving that he had been the victim of a deliberate conspiracy. "Believe me, I'm glad it has all come out so well," he said. "People didn't actually accuse me, but I was conscious of their suspicion, their doubt. I had talked too much. Then, too, there was that beastly rumor about the Countess and me. It was fierce! Appearances were strong. I'd—have gone on the stampede, only I didn't have the heart. You've heard about that, of course? The new strike?" When 'Poleon shook his head the young man's eyes kindled. "Why, man," he broke out, "the town's crazy! dippy! It's the biggest thing ever! Frenchman's Hill, it's called. Get that? Frenchman's Hill!"

"Some French feller mak' lucky strike, eh?" 'Poleon was not greatly interested. "Where de place is? Who dis Frenchman?"

"It's a high bar somewhere above El Dorado—a mountain of pay gravel—an old river-bed or something. They say it's where all the gold came from, the mother lode. You can see it right at the grass roots—"

'Poleon started and his mouth opened; then he shook his head.

"By Gar! Dat's fonny! I seen gravel up dere, but me—I'm onlucky. Never I quite get not'in'; always I'm close by when 'noder feller mak' strike."

Pierce still managed to control himself enough to explain: "They were shooting dead timber down into the gulch and they wore the snow off where the rim cropped out. It happened to be staked ground right there." Pierce's excitement, the odd light in his dancing eyes, bore to 'Poleon a significance. "Some Frenchman had taken it up, so they called it Frenchman's Hill."

Doret's blank, confounded stare caused the speaker finally to blurt out: "Good Heavens! man, wake up! I'm trying to break the news gently that you're a millionaire—the Frenchman of Frenchman's Hill. I don't want you to faint. First time in history a miner ever left his claim and another fellow came along—"

Doret uttered a feeble cry and rose to his feet. "Ma soeur!" he exclaimed. "She's got claim up dere—I stake it for her. For me, I don' care if I lose mine—plenty tam I come jus' so close as dis; but if dem feller jump her groun'—"

"Wait, wait! There's no question of anything like that. Nobody has jumped your claim, or hers, either. The law wouldn't let 'em. I wonder if she knows—Why, she CAN'T know! I left her not two hours ago—"

"She don' know?"

Pierce shook his head. "She doesn't dream. I wish I'D known. I'd have loved to tell her."

'Poleon Doret gazed fixedly, curiously at the speaker. He nodded his head. A peculiar, set, hopeless look crept into his eyes; his broad shoulders sagged wearily. He had traveled far and swiftly on this young man's affairs; he had slept but little; and now a great fatigue mastered him. Oddly enough, too, that fierce, consuming desire to see Rouletta which had hourly gnawed at him was gone; all at once he felt that she was quite the last person he wished to face. This weakness, this smallness of spirit, was only temporary, he assured himself; it would soon pass, and then he would find the strength to go to her with his customary smile, his mask in place. Now, however, he was empty, cheerless, frightened by the portent of this new thing. It could have but one significance—it meant that he would lose his "sister," that she would have no further need of him.

Well, that was all right. It was something like this that he had worked for. Why cherish a mean envy of this happy boy? Why permit a narrow selfishness to mar this supreme moment?

Doret was not a grudging giver; he straightened himself finally, and into his tired eyes there came the gleam that Phillips had been waiting for.

"Bien!" he breathed. "My li'l bird goin' wear de plumage she deserve. She's goin' be reech an' happy all her life. By golly! Dat's nice, for fac'. I feel lak gettin' drunk."

"She'd never stand for that."

"I spec' you tol' her you an' me is pardners on dis Frenchman' Hill, eh? An' she's glad 'bout dat—"

"Oh, see here!" Pierce's tone changed abruptly. "Of course I didn't tell her. That's cold; it's off. D'you think I'd permit—" The boy choked and stammered. "D'you imagine for a minute that I'd let you go through with a proposition like that? I understand why you made it—to get me away from the life I've been leading. It was bully of you, but—well, hardly. I'm not that sort. No, I've laid off the old stuff, absolutely—straightened out. I've lived ten years in the last ten days. Wait and see. 'Poleon, I'm the happiest, the most deliriously happy man you ever saw. I only want one thing. That's work and lots of it—the harder the better, so long as it's honest and self-respecting. What d'you think of that?"

"W'at I t'ink?" the woodsman said, warmly. "I t'ink dat's de bes' news of all. Mon ami, you got reecher pay-streak in you as Frenchman' Hill, if only you work 'im hard. But you need pardner to get 'im out." He winked meaningly. "I guess mebbe you fin' dat pardner, eh?"

Pierce flushed; he nodded vigorously and laughed in the purest, frankest joy. "You're a good guesser. A partner—life partner! I— She—Oh, my Lord! I'm overflowing! I'm—Funny thing, I've never said a word to her; she doesn't know—"

"Ho, ho!" cried the elder man.

