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THE SILVER HORDE

BY REX BEACH

Author of "The Auction Block" "The Spoilers" "The Iron Trail" etc.





  BOOKS BY REX BEACH


  TOO FAT TO FIGHT
  THE WINDS OF CHANCE
  LAUGHING BILL HYDE
  RAINBOW'S END
  THE CRIMSON GARDENIA AND OTHER TALES OF ADVENTURE
  HEART OF THE SUNSET
  THE AUCTION BLOCK
  THE IRON TRAIL
  THE NET
  THE NE'ER-DO-WELL
  THE SPOILERS
  THE BARRIER
  THE SILVER HORDE
  GOING SOME





CONTENTS


    I. WHEREIN A SPIRITLESS MAN AND A ROGUE APPEAR
   II. IN WHICH THEY BREAK BREAD WITH A LONELY WOMAN
  III. IN WHICH CHERRY MALOTTE DISPLAYS A TEMPER
   IV. IN WHICH SHE GIVES HEART TO A HOPELESS MAN
    V. IN WHICH A COMPACT IS FORMED
   VI. WHEREIN BOREAS TAKES A HAND
  VII. AND NEPTUNE TAKES ANOTHER
 VIII. WHEREIN BOYD ADMITS HIS FAILURE
   IX. AND IS GRANTED A YEAR OF GRACE
    X. IN WHICH BIG GEORGE MEETS HIS ENEMY
   XI. WHEREIN BOYD EMERSON IS TWICE AMAZED
  XII. IN WHICH MISS WAYLAND IS OF TWO MINDS
 XIII. IN WHICH CHERRY MALOTTE BECOMES SUSPICIOUS
  XIV. IN WHICH THEY RECOGNIZE THE ENEMY
   XV. THE DOORS OF THE VAULT SWING SHUT
  XVI. WILLIS MARSH COMES OUT FROM COVER
 XVII. A NEW ENEMY APPEARS
XVIII. WILLIS MARSH SPRINGS A TRAP
  XIX. IN WHICH A MUTINY IS THREATENED
   XX. WHEREIN "FINGERLESS" FRASER RETURNS
  XXI. A HAND IN THE DARK
 XXII. THE SILVER HORDE
XXIII. IN WHICH MORE PLANS ARE LAID
 XXIV. WHEREIN "THE GRANDE DAME" ARRIVES, LADEN WITH DISAPPOINTMENTS
  XXV. THE CHASE
 XXVI. IN WHICH A SCORE IS SETTLED
XXVII. AND A DREAM COMES TRUE





ILLUSTRATIONS


THE GIRL STOOD BAREHEADED UNDER THE WINTRY SKY

OUT ACROSS THE LONESOME WASTE THEY JOURNEYED

MILDRED CEASED PLAYING AND SWUNG ABOUT--"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"




[Illustration: THE GIRL STOOD BAREHEADED UNDER THE WINTRY SKY]




THE SILVER HORDE




CHAPTER I

WHEREIN A SPIRITLESS MAN AND A ROGUE APPEAR


The trail to Kalvik leads down from the northward mountains over the
tundra which flanks the tide flats, then creeps out upon the salt ice
of the river and across to the village. It boasts no travel in summer,
but by winter an occasional toil-worn traveller may be seen issuing
forth from the Great Country beyond, bound for the open water; while
once in thirty days the mail-team whirls out of the forest to the
south, pauses one night to leave word of the world, and then is
swallowed up in the silent hills. Kalvik, to be sure, is not much of a
place, being hidden away from the main-travelled routes to the interior
and wholly unknown except to those interested in the fisheries.

A Greek church, a Russian school with a cassocked priest presiding,
and, about a hundred houses, beside the cannery buildings, make up the
village. At first glance these canneries might convey the impression of
a considerable city, for there are ten plants, in all, scattered along
several miles of the river-bank; but in winter they stand empty and
still, their great roofs drummed upon by the fierce Arctic storms,
their high stacks pointing skyward like long, frozen fingers black with
frost. There are the natives, of course, but they do not count,
concealed as they are in burrows. No one knows their number, not even
the priest who gathers toll from them.

Early one December afternoon there entered upon this trail from the
timberless hills far away to the northward a weary team of six dogs,
driven by two men. It had been snowing since dawn, and the dim
sled-tracks were hidden beneath a six-inch fluff which rendered
progress difficult and called the whip into cruel service. A gray
smother sifted down sluggishly, shutting out hill and horizon, blending
sky and landscape into a blurred monotone, playing strange pranks with
the eye that grew tired trying to pierce it.

The travellers had been plodding sullenly, hour after hour, dispirited
by the weight of the storm, which bore them down like some impalpable,
resistless burden. There was no reality in earth, air, or sky. Their
vision was rested by no spot of color save themselves, apparently
swimming through an endless, formless atmosphere of gray.

"Fingerless" Fraser broke trail, but to Boyd Emerson, who drove, he
seemed to be a sort of dancing doll, bobbing and swaying grotesquely,
as if suspended by invisible wires. At times, it seemed to the driver's
whimsical fancy as if each of them trod a measure in the centre of a
colorless universe, something after the fashion of goldfish floating in
a globe.

Fraser pulled up without warning and instantly the dogs stopped,
straightway beginning to soothe their trail-worn pads and to strip the
ice-pellets from between their toes. But the "wheelers" were too tired
to make the effort, so Emerson went forward and performed the task for
them, while Fraser floundered back and sank to a sitting posture on the
sled.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, "this is sure tough. If I don't see a tree or
something with enough color to bust this monotony I'll go dotty."

"Another day like this and we'd both be snow-blind," observed Emerson
grimly, as he bent to his task. "But it can't be far to the river now."

"This fall has covered the trail till I have to feel it out with my
feet," grumbled Fraser. "When I step off to one side I go in up to my
hips. It's like walking a plank a foot deep in feathers, and I feel
like I was a mile above the earth in a heavy fog." After a moment he
continued: "Speaking of feathers, how'd you like to have a fried
chicken _a la_ Maryland?"

"Shut up!" said the man at the dogs, crossly.

"Well, it don't do any harm to think about it," growled Fraser,
good-naturedly. He felt out a pipe from his pocket and endeavored
unsuccessfully to blow through it, then complained:

"The damn thing is froze. It seems like a man can't practice no vices
whatever in this country. I'm glad I'm getting out of it."

"So am I," agreed the younger man. Having completed his task, he came
back to the sled and seated himself beside the other.

"As I was saying a mile back yonder," Fraser resumed, "whatever made
you snatch me away from them blue-coated minions of the law, I don't
know. You says it's for company, to be sure, but we visit with one
another about like two deef-mutes. Why did you do it, Bo?"

"Well, you talk enough for both of us."

"Yes, but that ain't no reason why you should lay yourself liable to
the 'square-toes.' You ain't the kind to take a chance just because
you're lonesome."

"I picked you up because of your moth-eaten morals, I dare say. I was
tired of myself, and you interested me. Besides," Emerson added,
reflectively, "I have no particular cause to love the law, either."

"That's how I sized it," said Fraser, wagging his head with animation,
"I knew you'd had some kind of a run-in. What was it? This is low down,
see, and confidential, as between two crooks. I'll never snitch."

"Hold on there! I'm not a crook. I'm not sufficiently ingenious to be a
member of your honorable profession."

"Well, I guess my profession is as honorable as most. I've tried all of
them, and they're all alike. It's simply a question of how the other
fellow will separate easiest." He stopped and tightened his snow-shoe
thong, then rising, gazed curiously at the listless countenance of his
travelling companion, feeling anew the curiosity that had fretted him
for the past three weeks; finally he observed, with a trace of
impatience:

"Well, if you ain't one of us, you'd ought to be. You've got the best
poker face I ever see; it's as blind as a plastered wall. You ain't had
a real expression on it since you hauled me off that ice-floe in Norton
Sound."

He swung ahead of the dogs; they rose reluctantly, and with a crack of
the whip the little caravan crawled noiselessly into the gray twilight.

An hour later they dropped from the plain, down through a gutter-like
gully to the river, where they found a trail, glass-hard beneath its
downy covering. A cold breath sucked up from the sea; ahead they saw
the ragged ice up-ended by the tide, but their course was well marked
now, so they swung themselves upon the sled, while the dogs shook off
their lethargy and broke into their pattering, tireless wolf-trot.

At length they came to a point where the trail divided, one branch
leading off at right angles from the shore and penetrating the hummocks
that marked the tide limit. Evidently it led to the village which they
knew lay somewhere on the farther side, hidden by a mile or more of
sifting snow, so they altered their course and bore out upon the river.

The going here was so rough that both men leaped from their seats and
ran beside the sled, one at the front, the other guiding it from the
rear. Up and down over the ridges the trail led, winding through the
frozen inequalities, the dogs never breaking their tireless trot. They
mounted a swelling ridge and rushed down to the level river ice beyond,
but as they did so they felt their footing sag beneath them, heard a
shivering creak on every side, and, before they could do more than cry
out warningly, saw water rising about the sled-runners. The momentum of
the heavy sledge, together with the speed of the racing dogs, forced
them out upon the treacherous ice before they could check their speed.
Emerson shouted, the dogs leaped, but with a crash the ice gave way,
and for a moment the water closed over him.

Clinging to the sled to save himself, his weight slowed it down, and
the dogs stopped. "Fingerless" Fraser broke through in turn, gasping as
the icy water rose to his armpits. Slowly at first the sled sank, till
it floated half submerged, and this spot which a moment before had
seemed so safe and solid became now a churning tangle of broken
fragments, men and dogs struggling in a liquid that seemed dark as
syrup contrasted with the surrounding whiteness. The lead animals,
under whose feet the ice was still firm, turned inquiringly, then
settled on their haunches with lolling tongues. The pair next ahead of
the sledge paddled frantically, straining to reach the solid sheet
beyond, but were held back by their harness. Emerson used the sled for
a footing and endeavored to gain the ice at one side, but it broke
beneath him and he lunged in up to his shoulders. Again he tried, but
again the ice broke under his hand, more easily now.

Fraser struggled to get out in the opposite direction, each man aiming
to secure an independent footing, but their efforts only enlarged the
pool. The chill went through them like thin blades, and they chattered
gaspingly, fighting with desperation, while the wheel dogs, involved in
the harness, began to whine and cough, at which Emerson shouted:

"Cut the team loose, quick!" But the other spat out a mouthful of salt
water and spluttered:

"I--I can't swim!"

Whereupon the first speaker half swam half dragged himself through the
slush and broken debris to the forward end of the sled, and seeking out
the sheath-knife from beneath his parka, cut the harness of the two
distressed animals. Once free, they scrambled to safety, shook
themselves, and rolled in the dry snow.

Emerson next attempted to lift the nose of the sled up on the ice,
shouting at the remainder of the team to pull, but they only wagged
their tails and whined excitedly at this unusual form of entertainment.
Each time he tried to lift the sled he crashed through fresh ice,
finally bearing the next pair of dogs with him, and then the two
animals in the lead. All of them became hopelessly entangled.

He could have won his way back to the permanent ice as Fraser was
doing, but there was no way of getting his team there and he would not
sacrifice those dumb brutes now growing frantic. One of them pawed the
sheath-knife from his hand. He had become almost numb with cold and
despair when he heard the jingle of many small bells, and a sharp
command uttered in a new voice.

Out of the snow fog from the direction in which they were headed broke
a team running full and free. At a word they veered to the right and
came to a pause, avoiding the danger-spot. Even from his hasty glance
Emerson marvelled at the outfit, having never seen the like in all his
travels through the North, for each animal of the twelve stood hip-high
to a tall man, and they were like wolves of one pack, gray and gaunt
and wicked. The basket-sled behind them was long and light, and of a
design that was new to him, while the furs in it were of white fox.

The figure wrapped up in them spoke again sharply, whereupon a tall
Indian runner left the team and headed swiftly for the scene of the
accident. As he approached, Emerson noted the fellow's flowing parka of
ground-squirrel skins, from which a score of fluffy tails fell free,
and he saw that this was no Indian, but a half-breed of peculiar
coppery lightness. The man ran forward till he neared the edge of the
opening where the tide had caused the floes to separate and the cold
had not had time as yet to heal it; then flattening his body to its
full length on the ice, he crawled out cautiously and seized the lead
dog. Carefully he wormed his way backward to security, then leaned his
weight upon the tugline.

It had been a ticklish operation, requiring nice skill and dexterity,
but now that his footing was sure the runner exerted his whole
strength, and as the dogs scratched and tore for firm foothold, the
sled came crunching closer and closer through the half-inch skin of
ice. Then he reached down and dragged Emerson out, dripping and
nerveless from his immersion. Together they rescued the outfit.

The person in the sledge had watched them silently, but now spoke in a
strange patois, and the breed gave voice to her words, for it was a
woman.

"One mile you go--white man house. Go quick--you freeze." He pointed
back whence the two men had come, indicating the other branch of the
trail.

Fraser had emerged meanwhile and circled the water-hole, but even this
brief exposure to the open air had served to harden his wet garments
into a crackling armor. With rattling teeth, he asked:

"Ain't you got no dry clothes? Our stuff is soaked."

Again the Indian translated some words from the girl.

"No! You hurry and no stop here. We go quick over yonder. No can stop
at all."

He hurried back to his mistress, cried once to the pack of gray dogs,
"Oonah!" and they were off as if in chase. They left the trail and
circled toward the shore, the driver standing erect upon the heels of
the runners, guiding his team with wide-flung gestures and sharp cries,
the rush of air fluttering the many squirrel-tails of his parka like
fairy streamers.

As they dashed past, both white men had one fleeting glimpse of a
woman's face beneath a furred hood, and then it was gone. For a moment
they stood and stared after the fast-dwindling team, while the breath
of the Arctic sea stiffened their garments and froze their boot-soles
to the ice.

"Did you see?" Fraser ejaculated. "Good Lord, it's a _woman!_ A
_blonde_ woman!"

Emerson stirred himself. "Nonsense! She must be a breed," said he.

"Breeds don't have yellow hair!" declared the other.

Swiftly they bent in the free dogs and lashed the team to a run. They
felt the chill of death in their bones, and instead of riding they ran
with the sled till their blood beat painfully. Their outer coverings
were like shells, their underclothes were soaked, and although their
going was difficult and clumsy, they dared not stop, for this is the
extremest peril of the North.

Ten minutes later they swung over the river-bank and into the midst of
great rambling frame buildings, seen dimly through the falling snow.
Their trail led them to a high-banked cabin, from the stovepipe of
which they saw heat-waves pouring. The dogs broke into cry, and were
answered by many others conjured from their hiding-places. Both men
were greatly distressed by now, and could handle themselves only with
difficulty. Another mile would have meant disaster.

"Rout out the owner and tell him we're wet," said Emerson; "I'll free
the dogs."

As Fraser disappeared, the young man ran forward to slip the harness
from his animals, but found it frozen into their fur, the knots and
buckles transformed into unmanageable lumps of ice, so he wrenched the
camp axe from the sled and cut the thongs, then hacked loose the stiff
sled-lashings, seized the sodden sleeping-bags, and made for the house.
A traveller's first concern is for his dogs, then for his bedding.

Before he could reach the cabin the door opened and Fraser appeared, a
strange, dazed look on his face. He was followed by a large man of
coarse and sullen countenance, who paused on the threshold.

"Don't bother with the rest of the stuff," Emerson chattered.

"It's no use," Fraser replied; "we can't go in."

The former paused, forgetting the cold in his amazement.

"What's wrong? Somebody sick?"

"I don't know what's the matter. This man just says 'nix,' that's all."

The fellow, evidently a watchman, nodded his head, and growled, "Yaas!
Ay got no room."

"But you don't understand," said Emerson. "We're wet. We broke through
the ice. Never mind the room, we'll get along somehow." He advanced
with the tight-rolled sleeping-bags under his arm, but the man stood
immovable, blocking the entrance.

"You can't come in har! You find anoder house t'ree mile furder."

The traveller, however, paid no heed to these words, but pushed
forward, shifting the bundle to his shoulder and holding it so that it
was thrust into the Swede's face. Involuntarily the watchman drew back,
whereupon the unwelcome visitor crowded past, jostling his inhospitable
host roughly, laughing the while, although in his laughter there rang a
dangerous metallic note. Emerson's quick action gained him entrance and
Fraser followed behind into the living-room, where a flat-nosed squaw
withdrew before them. The young man flung down his burden, and
addressed her peremptorily.

"Punch up that fire, and get us something to eat, quick!" Turning to
the owner of the house, who lumbered in after them, he disregarded the
fellow's scowl, and said:

"Why, you've got lots of room, old man! We'll pay our way. Now get some
more firewood, will you? I'm chilled to the bone. That's a good
fellow." His forceful heartiness forbade dispute, and the man obeyed,
sourly.

The two new-comers stripped off their outer clothing, and in a trice
the small room became littered and hung with steaming garments. They
took possession of the house, and ordered the Swede and his squaw about
with firm good nature, until the couple slunk into an inner room and
began to talk in low tones.

Fraser had been watching the fellow, and now remarked to his companion:

"Say, what ails that ginney?"

The assumption of good-nature fell away from Boyd Emerson as he replied:

"I never knew anybody to refuse shelter to freezing men before. There's
something back of this--he's got some reason for his refusal. I don't
want any trouble, but--"

The inner door opened, and the watchman reappeared. Evidently his
sluggish resolution had finally set itself.

"You can't stop har!" he said. "Ay got orders."

Emerson was at the fire, busy rubbing the cramps from his arms, and did
not answer. When Fraser likewise ignored the Swede, he repeated his
command, louder this time.

"Get out of may house, quick!"

Both men kept their backs turned and continued to ignore him, at which
the fellow advanced heavily, and threatened them in a big, raucous
voice, trembling with rage:

"By Yingo, Ay trow you out!"

He stooped and gathered up the garments nearest him, then stepped
toward the outer door; but before he could make good his threat,
Emerson whirled like a cat, his deep-set eyes dark with sudden fury,
and seized his host by the nape of the neck. He jerked him back so
roughly that the wet clothes flapped to the floor in four directions,
whereat the Scandinavian let forth a bellow; but Emerson struck him
heavily on the jaw with his open hand, then hurled him backward into
the room so violently that he reeled, and his legs colliding with a
bench, he fell against the wall. Before he could recover, his assailant
stepped in between his wide-flung hands and throttled him, beating his
head violently against the logs. The fellow undertook to grapple with
him, at which Emerson wrenched himself free, and, stepping back, spoke
in a quivering voice which Fraser had never heard before:

"I'm just playing with you now--I don't want to hurt you."

"Get out of my house! Ay got orders!" cried the watchman wildly, and
made for him again. It was evident that the man was not lacking in
stupid courage, but Emerson, driven to it, stepped aside, and swung
heavily. The squaw in the doorway screamed, and the Swede fell full
length. Again Boyd was upon him, the restraint of the past long weeks
now unbridled, his temper unchecked. He dragged his victim through the
store-room, grinding his face into the floor at every effort to rise.
He forced him to his own door-sill, jerked the door open, and kicked
him out into the snow; then barred the entrance, and returned to the
warmth of the logs, his face convulsed and his lips working.

"Fingerless" Fraser gazed at him queerly, as if at some utterly strange
phenomenon, then drawled, with a sly chuckle:

"Well, well, you're bloody gentle, I must say. I didn't think it was in
you."

When the other vouchsafed no answer, he took his pipe from a pocket of
his steaming mackinaw, and filled it from a tobacco-box on the
window-sill; then, leaning back in his chair, he propped his feet up on
the table and sighed luxuriously, as he murmured:

"These scenes of violence just upset me something dreadful!"





CHAPTER II

IN WHICH THEY BREAK BREAD WITH A LONELY WOMAN


It was perhaps two hours later that Fraser went to the window for the
twentieth time, and, breathing against the pane, cleared a peep-hole,
announcing:

"He's gone!"

Emerson, absorbed in a book, made no answer. After his encounter with
the householder he had said little, and upon finding this coverless,
brown-stained volume--a tattered copy of Don Quixote--he had relapsed
into utter silence.

"I say, he's gone!" reiterated the man at the window.

Still no reply was forthcoming, and, seating himself near the stove,
Fraser spread his hands before him in the shape of a book, and began
whimsically, in a dry monotone, as if reading to himself:

"At which startling news, Mr. Emerson, with his customary vivacity,
smiled engagingly, and answered back:

"'Why do you reckon he has departed, Mr. Fraser?"

"'Because he's lost his voice cussing us,' I replied, graciously.

"'Oh no!' exclaimed the genial Mr. Emerson, more for the sake of
conversation than argument; 'he has got cold feet!' Evidently unwilling
to let the conversation lag, the garrulous Mr. Emerson continued, 'It's
a dark night without, and I fear some mischief is afoot.'

"'Yes; but what of yonder beautchous gel?' said I, at which he burst
into wild laughter."

Emerson laid down his book.

"What are you muttering about?" he asked.

"I merely remarked that our scandalized Scandalusian has got tired of
singin' Won't You Open that Door and Let Me In? and has ducked."

"Where has he gone?"

"I ain't no mind-reader; maybe he's loped off to Seattle after a
policeman and a writ of _ne plus ultra._ Maybe he has gone after a
clump of his countrymen--this is herding-season for Swedes."

Without answering, Emerson rose, and, going to the inner door, called
through to the squaw:

"Get us a cup of coffee."

"Coffee!" interjected Fraser; "why not have a real feed? I'm hungry
enough to eat anything except salt-risin' bread and Roquefort cheese."

"No," said the other; "I don't want to cause any more trouble than
necessary."

"Well, there's a lot of grub in the cache. Let's load up the sled."

"I'm hardly a thief."

"Oh, but--"

"No!"

"Fingerless" Fraser fell back into sour silence.

When the slatternly woman had slunk forth and was busied at the stove,
Emerson observed, musingly:

"I wonder what possessed that fellow to act as he did."

"He said he had orders," Fraser offered. "If I had a warm cabin, a lot
of grub--and a squaw--I'd like to see somebody give _me_ orders."

Their clothing was dry now, and they proceeded to dress leisurely. As
Emerson roped up the sleeping-bags, Fraser suddenly suspended
operations on his attire, and asked, querulously:

"What's the matter? We ain't goin' to move, are we?"

"Yes. We'll make for one of the other canneries," answered Emerson,
without looking up.

"But I've got sore feet," complained the adventurer.

"What! again?" Emerson laughed skeptically. "Better walk on your hands
for a while."

"And it's getting dark, too."

"Never mind. It can't be far. Come now."

He urged the fellow as he had repeatedly urged him before, for Fraser
seemed to have the blood of a tramp in his veins; then he tried to
question the woman, but she maintained a frightened silence. When they
had finished their coffee, Emerson laid two silver dollars on the
table, and they left the house to search out the river-trail again.

The early darkness, hastened by the storm, was upon them when they
crept up the opposite bank an hour later, and through the gloom beheld
a group of great shadowy buildings. Approaching the solitary gleam of
light shining from the window of the watchman's house, they applied to
him for shelter.

"We are just off a long trip, and our dogs are played out," Emerson
explained. "We'll pay well for a place to rest."

"You can't stop here," said the fellow, gruffly.

"Why not?"

"I've got no room."

"Is there a road-house near by?"

"I don't know."

"You'd better find out mighty quick," retorted the young man, with
rising temper at the other's discourtesy.

"Try the next place below," said the watchman, hurriedly, slamming the
door in their faces and bolting it. Once secure behind his barricade,
he added: "If he won't let you in, maybe the priest can take care of
you at the Mission."

"This here town of Kalvik is certainly overjoyed at our arrival," said
Fraser, "ain't it?"

But his irate companion made no comment, whereat, sensing the anger
behind his silence, the speaker, for once, failed to extemporize an
answer to his own remark.

At the next stop they encountered the same gruff show of inhospitality,
and all they could elicit from the shock-headed proprietor was another
direction, in broken English, to try the Russian priest.

"I'll make one more try," said Emerson, between his teeth, gratingly,
as they swung out into the darkness a second time. "If that doesn't
succeed, then I'll take possession again. I won't be passed on all
night this way."

"The 'buck' will certainly show us to the straw," said "Fingerless"
Fraser.

"The what?"

"The 'buck'--the sky-dog--oh, the priest!"

But when, a mile farther on, they drew up before a white pile
surmounted by a dimly discerned Greek cross, no sign of life was to be
seen, and their signals awakened no response.

"Gone!--and they knew it."

The vicious manner in which Emerson handled his whip as he said the
words betrayed his state of mind. Three weeks of unvarying hardship and
toilsome travel had worn out both men, and rendered them well-nigh
desperate. Hence they wasted no words when, for the fourth time, their
eyes caught the welcome sight of a shining radiance in the gloom of the
gathering night. The trail-weary team stopped of its own accord.

"Unhitch!" ordered Emerson, doggedly, as he began to untie the ropes of
the sled. He shouldered the sleeping-bags, and made toward the light
that filtered through the crusted windows, followed by Fraser similarly
burdened. But as they approached they saw at once that this was no
cannery; it looked more like a road-house or trading-post, for the
structure was low and it was built of logs. Behind and connected with
it by a covered hall or passageway crouched another squat building of
the same character, its roof piled thick with a mass of snow, its
windows glowing. Those warm squares of light, set into the black walls
and overhung by white-burdened eaves, gave the place the appearance of
a Christmas-card, it was so snug and cozy. Even the glitter was there,
caused by the rays refracted from the facets of the myriad
frost-crystals.

They mounted the steps of the nigh building, and, without knocking,
flung the door open, entered, then tossed their bundles to the floor.
With a sharp exclamation at this unceremonious intrusion, an Indian
woman, whom they had surprised, dropped her task and regarded them,
round-eyed.

"We're all right this time," observed Emerson, as he swept the place
with his eyes. "It's a store." Then to the woman he said, briefly: "We
want a bed and something to eat."

On every side the walls were shelved with merchandise, while the
counter carried a supply of clothing, skins, and what not; a
cylindrical stove in the centre of the room emanated a hot, red glow.

"This looks like the Waldorf to me," said "Fingerless" Fraser, starting
to remove his parka, the fox fringe on the hood of which was white from
his breath.

"What you want?" demanded the squaw, coming forward.

Boyd, likewise divesting himself of his furs, noticed that she was
little more than a girl--a native, undoubtedly; but she was neatly
dressed, her skin was light, and her hair twisted into a smooth black
knot at the back of her head.

"Food! Sleep!" he replied to her question.

"You can't stop here," the girl asserted, firmly.

"Oh yes, we can," said Emerson. "You have plenty of room, and there's
lots of food"--he indicated the shelves of canned goods.

The squaw, without moving, raised her voice and called: "Constantine!
Constantine!"

A door in the farther shadows opened, and the tall figure of a man
emerged, advancing swiftly, his soft soles noiseless beneath him.

"Well, well! It's old Squirrel-Tail," cried Fraser. "Good-evening,
Constantine."

It was the copper-hued native who had rescued them from the river
earlier in the day; but although he must have recognized them, his
demeanor had no welcome in it. The Indian girl broke into a torrent of
excited volubility, unintelligible to the white men.

"You no stop here," said Constantine, finally; and, making toward the
outer door, he flung it open, pointing out into the night.

"We've come a long way, and we're tired," Emerson argued, pacifically.
"We'll pay you well."

Constantine only replied with added firmness, "No," to which the other
retorted with a flash of rising anger, "_Yes!_"

He faced the Indian with his back to the stove, his voice taking on a
determined note. "We won't leave here until we are ready. We're tired,
and we're going to stay here--do you understand? Now tell your
'klootch' to get us some supper. Quick!"

The breed's face blazed. Without closing the door, he moved directly
upon the interloper, his design recognizable in his threatening
attitude; but before he could put his plan into execution, a soft voice
from the rear of the room halted him.

"Constantine," it said.

The travellers whirled to see, standing out in relief against the
darkness of the passage whence the Indian had just come a few seconds
before, the golden-haired girl of the storm, to whom they had been
indebted for their rescue. She advanced, smiling pleasantly, enjoying
their surprise.

"What is the trouble?"

"These men no stop here!" cried Constantine violently. "You speak! I
make them go."

"I--I--beg pardon," began Emerson. "We didn't intend to take forcible
possession, but we're played out--we've been denied shelter
everywhere--we felt desperate--"

"You tried the canneries above?" interrupted the girl.

"Yes."

"And they referred you to the priest? Quite so." She laughed softly,
her voice a mellow contralto. "The Father has been gone for a month; he
wouldn't have let you in if he'd been there."

She addressed the Indian girl in Aleut and signalled to Constantine, at
which the two natives retired--Constantine reluctantly, like a
watch-dog whose suspicions are not fully allayed.

"We're glad of an opportunity to thank you for your timely service this
afternoon," said Emerson. "Had we known you lived here, we certainly
should not have intruded in this manner." He found himself growing
hotly uncomfortable as he began to realize the nature of his position,
but the young woman spared him further apologies by answering,
carelessly:

"Oh, that was nothing. I've been expecting you hourly. You see,
Constantine's little brother has the measles, and I had to get to him
before the natives could give the poor little fellow a Russian bath and
then stand him out in the snow. They have only one treatment for all
diseases. That's why I didn't stop and give you more explicit
directions this morning."

"If your--er--father--" The girl shook her head.

"Then your husband--I should like to arrange with him to hire lodgings
for a few days. The matter of money--"

Again she came to his rescue.

"I am the man of the house. I'm boss here. This splendor is all mine."
She waved a slender white hand majestically at the rough surroundings,
laughing in a way that put Boyd Emerson more at his ease. "You are
quite welcome to stay as long as you wish. Constantine objects to my
hospitality, and treats all strangers alike, fearing they may be
Company men. When you didn't arrive at dark, I thought perhaps he was
right this time, and that you had been taken in by one of the watchmen."

"We throwed a Swede out on his neck," declared Fraser, swelling with
conscious importance, "and I guess he's 'crabbed' us with the other
squareheads."