"Oh, she does know, of course. If she didn't I wouldn't feel as I do, but we've never actually mentioned it. I've got to prove myself, understand? It came to me of a sudden, struck me all in a heap, I can tell you. I saw what a fool I'd made of myself. What a damnable thing chance is, anyhow! It makes you, breaks you; carries you along and leaves you stranded finally, then sweeps you on again. Fortunately, she's big enough to understand and make allowances. If she weren't, I'd die. I wouldn't want to live and not make good. It's ecstasy and it's—pain. I'm frightened, too, at my own unworthiness—" Abruptly the speaker's voice ceased and he bowed his head.

'Poleon wet his dry lips and essayed to speak, but he could find nothing to say. Of course Rouletta was big enough to understand and make allowance for any human shortcomings. She was the sanest, the most liberal, the most charitable of girls. And it was true, too, that love came unbidden. He had learned that, to his cost. It was pretty hard to stand quietly and lend a sympathetic ear to this lucky devil; it took an effort to maintain a smile, to keep a friendly gaze fixed upon Phillips' face. The big fellow was growing weary of forever fighting himself. It would be a relief to get away and to yield to his misery.

But with a lover's fatuous absorption in his own affairs Pierce resumed: "I've been thinking lately how I came to this country looking for Life, the big adventure. Everything that happened, good or bad, was part of a stage play. I've been two people in one—the fellow who did things and the fellow who looked on and applauded—actor and audience. It was tremendously interesting in an unreal sort of way, and I jotted everything down mentally. I was stocking up with experience. Understand? Well, the whole thing has suddenly become very different. I'm not in the gallery now, not in the theater at all, not acting. And I thank God for it. I don't imagine that I make myself plain in the least—"

Evidently he had not; evidently, too, his auditor's mind had strayed slightly, for the latter said:

"I s'pose you t'inkin' all at once 'bout gettin'—marry, eh?"

Phillips paled; he uttered a panicky denial. "Not yet! Oh no—! That is, I've THOUGHT about it a good deal—can't think of anything else—but it's too early yet. I'm in no position; I must make good first."

"For why it's too early? Mebbe dis gal goin' tak' lot of fun in he'p you mak' good."

"I wonder—"

"Sure t'ing. All women is lak dat. You goin' t'ink of her after dis, not yourse'f. She's got money—"

"Oh yes. That makes it hard, still—"

"Wal, you ain't broke, my frien', not wit' half interes' in Discovery on Frenchman' Hill."

"Once and for all," Pierce protested, in extreme agitation, "I tell you I won't take it. My Lord! that's generous! You're a princely fellow, Doret, but—the most you can give me is a job. Work? Yes, I'll eat that up."

"All right. We talk 'bout dat 'noder tam. Now, mebbe so she lak hear de lates' news from you. Dere's plenty for tellin' her—'bout Joe McCaskey an' all de res'. You can spoke now, lak hones' man. Sapre! Don' you s'pose she's waitin' to hear you say you love her? An' how you goin' mak' big success? By Gar! I keeck you out dis cabin if you keep her waitin' some more!"

With a cry, half of trepidation, half of exultance, Phillips crushed his cap upon his head. "I—I've a notion to. I can ALMOST say it; anyhow, I can say enough so she'll understand. Gad! I will! I just needed you to stiffen me up." Fiercely he wrung the woodsman's hand, and, forgetful of all else but his new determination, moved toward the door. "Thanks for all you've done for me, old man, and all you've offered to do."

"Frenchman' Hill is nice place for two nestin' doves—fine place for sing an' be happy," the other reminded him.

In a choking voice Pierce exclaimed: "You're a prince, Doret, and I won't forget! A prince!"

He was gone; the cabin door had slammed shut with a crash. 'Poleon sank to a seat and with a long sigh bowed his head.

It was over; he had done his bit. For a long while he remained there inert, his patient, haggard face bent, his eyes fixed upon the floor. He felt very old, very much used up, and the labor of thinking was unbearable. When the fire had died and a chill had crept into the room he roused himself to note that it had grown dark. Manifestly, this would not do; there was the problem of living still to face. Sooner or later this very evening he must go to Rouletta and pretend to a joyousness he could never again know. That meant more smiles, more effort; it would take all he had in him to carry it off, and, meanwhile, the more he let his mind dwell upon her the more unbearable became his thoughts. This solitude was playing tricks with him. Enough of it! He must get out into the lights; he must hear voices and regain the mastery of himself through contact with sane people. Perhaps in the saloons, the restaurants, he could absorb enough laughter to make safe the mockery he purposed; perhaps it would enable him to stamp a grin upon his features.

But his impulse was futile; in spite of himself he shrank from people and hid himself unobtrusively in a corner of the first place he entered. He was hurt, wounded, sick to death; he longed to creep away somewhere and be alone with his pain.