"Oh, no! They have instructions not to harbor any travellers. It's as
much as his job is worth for any of them to entertain you. Now, won't
you make yourselves at home while Constantine attends to your dogs?
Dinner will soon be ready, and I hope you will do me the honor of
dining with me," she finished, with a graciousness that threw Emerson
into fresh confusion.

He murmured "Gladly," and then lost himself in wonder at this
well-gowned girl living amid such surroundings. Undeniably pretty,
graceful in her movements, bearing herself with certainty and
poise--who was she? Where did she come from? And what in the world was
she doing here?

He became aware that "Fingerless" Fraser was making the introductions.
"This is Mr. Emerson; my name is French. I'm one of the Virginia
Frenches, you know; perhaps you have heard of them. No? Well, they're
the real thing."

The girl bowed, but Emerson forestalled her acknowledgment by breaking
in roughly, with a threatening scowl at the adventurer:

"His name isn't French at all, Madam; it's Fraser--'Fingerless' Fraser.
He's an utterly worthless rogue, and absolutely unreliable so far as I
can learn. I picked him up on the ice in Norton Sound, with a marshal
at his heels."

"That marshal wasn't after me," stoutly denied Fraser, quite unabashed.
"Why, he's a friend of mine--we're regular chums--everybody knows that.
He wanted to give me some papers to take outside, that's all."

Boyd shrugged his shoulders indifferently:

"Warrants!"

"Not at all! Not at all!" airily.

Their hostess, greatly amused at this remarkable turn of the ceremony,
prevented any further argument by saying:

"Well, French or Fraser, whichever it is, you are both welcome.
However, I should prefer to think of you as a runaway rather than as an
intimate friend of the marshal at Nome; I happen to know him."

"Well, we ain't what you'd exactly call pals," Fraser hastily
disclaimed. "I just sort of bow to him"--he gave an imitation of a
slight, indifferent headshake--"that way!"

"I see," commented their hostess, quizzically; then recalling herself,
she continued: "I should have made myself known before; I am Miss
Malotte."

"Ch--" began the crook, then shut his lips abruptly, darting a shrewd
glance at the girl. Emerson saw their eyes meet, and fancied that the
woman's smile sat a trifle unnaturally on her lips, while the delicate
coloring of her face changed imperceptibly. As the fellow mumbled some
acknowledgment, she turned to the younger man, inquiring impersonally:

"I suppose you are bound for the States?"

"Yes; we intend to catch the mail-boat at Katmai. I am taking Fraser
along for company; it's hard travelling alone in a strange country.
He's a nuisance, but he's rather amusing at times."

"I certainly am," agreed that cheerful person, now fully at his ease.
"I've a bad memory for names!"--he looked queerly at his hostess--"but
I'm very amusing, very!"

"Not 'very,'" corrected Emerson.

Then they talked of the trail, the possibilities of securing supplies,
and of hiring a guide. By-and-by the girl rose, and after showing them
to a room, she excused herself on the score of having to see to the
dinner. When she had withdrawn, "Fingerless" Fraser pursed his thin
lips into a noiseless whistle, then observed:

"Well, I'll--be--cussed!"

"Who is she?" asked Emerson, in a low, eager tone. "Do you know?"

"You heard, didn't you? She's Miss Malotte, and she's certainly some
considerable lady."

The same look that Emerson had noted when their hostess introduced
herself to them flitted again into the crook's unsteady eyes.

"Yes, but _who_ is she? What does this mean?" Emerson pointed to the
provisions and fittings about them. "What is she doing here alone?"

"Maybe you'd better ask her yourself," said Fraser.

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Emerson detected a
strange note in the rogue's voice, but it was too slight to provoke
reply, so he brushed it aside and prepared himself for dinner.

The Indian girl summoned them, and they followed her through the long
passageway into the other house, where, to their utter astonishment,
they seemed to step out of the frontier and into the heart of
civilization. They found a tiny dining-room, perfectly appointed, in
the centre of which, wonder of wonders, was a round table gleaming like
a deep mahogany pool, upon the surface of which floated gauzy
hand-worked napery, glinting silver, and sparkling crystal, the dark
polish of the wood reflecting the light from shaded candles. It held a
delicately figured service of blue and gold, while the selection of
thin-stemmed glasses all in rows indicated the character of the
entertainment that awaited them. The men's eyes were too busy with the
unaccustomed sight to note details carefully, but they felt soft carpet
beneath their feet and observed that the walls were smooth and
harmoniously papered.

When one has lived long in the rough where things come with the husk
on, he fancies himself weaned away from the dainty, the beautiful, and
the artistic; after years of a skillet-and-sheath-knife existence he
grows to feel a scorn for the finer, softer, inconsequent trifles of
the past, only to find, of a sudden, that, unknown to him perhaps, his
soul has been hungering for them all the while. The feel of cool linen
comes like the caress of a forgotten sweetheart, the tinkle of glass
and silver are so many chiming fairy bells inviting him back into the
foretime days. And so these two unkempt men, toughened and browned to
the texture of leather by wind and snow, brought by trail and campfire
to disregard ceremony and look upon mealtime as an unsatisfying,
irksome period, stood speechless, affording the girl the feminine
pleasure of enjoying their discomfiture.

"This is m--marvelous," murmured Emerson, suddenly conscious of his
rough clothing, his fur boots, and his hands cracked by frost. "I'm
afraid we're not in keeping."

"Indeed you are," said the girl, "and I am delighted to have somebody
to talk to. It's very lonesome here, month after month."

"This is certainly a swell tepee," Fraser remarked, staring about in
open admiration. "How did you do it?"

"I brought my things with me from Nome."

"Nome!" ejaculated Emerson, quickly.

"Yes."

"Why, I've been in Nome ever since the camp was discovered. It's
strange we never met."

"I didn't stay there very long. I went back to Dawson."

Again he fancied the girl's eyes held a vague challenge, but he could
not be sure; for she seated him, and then gave some instructions to the
Aleut girl, who had entered noiselessly. It was the strangest meal Boyd
Emerson had ever eaten, for here, in a forgotten corner of an unknown
land, hidden behind high-banked log walls, he partook of a perfect
dinner, well served, and presided over by a gracious, richly gowned
young woman who talked interestingly on many subjects, For a second
time he lost himself in a maze of conjecture. Who was she? What was her
mission here? Why was she alone? But not for long; he was too heavily
burdened by the responsibility and care of his own affairs to waste
much time by the way on those of other people; and becoming absorbed in
his own thoughts, he grew more silent as the signs of refinement and
civilization about him revived memories long stifled. Fraser, on the
contrary, warmed by the wine, blossomed like the rose, and talked
garrulously, recounting marvellous stories, as improbable as they were
egotistical. He monopolized his hostess' attention, the while his
companion became more preoccupied, more self-contained, almost sullen.

This was not the effect for which the girl had striven; her younger
guest's taciturnity, which grew as the dinner progressed, piqued her,
so at the first opportunity she bent her efforts toward rallying him.
He answered politely, but she was powerless to shake off his mood. It
was not abashment, as she realized when, from the corner of her eye,
she observed him covertly stroke the linen and finger the silver as if
to renew a sense of touch long unused. Being unaccustomed to any sort
of indifference in men, his spiritless demeanor put her on her mettle,
yet all to no avail; she could not find a seam in that mask of listless
abstraction. At last he spoke of his own accord:

"You said those watchmen have instructions not to harbor travellers.
Why is that?"

"It is the policy of the Companies. They are afraid somebody will
discover gold around here."

"Yes?"

"You see, this is the greatest salmon river in the world; the 'run' is
tremendous, and seems to be unfailing; hence the cannery people wish to
keep it all to themselves."

"I don't quite understand--"

"It is simple enough. Kalvik is so isolated and the fishing season is
so short that the Companies have to send their crews in from the States
and take them out again every summer. Now, if gold were discovered
hereabouts, the fishermen would all quit and follow the 'strike,' which
would mean the ruin of the year's catch and the loss of many hundreds
of thousands of dollars, for there is no way of importing new help
during the short summer months. Why, this village would become a city
in no time if such a thing were to happen; the whole region would fill
up with miners, and not only would labor conditions be entirely upset
for years, but the eyes of the world, being turned this way, other
people might go into the fishing business and create a competition
which would both influence prices, and deplete the supply of fish in
the Kalvik River. So you see there are many reasons why this region is
forbidden to miners."

"I see."

"You couldn't buy a pound of food nor get a night's lodging here for a
king's ransom. The watchmen's jobs depend upon their unbroken bond of
inhospitality, and the Indians dare not sell you anything, not even a
dogfish, under penalty of starvation, for they are dependent upon the
Companies' stores."

"So that is why you have established a trading-post of your own?"

"Oh dear, no. This isn't a store. This food is for my men."

"Your men?"

"Yes, I have a crew out in the hills on a grub-stake. This is our
cache. While they prospect for gold, I stand guard over the provisions."

Fraser chuckled softly. "Then you are bucking the Salmon Trust?"

"After a fashion, yes. I knew this country had never been gone over, so
I staked six men, chartered a schooner, and came down here from Nome in
the early spring. We stood off the watchmen, and when the supply-ships
arrived, we had these houses completed, and my men were out in the
hills where it was hard to follow them. I stayed behind, and stood the
brunt of things."

"But surely they didn't undertake to injure you?" said Emerson, now
thoroughly interested in this extraordinary young woman.

"Oh, didn't they!" she answered, with a peculiar laugh. "You don't
appreciate the character of these people. When a man fights for money,
just plain, sordid money, he loses all sense of honor, chivalry, and
decency, he employs any means that come handy. There is no real code of
financial morality, and the battle for dollars is the bitterest of all
contests. Of course, being a woman, they couldn't very well attack me
personally, but they tried everything except physical violence, and I
don't know how long they will refrain from that. These plants are owned
separately, but they operate under an agreement, with one man at the
head. His name is Marsh--Willis Marsh, and, of course, he's not my
friend."

"Sort of 'United we stand, divided we fall.'"

"Exactly. That spreads the responsibility, and seems to leave nobody
guilty for their evil deeds. The first thing they did was to sink my
schooner--in the morning you will see her spars sticking up through the
ice out in front there. One of their tugs 'accidentally' ran her down,
although she was at anchor fully three hundred feet inside the channel
line. Then Marsh actually had the effrontery to come here personally
and demand damages for the injury to his towboat, claiming there were
no lights on the schooner."

Cherry Malotte's eyes grew dark with indignation as she continued:
"Nobody thinks of hanging lanterns to little crafts like her at anchor
under such conditions. Having allowed me to taste his power, that man
first threatened me covertly, and then proceeded to persecute me in a
more open manner. When I still remained obdurate, he--he"--she paused.
"You may have heard of it. He killed one of my men."

"Impossible!" ejaculated Boyd.

"Oh, but it isn't impossible. Anything is possible with unscrupulous
men where there is no law; they halt at nothing when in chase of money.
They are different from women in that. I never heard of a woman doing
murder for money."

"Was it really murder?"

"Judge for yourself. My man came down for supplies, and they got him
drunk--he was a drinking man--then they stabbed him. They said a
Chinaman did it in a brawl, but Willis Marsh was to blame. They brought
the poor fellow here, and laid him on my steps, as if I had been the
cause of it. Oh, it was horrible, horrible!" Her eyes suddenly dimmed
over and her white hands clenched.

"And you still stuck to your post?" said Emerson, curiously.

"Certainly! This adventure means a great deal to me, and, besides, _I
will not be beaten_"--the stem of the glass with which she had been
toying snapped suddenly--"at anything."

She appeared, all in a breath, to have become prematurely hard and
worldly, after the fashion of those who have subsisted by their wits.
To Emerson she seemed to have grown at least ten years older. Yet it
was unbelievable that this slip of a woman should be possessed of the
determination, the courage, and the administrative ability to conduct
so desperate an enterprise. He could understand the feminine rashness
that might have led her to embark upon it in the first place, but to
continue in the face of such opposition--why, that was a man's work and
required a man's powers, and yet she was utterly unmasculine. Indeed,
it seemed to him that he had never met a more womanly woman. Everything
about her was distinctly feminine.

"Fortunately, the fishing season is short," she added, while a pucker
of perplexity came between her dainty brows; "but I don't know what
will happen next summer."

"I'd like to meet this Marsh-hen party," observed Fraser, his usually
colorless eyes a bright sea-green.

"Do you fear further--er--violence?" asked Emerson.

Cherry shrugged her rounded shoulders. "I anticipate it, but I don't
fear it. I have Constantine to protect me, and you will admit he is a
capable bodyguard." She smiled slightly, recalling the scene she had
interrupted before dinner. "Then, too, Chakawana, his sister, is just
as devoted. Rather a musical name, don't you think so, Chakawana? It
means 'The Snowbird' in Aleut, but when she's aroused she's more like a
hawk. It's the Russian in her, I dare say."

The girl became conscious that her guests were studying her with
undisguised amazement now, and therefore arose, saying, "You may smoke
in the other room if you wish."

Lost in wonder at this unconventional creature, and dazed by the
strangeness of the whole affair, Emerson gained his feet and followed
her, with "Fingerless" Fraser at his heels.





CHAPTER III

IN WHICH CHERRY MALOTTE DISPLAYS A TEMPER


The unsuspected luxury of the dining-room, and the excellence of the
dinner itself had in a measure prepared Emerson for what he found in
the living-room. One thing only staggered him--a piano. The bear-skins
on the floor, the big, sleepy chairs, the reading-table littered with
magazines, the shelves of books, even the basket of fancy-work--all
these he could accept without further parleying; but a piano! in
Kalvik! Observing his look, the girl said:

"I am dreadfully extravagant, am I not? But I love it, and I have so
little to do. I read and play and drive my dog-team--that's about all."

"And rescue drowning men in time for dinner," added Boyd Emerson, not
knowing whether he liked this young woman or not. He knew this north
country from bitter experience, knew that none but the strong can
survive, and recognizing himself as a failure, her calm assurance and
self-certainty offended him vaguely. It seemed as if she were
succeeding where he had failed, which rather jarred his sense of the
fitness of things. Then, too, conventionality is a very agreeable
social bond, the true value of which is not often recognized until it
is found missing, and this girl was anything but conventional.

Again he withdrew into that silent mood from which no effort on the
part of his hostess could arouse him, and it soon became apparent from
the listless hang of his hands and the distant light in his eyes that
he had even become unconscious of her presence in the room. Observing
the cause of her impatience, Fraser interrupted his interminable
monologue to say, without change of intonation:

"Don't get sore on him; he's that way half the time. I rode herd one
night on a feller that was going to hang for murder at dawn, and he set
just like that for hours." She raised her brows inquiringly, at which
he continued: "But you can't always tell; when my brother got married
he acted the same way."

After an hour, during which Emerson barely spoke, she tired of the
other man's anecdotes, which had long ceased to be amusing, and, going
to the piano, shuffled the sheet music idly, inquiring:

"Do you care for music?" Her remark was aimed at Emerson, but the other
answered:

"I'm a nut on it."

She ignored the speaker, and cast another question over her shoulder:

"What kind do you prefer?" Again the adventurer outran his companion to
the reply:

"My favorite hymn is the _Maple Leaf Rag_. Let her go, professor."

Cherry settled herself obligingly and played ragtime, although she
fancied that Emerson stirred uneasily as if the musical interruption
disturbed him; but when she swung about on her seat at the conclusion,
he was still lax and indifferent.

"That certainly has some class to it," "Fingerless" Fraser said,
admiringly. "Just go through the reperchure from soda to hock, will
you? I'm certainly fond of that <DW53> clatter." And realizing that his
pleasure was genuine, she played on and on for him, to the muffled
thump of his feet, now and then feeding her curiosity with a stolen
glance at the other. She was in the midst of some syncopated measure
when Boyd spoke abruptly: "Please play something."

She understood what he meant and began really to play, realizing very
soon that at least one of her guests knew and loved music. Under her
deft fingers the instrument became a medium for musical speech. Gay
roundelays, swift, passionate Hungarian dances, bold Wagnerian strains
followed in quick succession, and the more utter her abandon the more
certainly she felt the younger man respond.

Strange to say, the warped soul of "Fingerless" Fraser likewise felt
the spell of real music, and he stilled his loose-hinged tongue.
By-and-by she began to sing, more for her own amusement than for
theirs, and after awhile her fingers strayed upon the sweet chords of
Bartlett's _A Dream_, a half-forgotten thing, the tenderness of which
had lived with her from girlhood. She heard Emerson rise, then knew he
was standing at her shoulder. Could he sing, she wondered, as he began
to take up the words of the song? Then her dream-filled eyes widened as
she listened to his voice breathing life into the beautiful words. He
sang with the ease and flexibility of an artist, his powerful baritone
blending perfectly with her contralto.

For the first time she felt the man's personality, his magnetism, as if
he had dropped his cloak and stood at her side in his true semblance.
As they finished the song she wheeled abruptly, her face flushed, her
ripe lips smiling, her eyes moist, and looked up to find him
marvelously transformed. His even teeth gleamed forth from a brown face
that had become the mirror of a soul as spirited as her own, for the
blending of their voices had brought them into a similar harmony of
understanding.

"Oh, _thank_ you," she breathed.

"Thank _you_," he said. "I--I--that's the first time in ages that I've
had the heart to sing. I was hungry for music, I was starving for it.
I've sat in my cabin at night longing for it until my soul fairly ached
with the silence. I've frozen beneath the Northern Lights straining my
ears for the melody that ought to go with them--they must have an
accompaniment somewhere, don't you think so?"

"Yes, yes," she breathed.

"They _must_ have; they are too gloriously, terribly beautiful to be
silent. I've stood in the whispering spruce groves and tried to sing
contentment back into my heart, but I couldn't do it. This is the first
real taste I've had in three years. Three years!"

He was talking rapidly, his blue eyes dancing. Cherry remembered
thinking at dinner that those eyes were of too light and hard a blue
for tenderness. She now observed that they were singularly deep and
passionate.

"Why, I've gone about with a comb and a piece of tissue-paper at my
lips like any kid. I once made a banjo out of a cigar-box and bale
wire, and while I was in the Kougarok I walked ten miles to hear a
<DW65> play a harmonica. I did all sorts of things to coax music into
this country, but it is silent and unresponsive, absolutely dead and
discordant." He made a gesture which in a woman would have ended in a
shudder.

He took a seat near the girl, and continued to talk feverishly, unable
to give voice to his thoughts rapidly enough. His reserve vanished, his
silence gave way to a confidential warmth which suffused his listener
and drew her to him. The overpowering force of his strong nature swept
her out of herself, while her ready sympathy took fire and caught at
his half-expressed ideas and stumbling words, stimulating him with her
warm understanding. Her quick wit rallied him and awoke echoes of his
past youth, until they began to laugh and jest with the _camaraderie_
of boy and girl. With their better acquaintance her assumption of
masculinity fell from her, and she became the "womanly woman"--dainty,
vivacious, captivating.

Fraser, whom both had forgotten, looked on at first in gaping, silent
awe, staring and blinking at his travelling companion, who had
undergone such a metamorphosis. But restraint and silence were
impossible to him for long, and in time he ambled clumsily into the
conversation. It jarred, of course, but he could not be ignored, and
gradually he claimed more and more of the talk until the young couple
yielded to the monologue, smiling at each other in mutual understanding.

Emerson listened tolerantly, idly running through the magazines at his
hand, his hostess watching him covertly, albeit her ears were drummed
by the other's monotone. How much better this mood became the young
man! Suddenly the smile of amusement that lurked about his lip corners
and gave him a pleasing look hardened in a queer fashion--he started,
then stared at one of the pages while the color died out of his brown
cheeks. Cherry saw the hand that held the magazine tremble. He looked
up at her, and, disregarding Fraser, broke in, harshly:

"Have you read this magazine?"

"Not entirely. It came in the last mail."

"I'd like to take one page out of it," he said. "May I?"

"Why, certainly," she replied. "You may have the whole thing if you
like." He produced a knife, and with one quick stroke cut a single leaf
out of the magazine, which he folded and thrust into the breast of his
coat.

"Thank you," he muttered; then fell to staring ahead of him, again
heedless of his surroundings. This abrupt relapse into his former state
of sullen and defiant silence tantalized the girl to the verge of
anger, especially now that she had seen something of his true self. She
was painfully conscious of a sense of betrayal at having yielded so
easily to his pleasant mood, only to be shut out on an instant's whim,
while a girlish curiosity to know the cause of the change overpowered
her. He offered no explanation, however, and took no further part in
the conversation until, noting the lateness of the hour, he rose and
thanked her for her hospitality in the same deadly indifferent manner.

"The music was a great treat," he said, looking beyond her and holding
aloof--"a very great treat. I enjoyed it immensely. Good-night."

Cherry Malotte had experienced a new sensation, and she didn't like it.
She vowed angrily that she disliked men who looked past her; indeed,
she could not recall any other who had ever done so. Her chief concern
had always been to check their ardor. She resolved viciously that
before she was through with this young man he would make her a less
listless adieu. She assured herself that he was a selfish, sullen boor,
who needed to be taught a lesson in manners for his own good if for
nothing else; that a woman's curiosity had aught to do with her
exasperation she would have denied. She abhorred curiosity. As a matter
of fact, she told herself that he did not interest her in the least,
except as a discourteous fellow who ought to be shocked into a
consciousness of his bad manners, and therefore the moment the two men
were well out of the room she darted to the table, snatched up the
magazine, and skimmed through it feverishly. Ah! here was the place!

A woman's face with some meaningless name beneath filled each page.
Along the top ran the heading, "Famous American Beauties." So it was a
woman! She skipped backward and forward among the pages for further
possible enlightenment, but there was no article accompanying the
pictures. It was merely an illustrated section devoted to the
photographs of prominent actresses and society women, most of whom she
had never heard of, though here and there she saw a name that was
familiar. In the centre was that tantalizingly clean-cut edge which had
subtracted a face from the gallery--a face which she wanted very much
to see. She paused and racked her brain, her brows furrowed with the
effort at recollection, but she had only glanced at the pages when the
magazine came, and had paid no attention to this part of it. Her anger
at her failure to recall this particular face aroused her to the fact
that she was acting very foolishly, at which she laughed aloud.

"Well, what of it?" she demanded of the empty room. "He's in love with
some society ninny, and I don't care what she looks like." She shrugged
her shoulders carelessly; then, in a sudden access of fury, she flung
the mutilated magazine viciously into a far corner of the room.

The travellers slept late on the following morning, for the weariness
of weeks was upon them, and the little bunk-room they occupied adjoined
the main building and was dark. When they came forth they found
Chakawana in the store, and a few moments later were called to
breakfast.

"Where is your mistress?" inquired Boyd.

"She go see my sick broder," said the Indian girl, recalling Cherry's
mention of the child ill with measles. "She all the time give medicine
to Aleut babies," Chakawana continued. "All the time give, give, give
something. Indian people love her."

"She's sort of a Lady Bountiful to these bums," remarked Fraser.

"Does she let them trade in yonder?" Boyd asked, indicating the store.

"Oh yes! Everything cheap to Indian people. Indian got no money, all
the same." Then, as if realizing that her hasty tongue had betrayed
some secret of moment, the Aleut girl paused, and, eying them sharply,
demanded, "What for you ask?"

"No reason in particular."

"What for you ask?" she insisted. "Maybe you b'long Company, eh?"
Emerson laughed, but she was not to be put off easily, and, with
characteristic guile, announced boldly: "I lie to you. She no trade
with Aleut people. No; Chakawana lie!"

"She's afraid we'll tell this fellow Marsh," Fraser remarked to
Emerson; then, as if that name had some powerful effect upon their
informant, Chakawana advanced to the table, and, leaning over it, said:

"You know Willis Marsh?" Her pretty wooden face held a mingled
expression of fear, malice, and curiosity.

"Ouch!" said Fraser, shoving back from his plate. "Don't look at me
like that before I've had my coffee."

"Maybe you know him in San Flancisco, eh?"

"No, no! We never heard of him until last night."

"I guess you lie!" She smiled at them wheedlingly, but Boyd reassured
her.

"No! We don't know him at all."

"Then what for you speak his name?"

"Miss Malotte told us about him at dinner."

"Oh!"

"By-the-way, what kind of a looking feller is he?" asked Fraser.

"He's fine, han'some man," said Chakawana. "Nice fat man. Him got hair
like--like fire."

"He's fat and red-headed, eh? He must be a picture."

"Yes," agreed the girl, rather vaguely.

"Is he married?"

"I don't know. Maybe he lie. Maybe he got woman."

"The masculine sex seems to stand like a band of horse-thieves with
this dame," Fraser remarked to his companion. "She thinks we're all
liars."

After a moment, Chakawana continued, "Where you go now?"

"To the States; to the 'outside,'" Boyd answered.

"Then you see Willis Marsh, sure thing. He lives there. Maybe you
speak, eh?"

"Well, Mr. Marsh may be a big fellow around Kalvik, but I don't think
he occupies so much space in the United States that we will meet him,"
laughed Emerson; but even yet the girl seemed unconvinced, and went on
rather fearfully: "Maybe you see him all the same."

"Perhaps. What then?"

"You speak my name?"

"Why, no, certainly not."

"If I see him, I'll give him your love," offered "Fingerless" Fraser,
banteringly; but Chakawana's light-hued cheeks blanched perceptibly,
and she cried, quickly:

"No! No! Willis Marsh bad, bad man. You no speak, please! Chakawana
poor Aleut girl. Please?"

Her alarm was so genuine that they reassured her; and having completed
their meal, they rose and left the room. Outside, Fraser said: "This
cannery guy has certainly buffaloed these savages. He must be a
slave-driver." Then as they filled their pipes, he added: "She was
plumb scared to death of him, wasn't she?"

"Think so?" listlessly.

"Sure. Didn't she show it?"

"Um-m, I suppose so."

They were still talking when they heard the jingle of many bells, then
a sharp command from Constantine, and the next instant the door burst
open to admit Cherry, who came with a rush of youth and health as fresh
as the bracing air that followed her. The cold had reddened her cheeks
and quickened her eyes; she was the very embodiment of the day itself,
radiantly bright and tinglingly alive.

"Good-morning, gentlemen!" she cried, removing the white fur hood which
gave a setting to her sparkling eyes and teeth. "Oh, but it's a
glorious morning! If you want to feel your blood leap and your lungs
tingle, just let Constantine take you for a spin behind that team. We
did the five miles from the village in seventeen minutes."

"And how is your measley patient?" asked Fraser.

"He's doing well, thank you." She stepped to the door to admit
Chakawana, who had evidently hurried around from the other house, and
now came in, bareheaded and heedless of the cold, bearing a bundle
clasped to her breast. "I brought the little fellow home with me. See!"

The Indian girl bore her burden to the stove, where she knelt to lift
the covering from the child's face.

"Hey there! Look out!" ejaculated Fraser, retreating in alarm. "I never
had no measles." But Chakawana went on cuddling the infant in a
motherly fashion while Cherry reassured her guests.

"Is that an Indian child?" asked Emerson, curiously, noting the little
fellow's flushed fair skin. The kneeling girl turned upward a pair of
tearful, defiant eyes, answering quickly:

"Yes, him Aleut baby."

"Him our little broder," came the deep voice of Constantine, who had
entered unnoticed; and a moment later, in obedience to an order from
Cherry, they bore their charge to their own quarters at the rear.





CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH SHE GIVES HEART TO A HOPELESS MAN


"I dare say Kalvik is rather lively during the summer season," Emerson
remarked to Cherry, later in the day.

"Yes; the ships arrive in May, and the fish begin to run in July. After
that nobody sleeps."

She had come upon him staring dispiritedly at the fire, and his
dejection softened her and drew out her womanly sympathy. She had
renewed her efforts to cheer him up, seeking to stir him out of the
gloom that imprisoned him. With the healthy optimism and exuberance of
her normal youth she could not but deplore the mischance that had
changed him into the sullen, silent brute he seemed.

"It must be rather interesting," he observed, indifferently.

"It is more than that; it is inspiring. Why, the story of the salmon is
an epic in itself. You know they live a cycle of four years, no more,
always returning to the waters of their nativity to die; and I have
heard it said that during one of those four years they disappear, no
one knows where, reappearing out of the mysterious depths of the sea as
if at a signal. They come by the legion, in countless scores of
thousands; and when once they have tasted the waters of their birth
they never touch food again, never cease their onward rush until they
become bruised and battered wrecks, drifting down from the
spawning-beds. When the call of nature is answered and the spawn is
laid they die. They never seek the salt sea again, but carpet the
rivers with their bones. When they feel the homing impulse they come
from the remotest depths, heading unerringly for the particular parent
stream whence they originated. If sand-bars should block their course
in dry seasons or obstacles intercept them, they will hurl themselves
out of the water in an endeavor to get across. They may disregard a
thousand rivers, one by one; but when they finally taste the sweet
currents which flow from their birthplaces their whole nature changes,
and even their physical features alter: they grow thin, and the head
takes on the sinister curve of the preying bird."

"I had no idea they acted that way," said Boyd. "You paint a vivid
picture."

"That's because they interest me. As a matter of fact, these fisheries
are more fascinating than any place I've ever seen. Why, you just ought
to witness the 'run.' These empty waters become suddenly crowded, and
the fish come in a great silver horde, which races up, up, up toward
death and obliteration. They come with the violence of a summer storm;
like a prodigious gleaming army they swarm and bend forward, eager,
undeviating, one-purposed. It's quite impossible to describe it--this
great silver horde. They are entirely defenceless, of course, and
almost every living thing preys upon them. The birds congregate in
millions, the four-footed beasts come down from the hills, the Apaches
of the sea harry them in dense droves, and even man appears from
distant coasts to take his toll; but still they press bravely on. The
clank of machinery makes the hills rumble, the hiss of steam and the
sighs of the soldering-furnaces are like the complaint of some giant
overgorging himself. The river swarms with the fleets of fish-boats,
which skim outward with the dawn to flit homeward again at twilight and
settle like a vast brood of white-winged gulls. Men let the hours go by
unheeded, and forget to sleep."

"What sort of men do they hire?"