In order that he might the sooner be free to do so, he rose finally and slunk out upon the street. It would soon be time for Rouletta to go to work. He would get it over with.

Cap in hand, his heart beating heavily at the prospect of merely seeing her, he came on noiseless soles to her door. He could hear her stirring inside, so he took a deep breath and rapped softly.

She uttered a cry when she saw him standing there; then a sudden pallor crept into her cheeks, a queer constraint enveloped her. Nevertheless, she put both her hands in his and drew him across the threshold. She said something which neither of them understood.

'Poleon's ears were roaring, but after a few moments he discovered that she was gently chiding him. Where had he been? Why had he delayed so long, knowing all the time that she was dying to see him and to hear his story? He could not understand her embarrassment, her shyness, the fact that she seemed hurt.

"Wal, I'm tucker' out wit' travelin'," he declared. "Dat's hardes' trip ever I mak'. You hear 'bout 'im, eh?—'bout how McCaskey tell de truth?"

Rouletta nodded, with a curious little smile upon her lips. "Yes. I heard all about it, the first thing—how Rock ran down those fellows—everything. The town was ringing with his name inside of an hour. Of course, I went to the Barracks, finally, looking for you. I'm just back. I saw the lieutenant and—he told me the true story."

'Poleon stirred uncomfortably.

"He swore at you roundly and said he'd take it out of your skin as soon as he was able—giving him the credit. He told me it was you who did it all—how you followed those men over the Line, alone, after he played out; how Joe McCaskey killed his own brother in trying to kill you. But the whole thing is public now. I heard it as I came back. You're quite a famous character in Dawson to- night, 'Poleon dear, what with this and with Frenchman's Hill."

"Ho! Dat Frenchman' Hill," the man broke out, hurriedly. "It's beeg s'prise for us, eh? Pierce told you 'bout dat?"

"Pierce?" The girl shook her head vaguely.

"You 'member I stake two claim', one for you, one for me. By golly! ma soeur, you're millionaire."

"I remembered, of course," Rouletta said, faintly. I—" She closed her eyes. "I couldn't believe it, however. At first I didn't understand where the strike had been made; then I couldn't credit it. I thought I was dreaming—"

"You dream as much as you can," 'Poleon said, warmly. "Dey all come true now. What? Everyt'ing come out nice, eh?"

Rouletta opened her eyes. They were shining; so, too, was her face. "Yes, my dream has come true—that is, my biggest, finest dream. I'm—the happiest girl in the world, 'Poleon."

"Ma soeur!" the man cried brokenly and with a depth of feeling that even Rouletta could not fathom. "I give my life to hear you say dose word', to see dat light in your eye. No price too high for dat."

A silence, throbbing, intense, fell between them, Rouletta felt her heart-beats swaying her. She opened her lips, but no sound issued. The figure before her was growing misty and she had to wink the tears back into place.

"'Ma soeur!'" she echoed, faintly. "I love to hear you say that, dear. It has grown to be a caress, a—kiss, when you say it. But I've something to tell you—"

"I know."

"Something you don't know and would never guess. I've found another brother." When he stared at her in open bewilderment she repeated: "Yes, another brother. I took him for something altogether different, but—" She laughed happily. "What do you think of a girl who doesn't know her own mind? Who lets the one man, the real man, go away? She doesn't deserve much, does she?"

"Ma soeur! Ma soeur!" the big fellow cried, hoarsely. He had fallen all atremble now; he could have believed himself demented only for something in Rouletta's face. "You mean—HIM? Wat's dis you sayin'?"

"I mean him—you. Who else could I mean? He doesn't care for me, but for another, and I'm—oh, so glad!"

"Mon Dieu!" 'Poleon gasped. "For why you look at me lak dat? Don'- -don'—!" His cry was one of pain, of reproach; he closed his eyes the while he strove to still his working features. He opened them with a snap when a small, warm, tremulous hand closed over his.

"You wouldn't mind if he called me his sister, if—if you called me—something else, would you, dear?"

"Oh, ma soeur!" he whispered. "I'm poor, ignorant feller. I ain't no good. But you—de bes' man in all de worl' would love you."

"He does, but he won't say so," Rouletta declared. "Come, must I say it for him?"

One last protest the fellow voiced. "Me, I'm rough-neck man. I scarcely read an' write. But you—"

"I'm a gambler's daughter, nothing more—a bold and forward creature. But I'm done with dealing. I'm tired of the game and henceforth I'm going to be the 'lookout'—your 'lookout,' dear." With a choking little laugh the girl drew nearer, and, lifting his hands, she crept inside his arms. Then as life, vigor, fire succeeded his paralysis, she swayed closer, until her breast was against his.

With a wordless, hungry cry of ecstasy, so keen that it was akin to agony, 'Poleon Doret enfolded her in his great embrace. "Don' spoke no more," he implored her. "I'll be wakin' up too soon."

They stood so for a long time before she raised her dewy lips to his.

THE END