"Chinese, <DW61>s, and Italians, mainly. It's like a foreign country here,
only there are no women. The bunk-rooms are filled with opium fumes and
noisy with clacking tongues. On one side of the village streets the
Orientals burn incense to their Joss, across the way the Latins worship
the Virgin. They work side by side all day until they are ready to
drop, then mass in the street and knife each other over their rival
gods."

"How long does it all last?"

"Only about six weeks; then the furnace fires die out, the ships are
loaded, the men go to sleep, and the breezes waft them out into the
August haze, after which Kalvik sags back into its ten months' coma,
becoming, as you see it now, a dead, deserted village, shunned by man."

"Jove! you have a graphic tongue," said Boyd, appreciatively. "But I
don't see how those huge plants can pay for their upkeep with such a
short run."

"Well, they do; and, what's more, they pay tremendously; sometimes a
hundred per cent. a year or more."

"Impossible!" Emerson was now thoroughly aroused, and Cherry continued:

"Two years ago a ship sailed into port in early May loaded with an army
of men, with machinery, lumber, coal, and so forth. They landed, built
the plant, and had it ready to operate by the time the run started.
They made their catch, and sailed away again in August with enough
salmon in the hold to pay twice over for the whole thing. Willis Marsh
did even better than that the year before, but of course the price of
fish was high then. Next season will be another big year."

"How is that?"

"Every fourth season the run is large; nobody knows why. Every time
there is a Presidential election the fish are shy and very scarce; that
lifts prices. Every year in which a President of the United States is
inaugurated they are plentiful."

Boyd laughed. "The Alaska salmon takes more interest in politics than I
do. I wonder if he is a Republican or a Democrat?"

"Inasmuch as he is a red salmon, I dare say you'd call him a
Socialist," laughed Cherry.

Emerson rose, and began to pace back and forth. "And you mean to say
the history of the other canneries is the same?"

"Certainly."

"I had no idea there were such profits in the fisheries up here."

"Nobody knows it outside of those interested. The Kalvik River is the
most wonderful salmon river in the world, for it has never failed once;
that's why the Companies guard it so jealously; that's why they denied
you shelter. You see, it is set away off here in one corner of Behring
Sea without means of communication or access, and they intend to keep
it so."

It was evident that the young man was vitally interested now. Was it
the prospective vision of almighty dollars that was needed to release
the hidden spring that had baffled the girl? With this clue in mind,
she watched him closely and fed his eagerness.

"These figures you mention are on record?" he inquired.

"I believe they are available."

"What does it cost to install and operate a cannery for the first
season?"

"About two hundred thousand dollars, I am told. But I believe one can
mortgage his catch or borrow money on it from the banks, and so not
have to carry the full burden."

The man stared at his companion with unseeing eyes for a moment, then
asked: "What's to prevent me from going into the business?"

"Several things. Have you the money?"

"Possibly. What else?"

"A site."

"That ought to be easy."

Cherry laughed. "On the contrary, a suitable cannery site is very hard
to get, because there are natural conditions necessary, fresh flowing
water for one; and, furthermore, because the companies have taken them
all up."

"Ah! I see." The light died out of Emerson's eyes, the eagerness left
his voice. He flung himself dejectedly into a chair by the fire,
moodily watching the flames licking the burning logs. All at once he
gripped the arms of his chair, and muttered through set jaws: "God, I'd
like to take one more chance!" The girl darted a swift look at him, but
he fell to brooding again, evidently insensible to her presence. At
length he stirred himself to ask: "Can I hire a guide hereabout? We'll
have to be going on in a day or so."

"Constantine will get you one. I suppose, of course, you will avoid the
Katmai Pass?"

"Avoid it? Why?"

"It's dangerous, and nobody travels it except in the direst emergency.
It's much the shortest route to the coast, but it has a record of some
thirty deaths. I should advise you to cross the range farther east,
where the divide is lower. The mail-boat touches at both places."

He nodded agreement. "There's no use taking chances. I'm in no hurry. I
wish there was some way of repaying you for your kindness. We were
pretty nearly played out when we got here."

"Oh, I'm quite selfish," she disclaimed. "If you endured a few months
of this monotony, you'd understand."

During the rest of that day Boyd was conscious several times of being
regarded with scrutinizing eyes by Cherry. At dinner, and afterward in
the living-room while Fraser talked, he surprised the same questioning
look on her face. Again she played for him, but he refused to sing,
maintaining an unbroken taciturnity. After they retired she sat long
alone, her brows furrowed as if wrestling with some knotty problem. "I
wonder if he would do it!" she said, at last. "I wonder if he _could_
do it!" She rose, and began to pace the floor; then added, as if in
desperation: "Well, I must do _something_, for this can't last. Who
knows--perhaps this is my chance; perhaps he has been sent."

There are times when momentous decisions are influenced by the most
trivial circumstances; times when affairs of the greatest importance
are made or marred by the lift of an eyebrow or the tone of a voice;
times when life-long associations are severed and new ties contracted
purely upon intuition, and this woman felt instinctively that such an
hour had now struck for her. It was late before she finally came to
peace with the conflict in her mind and lay herself down to rest.

On the following morning she told Constantine to hitch up her team and
have it waiting when breakfast was finished. Then she turned to
Emerson, who came into the room, and said, quietly:

"I have something to show you if you will take a short ride with me."

The young man, impressed by the gravity of her manner, readily
consented. Half an hour later he wrapped her up in the sledge-robe and
took station at the rear, whip in hand. Constantine freed the leader,
and they went off at a mad run, whisking out from the buildings and
swooping down the steep bank to the main-travelled trail. When they had
gained the level and the dogs were straightened into their gait, they
skimmed over the snow with the flight of a bird.

"That's a wonderful team you have," Boyd observed, as he glanced over
the double row of undulating gray backs and waving plume-like tails.

"The best in the country," she smiled back at him. "They are good for a
hundred miles a day."

The young man gave himself up to the unique and rather delightful
experience of being transported through an unknown country to an
unknown destination by a charming girl of whom he also knew nothing. He
watched her in silence; but when he forebore to question her, she
turned, exposing a rounded, ravishing cheek, glowing against the white
fur of her hood.

"Have you no curiosity, sir?"

"None! Nothing but satisfaction," he observed.

It was his first attempt at gallantry, and she flashed him a bright,
approving glance. Then, as if suddenly checked by second thought, she
frowned slightly and turned away. She had mapped out a course of action
during the night in which it was her purpose to use this man if he
proved amenable, but the success of her plan would depend largely on a
continuance of their present friendly relations. In order, therefore,
to forestall any possible change of base, she began to unfold her
scheme in a business-like tone:

"Yesterday you seemed to be taken by the fishing business."

"I certainly was until you told me there were no cannery sites left."

"There is one. When I came here a year ago the whole river was open, so
on an outside chance I located a site, the best one available. When
Willis Marsh learned of it, he took up all of the remaining places,
and, although at the time I had no idea what I was going to do with my
property, I have hung on to it."

"Is that where we are going?"

"Yes. You seemed eager yesterday to get in on a new chance, so I am
taking you out to look over the ground."

"What's the use? I can't buy your site."

"Nobody asked you to," she smiled. "I wouldn't sell it to you if you
had the money; but if you will build a cannery on it, I'll turn in the
ground for an interest."

Emerson meditated a moment, then replied: "I can't say yes or no. It's
a pretty big proposition--two hundred thousand dollars, you said?"

"Yes. It's a big opportunity. You can clean up a hundred per cent. in a
year. Do you think you could raise the money to build a plant?"

"I might. I have some wealthy friends," he said, cautiously. "But I am
not sure."

"At least you can try? That's all anybody can do."

"But I don't know anything about the business. I couldn't make it
succeed."

"I've thought of all that, and there's a way to make success certain. I
believe you have executive ability and can handle men."

"Oh yes; I've done that sort of thing." His broad shoulders went up as
he drew a long breath. "What's your plan?"

"There's a man down the coast, George Balt, who knows more about the
business than any four people in Kalvik. He's been a fisherman all his
life. He discovered the Kalvik River, built the first cannery here, and
was its foreman until he quarrelled with Marsh, who proceeded to
discipline him. Balt isn't the kind of man to be disciplined; so, not
having enough money to build a cannery, he took his scanty capital and
started a saltery on his own account. That suited Marsh exactly; he
broke George in a year, absolutely ruined him, utterly wiped him out,
just as he intends to wipe out insignificant me! Thinking to bide his
time and recoup his fallen fortunes George came back into camp; but he
owns a valuable trap site which Marsh and his colleagues want; and
before they would give him work, they tried to make him assign it to
them, and contract never to go in business on his own account.
Naturally George refused, so they disciplined him some more. He's been
starving now for two years. Marsh and his companions rule this region
just as the Hudson's Bay Company used to govern its concessions: by
controlling the natives and preventing independent white men from
gaining a foothold.

"No man dares to furnish food to George Balt; no man dares to give him
a bed, no cannery will let him work. He has to take a dory to Dutch
Harbor to get food. He doesn't dare leave the country and abandon the
meagre thousands he has invested in buildings, so he has stayed on
living off the country like a Siwash. He's a simple, big-hearted sort
of fellow, but his life is centred in this business; it's all he knows.
He considers himself the father of this section; and when he sees
others rounding up the task that he began, it breaks his poor heart.
Why, every summer when the run starts he comes across the marshes and
slinks about the Kalvik thickets like a wraith, watching from afar just
in order to be near it all. He stands alone and forsaken, harking to
the clank of the machinery, every bolt of which he placed; watching his
enemies enrich themselves from that gleaming silver army, which he
considers his very own. He is shunned like a leper. No man is allowed
to speak to him or render him any sort of fellowship, and it has made
the man half mad, it has turned him into a vengeful, hate-filled
fanatic, living only for retaliation. Some time I believe he will kill
Marsh."

"Hm-m! One seems to be forever crossing the trail of this Marsh," said
Boyd, who had listened intently.

"Yes. His aim is to gain control of this whole region, and if you
decide to go into the enterprise you must expect to find him the most
unscrupulous and vindictive enemy ever man had; make no mistake about
that. It's only fair to warn you that this will be no child's play;
but, on the other hand, the man who beats Marsh will have done
something." She paused as if weighing her next words, then said,
deliberately: "And I believe you are the one to do it."

But Emerson was not concerned about his destiny just then, nor for the
dangerous enmity of Marsh. He was following another train of thought.

"And so Balt knows this business from the inside out?" he said.

"Thoroughly; every dip, angle, and spur of it, so to speak. He's
practical and he's honest, in addition to which his trap-site is the
key to the whole situation. You see, the salmon run in regular definite
courses, year after year, just as if they were following a beaten
track. At certain places these courses come close to the shore where
conditions make it possible to drive piling and build traps which
intercept them by the million. One trap will do the work of an army of
fishermen with nets in deep water. It is to get this property for
himself that Marsh has persecuted George so unflaggingly."

"Would he join us in such an enterprise, with five chances to one
against success?"

"Would he!" Cherry laughed. "Wait and see."

They had reached their destination--the mouth of a deep creek, up which
Cherry turned her dogs. Emerson leaped from the sled, and, running
forward, seized the leader, guiding it into a clump of spruce, among
the boles of which he tangled the harness, for this team was like a
pack of wolves, ravenous for travel and intolerant of the leash.

Together they ascended the bank and surveyed the surroundings, Cherry
expatiating upon every feature with the fervor of a land agent bent on
weaving his spell about a prospective buyer. And in truth she had
chosen well, for the conditions seemed ideal.

"It all sounds wonderfully attractive and feasible," said Boyd, at
last; "but we must weigh the overwhelming odds against success. First,
of course, is the question of capital. I have a little property of my
own which I can convert. But two hundred thousand dollars! That's a
tremendous sum to raise, even for a fellow with a circle of wealthy
friends. Second, there's the question of time. It's now early December,
and I'd have to be back here by the first of May. Third, could I run
the plant and make it succeed? It must be a wonderfully technical
business, and I am utterly ignorant of every phase of it. Then, too,
there are a thousand other difficulties, such as getting machinery out
here in time, hiring Chinese labor, chartering a ship, placing the
output--"

"George Balt has done all that many times, and knows everything about
it," Cherry interrupted, with decision. "Every difficulty can be met
when the time comes. What other people have done, you ought to be able
to do."

But he was not to be won by flattery. Youth that he was, he already
knew the vanity of human hopes, and it was his nature to look at all
sides of a question before answering it finally.

"The slightest error of judgment would mean failure and ruin," he
reflected, "for this country isn't like any other. It is cut off from
the rest of the world, and there's no time to go back and pick up."

"The odds are great, of course," she acquiesced, "but the winnings are
in proportion. It isn't casino, by any means. This is worth while.
Every man who has done anything in this world believes in a goddess of
luck, and it's the element of chance that makes life worth living."

"That's all right in theory," he answered her, somewhat cynically, "but
in practice you'll find that luck is largely the result of previous
judgment. For every obstacle I have mentioned, a thousand unsuspected
difficulties will arise, any one of which--" The girl interrupted him
sharply for a second time, looking him squarely in the eyes, her own
flushed face alight with determination.

"There's only one person in the whole world who can defeat you, and
that person is yourself; and no man can finish a task before he begins
it. We'll grant there's a chance for failure--a million chances; but
don't try to count them. Count the chances for success. Don't be
faint-hearted, for there's no such thing as fear. It doesn't exist.
It's merely an absence of courage, just as indecision is merely a lack
of decision. I never saw anything yet of which I was afraid--and you're
a _man_. The deity of success is a woman, and she insists on being won,
not courted. You've got to seize her and bear her off, instead of
standing under her window with a mandolin. You need to be rough and
masterful with her. Nobody ever reasoned himself out of a street fight.
He had to act. If a man thinks over a proposition long enough it will
whip him, no matter how simple it is. It's the lightning flash that
guides a man. You must lay your course in the blue dazzle, then follow
it in the dark; and when you come to the end, it always lightens again.
Don't stand still, staring through the gloom, and then try to walk
while the lightning lasts, because you won't get anywhere."

Her words were charged with an electric force that communicated itself
to the young man and galvanized him into action. He would have spoken,
but she stayed him, and went on:

"Wait; I'm not through yet. I've watched you, and I know you are down
on your luck for some reason. You've been miscast somehow and you've
had the heart taken out of you; but I'm sure it's in you to succeed,
for you're young and intelligent, cool and determined. I am giving you
this chance to play the biggest game of your life, and erase in eight
short months every trace of failure. I'm not doing it altogether
unselfishly, for I believe you've been sent to Kalvik to work out your
own salvation and mine, and that of poor George Balt, whom you've never
seen. You're going to do this thing, and you're going to make it win."

Emerson reached out impulsively and caught her tiny, mittened hand. His
eyes were shining, his face had lost the settled look of dejection, and
was all aglow with a new dawn of hope. Even his shoulders were lifted
and thrown back as if from some sudden access of vigor that lightened
his burden.

"You're right!" he said, firmly. "We'll send for Balt to-night."





CHAPTER V

IN WHICH A COMPACT IS FORMED


Now that he had committed himself to action, Boyd Emerson became a
different being. He was no longer the dispirited cynic of yesterday,
but an eager, voluble optimist athirst for knowledge and afire with
impatience. On the homeward drive he had bombarded Cherry with a
running fusillade of questions, so that by the time they had arrived at
her house she was mentally and physically fatigued. He seemed
insatiable, drawing from her every atom of information she possessed,
and although he was still hard, incisive, and aloof, it was in quite a
different way. The intensity of his concentration had gathered all
feeling into one definite passion, and had sucked him dry of ordinary
emotions.

In the days that followed she was at his elbow constantly, aiding him
at every turn in his zeal to acquire a knowledge of the cannery system.
The odd conviction grew upon her that he was working against time, that
there was a limit to his period of action, for he seemed obsessed by an
ever-growing passion to accomplish some end within a given time, and
had no thought for anything beyond the engrossing issue into which he
had plunged. She was dumfounded by his sudden transformation, and
delighted at first, but later, when she saw that he regarded her only
as a means to an end, his cool assumption of leadership piqued her and
she felt hurt.

Constantine had been sent for Balt, with instructions to keep on until
he found the fisherman, even if the quest carried him over the range.
During the days of impatient waiting they occupied their time largely
in reconnoitring the nearest cannery, permission to go over which
Cherry had secured from the watchman, who was indebted to her. The man
was timid at first, but Emerson won him over, then proceeded to pump
him dry of information, as he had done with his hostess. He covered the
plant like a ferret; he showed such powers of adaptability and
assimilation as to excite the girl's wonder; his grasp of detail was
instant; his retentive faculty tenacious; he never seemed to rest.

"Why, you already know more about a cannery than a superintendent
does," she remarked, after nearly a week of this. "I believe you could
build one yourself."

He smiled. "I'm an engineer by education, and this is really in my
line. It's the other part that has me guessing."

"Balt can handle that."

"But why doesn't he come?" he questioned, crossly. A score of times he
had voiced his impatience, and Cherry was hard pushed to soothe him.

Nor was she the only one to note the change in him; Fraser followed him
about and looked on in bewilderment.

"What have you done to 'Frozen Annie'?" he asked Cherry on one
occasion. "You must have fed him a speed-ball, for I never saw a guy
gear up so fast. Why, he was the darndest crape-hanger I ever met till
you got him gingered up; he didn't have no more spirit than a sick
kitten. Of course, he ain't what you'd call genial and expansive yet,
but he's developed a remarkable burst of speed, and seems downright
hopeful at times."

"Hopeful of what?"

"Ah! that's where I wander; he's a puzzle to me. Hopeful of making
money, I suppose."

"That isn't it. I can see he doesn't care for the money itself," the
girl declared, emphatically. She would have liked to ask Fraser if he
knew anything about the mysterious beauty of the magazine, but
refrained.

"I don't think so, either," said the man. "He acts more like somebody
was going to ring the gong on him if this fish thing don't let him out.
It seems to be a case bet with him."

"It's a case bet with me, too," said the girl. "My men are ready to
quit, and--well, Willis Marsh will see that I am financially ruined!"

"Oho! So this is your only 'out,'" grinned "Fingerless" Fraser. "Now, I
had a different idea as to why you got Emerson started." He was
observing her shrewdly.

"What idea, pray?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do."

"Can you fight?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To-morrow?" she echoed, blankly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The other is shorter."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Because every day counts."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh no!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER VI

WHEREIN BOREAS TAKES A HAND


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hazards of winter travel in the North are manifold at best, but the
country which Emerson and his companions had to traverse was
particularly perilous, owing to the fact that their course led them
over the backbone of the great Alaskan Range, that desolate,
skyscraping rampart which interposes itself between the hate of the
Arctic seas and the tossing wilderness of the North Pacific. This range
forms a giant, ice-armored tusk thrust out to the westward and curved
like the horn of an African rhino, its tip pointed eight hundred miles
toward the Asiatic coast, its soaring peaks veiled in perpetual mist
and volcanic fumes, its <DW72>s agleam with lonely ice-fields. It is a
saw-toothed ridge, for the most part narrow, unbroken, and cruel, and
the rival winter gales roar over it in a never-ceasing war. On the
north lies the Forgotten Land, to the south are the tempered reaches of
the Pacific. In summer the stern sweep of rock and tundra is soaked
with weeping rains, and given over to the herding caribou or the great
grass-eating bear; but when from the polar regions the white hand of
winter stretches forth, the grieving seas lift themselves, the rain
turns to bitter, hail-burdened hurricanes that charge and retreat in a
death-dealing conflict, sheathing the barrier anew, and confounding the
hearts of men on land and sea. The coast is unlighted and badly mapped,
hence the shore is a graveyard for ships, while through the guts, which
at intervals penetrate the range, the blizzards screech until
travellers burrow into drifts to avoid their fury or lie out in stiff
sleeping-bags exposed to their anger. It is a region of sudden storms,
a battle-ground of the elements, which have swept it naked of cover in
ages past, and it is peopled scantily by handfuls of coughing natives,
whose igloos are hidden in hollows or chained to the ground with cables
and ship's gear.

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

A week of hard travel found them camped in the last fringe of
cottonwood that fronted the glacial <DW72>s, their number augmented now
by a native from a Russian village with an unpronounceable name, who,
at the price of an extortionate bribe, had agreed to pilot them
through. For three days they lay idle, the taut walls of their tent
thrumming to an incessant fusillade of ice particles that whirled down
ahead of the blast, while Emerson fumed to be gone.

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

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

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

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

"Exactly."

"Why, it may be a week!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How far is it to timber?"

"Twelve or fifteen miles."

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

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

Once they were gone a stone's throw from the sled there was no turning
back, and although the wind was behind them progress was difficult, for
they came upon chasms which they had to avoid; they crossed slippery
<DW72>s, where the storm had bared the hard crust and which their feet
refused to grip. In such places they had to creep on hands and knees,
calling to one another for guidance. They were numbed, blinded, choked
by the rage of the blizzard; their faces grew stiff, and their lungs
froze. At times they fell, and were skidded along ahead of the blasts.
This forced them to crawl back again, for they dared not lose their
course. At one place they followed a hog-back, where the rocks came to
a sharp ridge like the summit of a roof, this they bestrode, inching
along a foot at a time, wearing through the palms of their mittens and
chafing their garments. No cloth could withstand the roughened
surfaces, and in time the bare flesh of their hands became exposed, but
there was little sensation, and no time for rest or means of relief.
Soon they began to leave blood stains behind them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had long since lost all track of time and place, trusting blindly
to a downward course. The hurricane still harried them with unabated
fury, when all at once they came to another bluff where the ground fell
away abruptly. Without waiting to investigate whether the <DW72>
terminated in a drift or a precipice, they flung themselves over. Down
they floundered, the two half-insensible men tangled together as if in
a race for total oblivion, only to plunge through a thicket of willow
tops that whipped and stung them. On they went, now vastly heartened,
over another ridge, down another declivity, and then into a grove of
spruce timber, where the air suddenly stilled, and only the tree-tops
told of the rushing wind above.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What!" Emerson felt himself sickening.

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

"How long will that be?"

"Maybe seven or eight weeks."

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER VII

AND NEPTUNE TAKES ANOTHER


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you heard about the mail-boat?"

"No."

"We've missed her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where in hell is this steamer?"

"Out to the westward somewhere."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Most any time inside of a week."

"How far is that from here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'But what of yonder beauteous--'"

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

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

"How?" growled the big man, sourly.

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

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

"But it's only fifty miles across."

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

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

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

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

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

"We'll chance it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can wait for the mail-boat."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fingerless" Fraser turned violently upon the speaker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

[Illustration: OUT ACROSS THE LONESOME WASTE THEY JOURNEYED]

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





CHAPTER VIII

WHEREIN BOYD ADMITS HIS FAILURE


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

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

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

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

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

"Some people do."

"Full-dress suits of clothes, eh?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever wear one?"

"Certainly."

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

"Why, yes. Pretty steadily."

"All day, at a time?"

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

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

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

"Quite right!"

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

"When were you outside last?"

"Four years ago."

"Ever been East?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Three hundred and fifty _dollars?_" questioned Balt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have no mining claims."

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

"You told me so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Athens! Billy Athens?"

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

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

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

"My partner?"

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

"Frobisher!" said Emerson, now thoroughly mystified.

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

"Oh, yes, yes! _Frobisher!_" Boyd stammered. "Certainly!"

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

"He did?"

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

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

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

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

"Then you won't let me in?"

"Not just at present."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"They look very nice--"

"Stylish! I think."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whereabouts East?"

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

"Are you going to Chicago?" George asked.

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

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

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

"What are you going to do in Chicago?"

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

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

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

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

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

"If you do--" Boyd exploded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is Miss Wayland in?"

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

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

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

"My Lady!" and strode forward.

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





CHAPTER IX

AND IS GRANTED A YEAR OF GRACE


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

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

She shrugged her shoulders in disapproval.

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

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

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

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

"It was the only way."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His friends, indeed, lost no opportunity of informing him that he was a
tremendously favored young man, but this phase of the affair had caused
him little thought, simply because the girl herself had come so swiftly
to overshadow, in his regard, every other consideration--even her own
wealth and position. At the same time he could not but be aware that
his standing in his little world was subtly altered as soon as he
became known as the favored suitor of Wayne Wayland's daughter. He
began to receive favors from comparative strangers; unexpected social
privileges were granted him; his way was made easier in a hundred
particulars. From every quarter delicately gratifying distinctions came
to him. Without his volition he found that he had risen to an entirely
different position from that which he had formerly occupied; the mere
coupling of his name with Mildred Wayland's had lifted him into a
calcium glare. It affected him not at all, he only knew that he was
truly enslaved to the girl, that he idolized her, that he regarded her
as something priceless, sacred. She, in turn, frankly capitulated to
him, in proud disregard of what her world might say, as complete in her
surrender to this new lover as she had been inaccessible in her reserve
toward all the rest.

And when he had graduated, how proud of her he had been! How little he
had realized the gulf that separated them, and how quick had been his
awakening!

It was Wayne Wayland who had shown him his folly. He had talked to the
young engineer kindly, if firmly, being too shrewd an old diplomat to
fan the flame of a headstrong love with vigorous opposition.

"Mildred is a rich girl," the old financier had told Boyd, "a very rich
girl; one of the richest girls in this part of the world; while you, my
boy--what have you to offer?"

"Nothing! But you were not always what you are now," Emerson had
replied. "Every man has to make a start. When you married, you were as
poor as I am."

"Granted! But I married a poor girl, from my own station in life.
Fortunately she had the latent power to develop with me as I grew; so
that we kept even and I never outdistanced her. But Mildred is spoiled
to begin with. I spoiled her purposely, to prevent just this sort of
thing. She is bred to luxury, her friends are rich, and she doesn't
know any other kind of life. Her tastes and habits and inclinations are
extravagant, to put it plainly--yes, worse than extravagant; they are
positively scandalous. She is about the richest girl in the country,
and by virtue of wealth as well as breeding she is one of the American
aristocracy. Oh! people may say what they please, but we have an
aristocracy all the same which is just as well marked and just as
exclusive as if it rested upon birth instead of bank accounts."

"You wouldn't object to our marriage if I were rich and Mildred were
poor," Emerson had said, rather cynically.

"Perhaps not. A poor girl can marry a rich man and get along all right
if she has brains; but a very rich girl can't marry a very poor man and
be happy unless she is peculiarly constituted. I happen to know that my
girl isn't so constituted. She is utterly impossible as a poor man's
wife. She can't _do_ anything: she can't economize, she can't amuse
herself, she can't be happy without the things she is accustomed to; it
is in her blood and training and disposition. She would try, bless you!
she would try all right--for a while--but I know her better than she
knows herself. You see, I have the advantage of knowing myself and of
having known her mother before her. She is a hothouse flower, and
adversity would wither her. Mind you, I don't say that her husband must
be a millionaire, but he will need a running start on the road to make
her happy, and--well, the fellow who gets my girl will make her happy
or I'll make him damned miserable!" The old fellow had squared his jaws
belligerently at this statement.

"You have nothing against me--personally, I mean?"

"Nothing."

"She loves me."

"She seems to. But both of you are young and may get over it before you
reach the last hurdle."

"Then you forbid it?" Boyd had queried, his own glance challenging that
of her father.

"By no means. I neither forbid nor consent. I merely ask you to stand
still and use your eyes for a little while. You have intelligence.
Don't be hasty. I am going to tell her just what I have told you, and I
think she is sensible enough to realize the truth of my remarks. No!
instead of forbidding you Mildred's society, I am going to give you all
you want of it. I am going to make you free at our house. I am going to
see that you meet her friends and go where she goes. I want you to do
the things that she does and see how she lives. The more you see of us,
the better it will suit me. I have been studying you for some time, Mr.
Emerson, and I think I have read you correctly. After you have spent a
few months with us, come to me again and we will talk it over. I may
say yes by that time, or you may not wish me to. Perhaps Mildred will
decide for both of us."

"That is satisfactory to me."

"Very well! We dine at seven to-night; and we shall expect you."

That Mr. Wayland had made no mistake in his judgment, Emerson had soon
been forced to admit; for the more he saw of Mildred's life, the more
plainly he perceived the barriers that lay between them. Those months
had been an education to him. He had become an integral part of
Chicago's richer social world. The younger set had accepted him readily
enough on the score of his natural good parts, while the name of Wayne
Wayland had acted like magic upon the elders. Yet it had been a cruel
time of probation for the young lover, who continually felt the
searching eyes of the old man reading him; and despite the fact that
Mildred took no pains to conceal her preference for him, there had been
no lack of other suitors, all of whom Boyd hated with a perfect hate.

They had never discussed the matter, yet both the lovers had been
conscious that the old man's words were pregnant with truth, and after
a few months, during which Emerson had made little progress in his
profession, Mildred had gone to her father and frankly begged his aid.
But he had remained like adamant.

"I have been pretty lenient so far. He will have to make his own way
without my help. You know he isn't my candidate."

Recognizing the despair which was possessing her lover, and jealous for
her own happiness, Mildred had arranged that both of them, together,
should have a talk with her father. The result had been the same. Mr.
Wayland listened grimly, then said:

"This request for assistance shows that both of you are beginning to
realize the wisdom of my remarks of a year ago."

"I'm not asking aid from you," Emerson had blazed forth. "I can take
care of myself and of Mildred."

"Permit me to show you that you can't. Your life and training have not
fitted you for the position of Mildred's husband. Have you any idea how
many millions she is going to own?"

"No, and I don't care to know."

"I don't care to tell you either, but the Wayland fortune will carry
such a tremendous responsibility with it that my successor will have to
be a stronger man than I am to hold it together. I merely gathered it;
he must keep it. You haven't qualified in either respect yet."

Mildred had interrupted petulantly. "Oh, this endless chatter of money!
It is disgusting. I only wish we were poor. Instead of a blessing, our
wealth is an unmitigated curse--a terrible, exhausting burden. I hear
of nothing else from morning till night. It gives us no pleasure,
nothing but care and worry and--wrinkles. I can do without horses and
motors and maids, and all that. I want to live, really to _live_." She
had arisen and gone over to Boyd, laying her hand upon his shoulder. "I
will give it all up. Let us try to be happy without it."

It had been a tense moment for both men. Their eyes had met defiantly,
but, reading in the father's face the contempt that waited upon an
unmanly decision, Boyd's pride stood up stiffly.

"No," he replied, "I can't let you do that. Not yet, anyhow. Mr.
Wayland is right, in a way. If he had not been so decent I would have
married you anyhow, but I am indebted to him. He has shown me a lot
more of your life than I knew before, and he has made his word good. I
am going to ask you to wait, however; for quite a while, it may be. I
am going to take a gambler's chance."

"What is it?"

"A gold strike has been made in Alaska--"

"Alaska!"

"Yes! The Klondike. You have read of it? I am told that the chances
there are like those in the days of '49, and I am going."

So it was that he had made his choice, fixing his own time for
returning, and so it was that Mildred Wayland had awaited him.

If to-day, after three years of deprivation, she seemed to him more
beautiful than ever--the interval having served merely to enhance her
charm and strengthen the yearning of his heart--she seemed in the same
view still further removed from his sphere. More reserved, more
dignified, in the reserve of developed womanhood, her cession was the
more gracious and wonderful.

His story finished, Boyd went on to tell her vaguely of his future
plans, and at the last he asked her, with something less than an
accepted lover's confidence:

"Will you wait another year?"

She laughed lightly. "You dear boy, I am not up for auction. This is
not the 'third and last call.' I am not sure I could induce anybody to
take me, even if I desired."

"I read the rumor of your engagement in a back number of a San
Francisco paper. Is your retinue as large as ever?"

She smiled indifferently. "It alters with the season, but I believe the
general average is about the same. You know most of them." She
mentioned a number of names, counting them off on her finger-tips.
"Then, of course, there are the old standbys, Mr. Macklin, Tommy
Turner, the Lawton boys--"

"And Alton Clyde!"

"To be sure; little Alton, like the brook, runs on forever. He still
worships you, Boyd, by the way."

"And there are others?"

"A few."

"Who?"

"Nobody you know."

"Any one in particular?" Boyd demanded, with a lover's insistence.

Miss Wayland's hesitation was so brief as almost to escape his notice.
"Nobody who counts. Of course, father has his predilections and insists
upon engineering my affairs in the same way he would float a railroad
enterprise, but you can imagine how romantic the result is."

"Who is the favored party?" the young man asked, darkly. But she arose
to push back the heavy draperies and gaze for a moment out into the
deepening twilight. When she answered, it was in a tone of ordinary
indifference.

"Really it isn't worth discussing. I shall not marry until I am ready,
and the subject bores me." An instant later she turned to regard him
with direct eyes.

"Do you remember when I offered to give it all up and go with you,
Boyd?"

"I have never forgotten for an instant,"

"You refused to allow it."

"Certainly! I had seen too much of your life, and my pride figured a
bit, also."

"Do you still feel the same way?" Her eyes searched his face rather
anxiously.

"I do! It is even more impossible now than then. I am utterly out of
touch with this environment. My work will take me back where you could
not go--into a land you would dislike, among a people you could not
understand. No; we did quite the sensible thing."

She sighed gratefully and settled upon the window-seat, her back to the
light. "I am glad you feel that way. I--I--think I am growing more
sensible too. I have begun to understand how practical father was, and
how ridiculous I was. Perhaps I am not so impulsive--you see, I am
years older now--perhaps I am more selfish. I don't know which it is
and--I can't express my feelings, but I have had sufficient time since
you went away to think and to look into my own soul. Really I have
become quite introspective. Of course, my feeling for you is just the
same as it was, dear, but I--I can't--" She waved a graceful hand to
indicate her surroundings. "Well, this is my world, and I am a part of
it. You understand, don't you? The thought of giving it up makes me
really afraid. I don't like rough things." She shook herself and gave
voice to a delicious, bubbling little laugh. "I am frightfully
spoiled." Emerson drew her to him tenderly.

"My darling, I understand perfectly, and I love you too well to take
you away from it all; but you will wait for me, won't you?"

"Of course," she replied, quickly. "As long as you wish."

"But I am going to have you!" he cried, insistently. "You are going to
be my wife," He repeated the words softly, reverently: "My wife."

She gazed up at him with a puzzled little frown. "What bothers me is
that you understand me and my life so well, while I scarcely understand
you or yours at all. That seems to tell me that I am unsuited to you in
some way. Why, when you told me that story of your hardships and all
that, I listened as if it were a play or a book, but really it didn't
_mean_ anything to me or stir me as it should. I can't understand my
own failure to understand. That awful country, those barbarous people,
the suffering, the cold, the snow, the angry sea; I don't grasp what
they mean. I was never cold, or hungry, or exhausted. I--well, it is
fascinating to hear about, because you went through it, but _why_ you
did it, how you _felt_"--she made a gesture as if at a loss for words.
"Do you see what I am trying to convey?"

"Perfectly," he answered, releasing her with a little unadmitted sense
of disappointment at his heart. "I suppose it is only natural."

"I do hope you succeed this time," she continued. "I am growing deadly
tired of things. Not tired of waiting for you, but I am getting to be
old; I am, indeed. Why, at times I actually have an inclination to do
fancy-work--the unfailing symptom. Do you realize that I am
_twenty-five years old!_"

"Age of decrepitude! And more glorious than any woman in the world!" he
cried.

There was a click outside the library door, and the room, which
unnoticed by them had become nearly dark, was suddenly flooded with
light. The portieres parted, and Wayne Wayland stood in the opening.

"Ah, here you are, my boy! Hawkins told me you had returned."

He advanced to shake the young man's hand, his demeanor gracious and
hearty. "Welcome home. You have been having quite a vacation, haven't
you? Let's see, it's two years, isn't it?"

"Three years!" Emerson replied.

"Impossible! Dear, dear, how time flies when one is busy."

"Boyd has been telling me of his adventures," said Mildred. "He is
going to dine with us."

"Indeed." Mr. Wayland displayed no great degree of enthusiasm. "And
have you returned, like Pizarro, laden with all the gold of the Incas?
Or did Pizarro return? It seems to me that he settled somewhere on the
Coast." The old man laughed at his own conceit.

"I judge Pizarro was a better miner than I," Boyd smiled. "There were
plenty of Esquimau princes whom I might have held for ransom, but if I
had done so, all the rest of the tribe would have come to board with
them."

"Have you come home to stay?"

"No, sir; I shall return in a few weeks."

Mr. Wayland's cordiality seemed to increase in some subtle manner.

"Well, I am sorry you didn't make a fortune, my boy. But, rich or poor,
your friends are delighted to see you, and we shall certainly keep you
for dinner. I am interested in that Northwestern country myself, and I
want to ask some questions about it."





CHAPTER X

IN WHICH BIG GEORGE MEETS HIS ENEMY


It was well on toward midnight when Emerson reached his hotel, and
being too full of his visit with Mildred to sleep, he strolled through
the lobby and into the Pompeian Room. The theatre crowds had not
dispersed, and the place was a-glitter; for it was the grand-opera
season. The room was so well filled that he had difficulty in finding a
seat, and he made his way slowly, meditating gloomily upon the fact
that out of all this concourse in which he had once figured not a
single familiar face greeted him. Finding no unoccupied table, he was
about to retreat when he heard his name spoken and felt a vigorous slap
upon the back.

"Boyd Emerson! By Jove, I'm glad to see you!" He turned to face an
anaemic youth whose colorless, gas-bleached face was wrinkled into an
expansive grin.

"Hello, Alton!"

They shook hands like old friends, while Alton Clyde continued to
express his delight.

"So you've been roughing it out in Nebraska, eh?"

"Alaska."

"So it was. I always get those places mixed. Come over and have a
drink. I want to talk to you. Funny thing, I just met a Klondiker
myself this evening. Great chap, too! I want you to know him: he's
immense. Only watch out he don't get you full. He's an awful spender.
I'm half kippered myself. His name is Froelich, but he isn't a
Dutchman. Ever meet him up there?"

"I think not."

"Come on, you'll like him."

Clyde led his companion toward a table, chattering as they went. "Y'
know, I'm democratic myself, and I'm fond of these rough fellows. I'd
like to go out to Nebraska--"

"Alaska."

"--and punch cows and shoot a pistol and yell. I'm really tremendously
rough. Here he is! Mr. Froelich, my old friend Mr. Emerson. We played
football together--or, at least, he played; I was too light."

Mr. Froelich shoved back his chair and turned, exposing the face of
"Fingerless" Fraser, quite expressionless save for the left eyelid,
which drooped meaningly.

"'Froelich'!" said Boyd, angrily; "good heavens, Fraser, have you
picked another? I thought you were going to stick to 'Frobisher.'"
Turning to Clyde, he observed: "This man's name is Fraser. One of his
peculiarities is a dislike of proper names. He has never found one that
suited him."

"I like 'Froelich' pretty well," observed the imperturbable Fraser. "It
sounds distanguay, and--"

"Don't believe anything he tells you," Boyd broke in, seating himself.
"He is the most circumstantial liar in the Northwest, and if you don't
watch him every minute he will sell you a hydraulic mine, or a rubber
plantation, or a sponge fishery. Underneath his eccentricities,
however, he is really a pretty decent fellow, and I am indebted to him
for my presence here to-night."

Alton Clyde made his astonishment evident by inquiring incredulously of
Fraser, "Then that scheme of yours to establish a gas plant at Nome was
all--"

"Certainly!" Emerson laughed. "The incandescent lamp travels about as
fast as the prospector. Nome is lighted by electricity, and has been
for years."

"_Is_ it?" demanded Fraser, with an assumption of the supremest
surprise.

"You know as well as I do."

"H'm! I'd forgotten. Just the same, my plan was a good one. Gas is
cheaper." He reached for his glass, at which Clyde's eye fell upon his
missing fingers, and the young clubman exploded:

"Well! If that's the kind of pill you are, maybe you didn't lose your
mit in the Boer War either."

Emerson answered for the adventurer: "Hardly! He got blood-poisoning
from a hangnail."

Clyde began to laugh uncontrollably. "Really! That's great! Oh, that's
lovely! Here I've been gobbling fairy tales like a black bass at
sunset. He! he! he! I must introduce Mr. Froel--Mr. Fra--Mr.
What's-his-name to the boys. He! he! he!"

It was evident that Fraser was not accustomed to this sort of
treatment; his injured pride took refuge in a haughty silence, which
further stirred the risibilities of Clyde until that young man's thin
shoulders shook, and he doubled up, his hollow chest touching his
knees. He pounded the tiles with his cane, stamped his patent-leather
boots, and wept tears of joy.

"What's the joke?" demanded the rogue. "Anybody would think _I_ was the
sucker."

"Where is George?" questioned Boyd, to change the subject.

"In his trundle-bed, I suppose," said Fraser, stiffly.

"Along about nine o'clock he begins to yawn like a trained seal. That's
how I came to fall in with--this." He indicated the giggling Clyde. "I
didn't have anything better to do."

"Did you show George around, as I asked?"

"Sure! After that fairy--_farrier_, I should say--finished his front
feet, I took him out and let him look at the elevated railroad. Then he
came back and hunted up the janitor of the building. He spent the
evening in the basement with the engineer. Oh, he's had a splendid day!"

"I say, Boyd, have you got another one like--like this?" Clyde asked,
nodding at Fraser, who snorted indignantly.

"Not exactly. Balt is quite the antithesis of Mr. Fraser. He is a
fisherman, and he has never been East before."

"He's learning the manicure business," sniffed the adventurer. "He has
his nails curried every day. Says it tickles."

"Oh, glory be!" ejaculated the clubman. "I must meet him, too. Let me
show him the town, will you? I'll foot the bills; I'll make it
something historic. Please do! I'm bored to death."

"We can't spare the time; we are here on business," said Emerson.

"Business!" Clyde remarked. "That sounds interesting. I haven't seen
anybody for years who was really busy at anything that was worth being
busy at. It must be a great sensation to really do something."

"Don't you do anything?"

"Oh yes; I'm as busy as a one-legged sword-dancer, but I don't _do_
anything. It's the same old thing: leases to sign, rents to collect,
and that sort of rot. My agent does most of it, however. I wish I were
like you, Boyd; you always were a lucky chap." Emerson smiled rather
grimly at thought of the earlier part of the evening and of his present
fortune.

"Oh, I mean it!" said Clyde. "Look how lucky you were at the
university. Everything came your way. Even M--" He checked himself and
jerked his head in the direction of the North Side. "You know! She's
never been able to see any of us fellows with a spy-glass since you
left, and I have proposed regularly every full moon." He wagged his
curly head solemnly and sighed. "Well, there is only one man I'd rather
see get her than you, and that's me--or I--whichever is proper."

"I'm not sure it's proper for either of us to get her," smiled Boyd.

"Well, I'm glad you've returned anyhow; for there's an added starter."

"Who is he?"

"He's some primitive Western fellow like yourself! I don't know his
name--never met him, in fact. But while we Chicago fellows were
cantering along in a bunch, watching each other, he got the rail."

"From the way her father spoke and acted I judged he had somebody in
sight." Boyd's eyes were keenly alight, and Clyde continued.

"We've just _got_ to keep her in Chicago, and you're the one to do it.
I tell you, old man, she has missed you. Yes, sir, she has missed you a
blamed sight more than the rest of us have. Oh, you don't know how
lucky you are."

"I lucky! H'm! You fellows are rich--"

"Bah! _I'm_ not. I've gone through most of what I had. All that is left
are the rents; they keep me going, after a fashion. Now that it is too
late, I'm beginning to wake up; I'm getting tired of loafing. I'd like
to get out and do something, but I can't; I'm too well known in
Chicago, and besides, as a business man I'm certainly a nickel-plated
rotter."

"I'll give you a chance to recoup," said Boyd. "I am here to raise some
money on a good proposition."

The younger man leaned forward eagerly. "If you say it's good, that's
all I want to know. I'll take a chance. I'm in for anything from
pitch-and-toss to manslaughter."

"I'll tell you what it is, and you can use your own judgment."

"I haven't a particle," Clyde confessed. "If I had, I wouldn't need to
invest. Go ahead, however; I'm all ears." He pulled his chair closer
and listened intently while the other outlined the plan, his weak gray
eyes reflecting the old hero-worship of his college days. To him, Boyd
Emerson had ever represented the ultimate type of all that was most
desirable, and time had not lessened his admiration.

"It looks as if there might be a jolly rumpus, doesn't it?" he
questioned, when the speaker had finished.

"It does."

"Then I've got to see it. I'll put in my share if you'll let me go
along."

"You go! Why, you wouldn't like that sort of thing," said Emerson,
considerably nonplussed.

"Oh, wouldn't I? I'd _eat_ it! It's just what I need. I'd revel in that
out-door life." He threw back his narrow shoulders. "I'm a regular
scout when it comes to roughing it. Why, I camped in the Thousand
Islands all one summer, and I've been deer-hunting in the Adirondacks.
We didn't get any--they were too far from the hotel; but I know all
about mountain life."

"This is totally different," Boyd objected; but Clyde ran on, his
enthusiasm growing as he tinted the mental picture to suit himself.

"I'm a splendid fisherman, too, and I've plenty of tackle."

"We shall use nets."

"Don't do it! It isn't sportsmanlike. I'll take a book of flies and
whip that stream to a froth." Emerson interrupted him to explain
briefly the process of salmon-catching, but the young man was not to be
discouraged.

"You give me something to do--something where I don't have to lift
heavy weights or carry boxes--and watch me work! I tell you, it's what
I've been looking for, and I didn't know it; I'll get as husky as you
are and all sunburnt. Tell me the sort of furs and the kind of pistols
to buy, and I'll put ten thousand dollars in the scheme. That's all I
can spare."

"You won't need either furs or firearms," laughed Boyd. "When we get
back to Kalvik the days will be long and hot, and the whole country
will be a blaze of wild flowers."

"That's fine! I love flowers. If I can't catch fish for the cannery,
I'll make up for it in some other way."

"Can you keep books?"

"No; but I can play a mandolin," Clyde offered, optimistically. "I
guess a little music would sound pretty good up there in the
wilderness."

"Can you play a mandolin?" inquired "Fingerless" Fraser, observing the
young fellow with grave curiosity.

"Sure; I'm out of practice, but--"

"Take him!" said Fraser, turning upon Emerson.

"He can set on the front porch of the cannery with wild flowers in his
hair and play _La Paloma_. It will make those other fish-houses mad
with jealousy. Get a window-box and a hammock, and maybe Willis Marsh
will run in and spend his evenings with you."

"Don't josh!" insisted Clyde, seriously. "I want to go--"

"Me josh?" Fraser's face was like wood.

"I'll think it over," Emerson said, guardedly.

Without warning, the adventurer burst into shrill laughter.

"Are you laughing at me?" angrily demanded the city youth.

Fraser composed his features, which seemed to have suddenly disrupted.
"Certainly not! I just thought of something that happened to my father
when I was a little child." Again he began to shake, at which Clyde
regarded him narrowly; but his merriment was so impersonal as to allay
suspicion, and the young fellow went on with undiminished enthusiasm:

"You think it over, and in the mean time I'll get a bunch of the
fellows together. We'll all have lunch at the University Club
to-morrow, and you can tell them about the affair."

Fraser abruptly ended his laughter as Boyd's heel came heavily in
contact with his instep under the table. Clyde was again lost in an
exposition of his fitness as a fisherman when Fraser burst out:

"Hello! There's George. He's walking in his sleep, and thinks this is a
manicure stable."

Emerson turned to behold Balt's huge figure all but blocking the
distant door. It was evident that he had been vainly trying to attract
their attention for some time, but lacked the courage to enter the
crowded room, for, upon catching Boyd's eye, he beckoned vigorously.

"Call him in," said Clyde, quickly. "I want to meet him. He looks just
my sort." And accordingly Emerson motioned to the fisherman. Seeing
there was no help for it, Big George composed himself and ventured
timidly across the portal, steering a tortuous course toward his
friends; but in these unaccustomed waters his bulk became unmanageable
and his way beset with perils. Deeming himself in danger of being run
down by a waiter, he sheered to starboard, and collided with a table at
which there was a theatre party. Endeavoring to apologize, he backed
into a great pottery vase, which rocked at the impact and threatened to
topple from its foundation.

"I'd rather take an ox-team through this room than him," said Fraser.
"He'll wreck something, sure."

Conscious of the attention he was attracting on all sides, Big George
became seized with an excess of awkwardness; his face blazed, and the
perspiration started from his forehead.

"I hope the head waiter doesn't speak to him," Boyd observed. "He is
mad enough to rend him limb from limb." But the words were barely
spoken when they saw a steward hasten toward George and address him,
following which the big fellow's voice rumbled angrily:

"No, I ain't made any mistake! I'm a boarder here, and you get out of
my way or I'll step on you." He strode forward threateningly, at which
the waiter hopped over the train of an evening dress and bowed
obsequiously. The noise of laughter and many voices ceased. In the
silence George pursued his way regardless of personal injury or
property damage, breaking trail, as it were, to his destination, where
he sank limply into a chair which creaked beneath his weight.

"Gimme a lemonade, quick; I'm all het up," he ordered. "I can't get no
footholt on these fancy floors, they're so dang slick."

After a half-dazed acknowledgment of his introduction to Alton Clyde,
he continued: "I've been trying to flag you for ten minutes." He mopped
his brow feebly.

"What is wrong?"

"Everything! It's too noisy for me in this hotel. I've been trying to
sleep for three hours, but this band keeps playing, and that elevated
railroad breaks down every few minutes right under my window. There's
whistles blowing, bells ringing, and--can't we find some quiet
road-house where I can get an hour's rest? Put me in a boiler-shop or a
round-house, where I can go to sleep."

"The hotels are all alike," Boyd answered. "You will soon get used to
it."

"Who, me? Never! I want to get back to God's country."

"Hurrah for you!" ejaculated Clyde. "Same here. And I'm going with you."

"How's that?" questioned George.

"Mr. Clyde offers to put ten thousand dollars into the deal if he can
go to Kalvik with us and help run the cannery," explained Emerson.

George looked over the clubman carefully from his curly crown to his
slender, high-heeled shoes, then smiled broadly.

"It's up to Mr. Emerson. I'm willing if he is." Whereupon, vastly
encouraged, Clyde proceeded to expatiate upon his own surpassing
qualifications. While he was speaking, a party of three men approached,
and seated themselves at an adjoining table. As they pulled out their
chairs, Big George chanced to glance in their direction; then he put
down his lemonade glass carefully.

"What's the matter?" Boyd demanded, in a low tone, for the big fellow's
face had suddenly gone livid, while his eyes had widened like those of
an enraged animal.

"That's him!" George growled, "That's the dirty hound!"

"Sit still!" commanded Fraser; for the fisherman had shoved back from
the table and was rising, his hands working hungrily, the cords in his
neck standing out rigidly. Seeing the murder-light in his companion's
eyes, the speaker leaned forward and thrust the big fellow back into
the chair from which he had half lifted himself.

"Don't make a fool of yourself," he cautioned.

Clyde, who had likewise witnessed the giant's remarkable metamorphosis,
now inquired its meaning.

"That's him!" repeated George, his eyes glaring redly. "That's Willis
Marsh."

"Where?" Emerson whirled curiously; but there was no need for George to
point out his enemy, for one of the strangers stood as if frozen, with
his hand upon the back of his chair, an expression of the utmost
astonishment upon his face. A smile was dying from his lips.

Boyd beheld a plump, thick-set man of thirty-eight in evening dress.
There was nothing distinctive about him except, perhaps, his hair,
which was of a decided reddish hue. He was light of complexion; his
mouth was small and of a rather womanish appearance, due to the full
red lips. He was well groomed, well fed, in all ways he was a typical
city-bred man. He might have been a broker, though he did not carry the
air of any particular profession.

That he was, at all events, master of his emotions he soon gave
evidence. Raising his brows in recognition, he nodded pleasantly to
Balt; then, as if on second thought, excused himself to his companions
and stepped toward the other group. The legs of George's chair scraped
noisily on the tiles as he rose; the sound covered Fraser's quick
admonition:

"Take it easy, pal; let him talk."

"How do you do, George? What in the name of goodness are you doing
here? I hardly recognized you." Marsh's voice was round and musical,
his accent Eastern. With an assumption of heartiness, he extended a
white-gloved hand, which the big, uncouth man who faced him refused to
take. The other three had risen. George seemed to be groping for a
retort. Finally he blurted out, hoarsely:

"Don't offer me your hand. It's dirty! It's got blood on it!"

"Nonsense!" Marsh smiled. "Let's be friends again, George. Bygones are
bygones. I came over to make up with you and ask about affairs at
Kalvik. If you are here on business and I can help--"

"You dirty rat!" breathed the fisherman.

"Very well; if you wish to be obstinate--" Willis Marsh shrugged his
shoulders carelessly, although in his voice there was a metallic note.
"I have nothing to say." He turned a very bright and very curious pair
of eyes upon George's companions, as if seeking from them some hint as
to his victim's presence there. It was but a momentary flash of
inquiry, however, and then his gaze, passing quickly over Clyde and
Fraser, settled upon Emerson.

"Mr. Balt and I had a business misunderstanding," he said, smoothly,
"which I hoped was forgotten. It didn't amount to much--"

At this Balt uttered a choking snarl and stepped forward, only to meet
Boyd, who intercepted him.

"Behave yourself!" he ordered. "Don't make a scene," and before the big
fellow could prevent it he had linked arms with him, and swung him
around. The movement was executed so naturally that none of the patrons
of the cafe noticed it, except, perhaps, as a preparation for
departure. Marsh bowed civilly and returned to his seat, while Boyd
sauntered toward the exit, his arm which controlled George tense as
iron beneath his sleeve. He felt the fisherman's great frame quivering
against him and heard the excited breath halting in his lungs; but
possessed with the sole idea of getting him away without disorder, he
smiled back at Clyde and Fraser, who were following, and chatted
agreeably with his prisoner until they had reached the foyer. Then he
released his hold and said, quietly:

"You'd better go up to your room and cool off. You came near spoiling
everything."

"He tried to shake hands," George mumbled, "_with me!_ That thieving
whelp tried to shake--" He trailed off into an unintelligible jargon of
curses and threats which did not end until he had reached the elevator.
Here Alton Clyde clamored for enlightenment as to the reason for this
eruption.

"That is the fellow we will have to fight," Boyd explained. "He is the
head of the cannery combination at Kalvik, and a bitter enemy of
George's. If he suspects our motives or gets wind of our plans, we're
done for."

Clyde spoke more earnestly than at any time during the evening. "Well,
that absolutely settles it as far as I am concerned. This is bound to
end in a row."

"You mean you don't want to join us?"

"_Don't want to!_ Why, I've just _got_ to, that's all. The ten thousand
is yours, but if you don't take me along I'll stow away."





CHAPTER XI

WHEREIN BOYD EMERSON IS TWICE AMAZED


Nearly a month had elapsed when Emerson at last expressed to George the
discouragement that for several days had lain silently in both men's
minds.

"It looks like failure, doesn't it?"

"Sure does! You've played your string out, eh?"

"Absolutely. I've done everything except burglary, but I can't raise
that hundred thousand dollars. From the way we started off it looked
easy, but times are hard and I've bled my friends of every dollar they
can spare. In fact, some of them have put in more than they can afford."

"It's an awful big piece of money," Balt admitted, with a sigh.

"I never fully realized before how very large," Boyd said. "And yet,
without that amount the Seattle bank won't back us for the remainder."

"Oh, it's no use to tackle the business on a small scale." Big George
pondered for a moment. "We can't wait much longer. We'd ought to be on
the coast now. We're shy twenty-five thousand dollars, eh?"

"Yes, and I can't see any possible way of raising it. I've done the
best I could, and so has Clyde, but it's no use."

The strain of the past month was evident in Emerson's face, which was
worn and tired, as if from sleepless nights. Of late he had lapsed
again into that despondent mood which Fraser had observed in Alaska,
his moments of depression growing more frequent as the precious days
slipped past. Every waking hour he had devoted to the promotion of his
enterprise. He had laughed at rebuffs and refused discouragement; he
had solicited every man who seemed in any way likely to be interested.
He had gone from office to office, his hours regulated by watch and
note-book, always retailing the same facts, always convincingly lucid
and calmly enthusiastic. But a scarcity of money seemed prevalent.
Those who sought investment either had better opportunities or refused
to finance an undertaking so far from home, and apparently so hazardous.

During those three years in the North, Boyd had worked with feverish
haste and suffered many disappointments; but never before had he used
such a vast amount of nervous force as in this short month, never had
fortune seemed so maddeningly stubborn. But he had hung on with bulldog
tenacity, not knowing how to give up, until at last he had placed his
stock to the extent of seventy-five thousand dollars, only to realize
that he had exhausted his vital force as well as his list of
acquaintances. In public he maintained a sanguine front, but in private
he let go, and only his two Alaskan friends had sounded the depths of
his disappointment.

One other, to be sure, had some inkling of what troubled him, yet to
Mildred he had never explained the precise nature of his difficulties.
She did not even know his plans. He spent many evenings with her, and
she would have given him more of her society had he consented to go out
with her, for the demands upon her time were numerous; but this he
could never bring himself to do, being too wearied in mind and body,
and wishing to spare himself any additional mental disquiet.

Neither Mildred nor her father ever spoke of that unknown suitor in his
presence, and their very silence invested the mysterious man with
menacing possibilities which did not tend to soothe Boyd's troubled
mind. In fact, Mr. Wayland, despite his genial manner, inspired him
with a vague sense of hostility, and, as if he were not sufficiently
distracted by all this, Fraser and George kept him in a constant state
of worry from other causes. The former was continually involving him in
some wildly impossible enterprise which seemed ever in danger of police
interference. He could not get rid of the fellow, for Fraser calmly
included him in all his machinations, dragging him in willy-nilly,
until in Boyd's ears there sounded the distant clank of chains and the
echo of the warden's tread. A dozen times he had exposed the rogue and
established his own position, only to find himself the next day
wallowing in some new complication more difficult than that from which
he had escaped. Ordinarily it would have been laughable, but at this
crisis it was tragic.

As for George, he had been very quiet since the night of his encounter
with Marsh, and he spent much of his time by himself. This was a relief
to Boyd, until he happened several times to meet the big fellow in
strange places at unexpected hours, surprising in his eyes a look of
expectant watchfulness, the meaning of which at first puzzled him. It
took but little observation, however, to learn that the fisherman spent
his days in hotel lobbies, always walking about through the crowd, and
that by night he patrolled the theatre district, slinking about as if
to avoid observation. Emerson finally realized with a shock that George
was in search of his enemy; but no amount of argument could alter the
fellow's mind, and he continued to hunt with the silence of a lone
wolf. What the result of his meeting Marsh would be Boyd hesitated to
think, but neither George nor he discovered any trace of that gentleman.

These various cares, added to the consequences of his inability to
finance the cannery project, had reduced Emerson to a state bordering
upon collapse. Balt had entered his room that morning for his daily
report of progress, and after his partner's confession of failure had
fetched a deep sigh.

"Well, it's tough, after all we've went through," he said. Then, after
a pause, "Cherry will be broken-hearted."

"I hadn't thought of her," confessed the other.

"You see, it's her last chance, too."

"So she told me. I'm sorry I brought you all these thousands of miles
on a wild-goose chase, but--"

"I don't care for myself. I'll get back somehow and live in the brush,
like I used to, and some day I'll get my chance. But she's a woman, and
she can't fight Marsh like I can."

"Just who or what is she?" Boyd inquired, curiously, glad of anything
to divert his thoughts from their present channel.

"She's just a big-hearted girl, and the only person, red, white, or
yellow, who gave me a kind word or a bite to eat till you came along.
That's all I know about her. I'd have gone crazy only for her." The big
man ground his teeth as the memory of his injuries came uppermost.

Before Boyd could follow the subject further, Alton Clyde strolled in
upon them, arrayed immaculately, with gloves, tie, spats, and a derby
to match, a striped waistcoast, and a gold-headed walking-stick.

"Salutations, fellow-fishermen!" he began. "I just ran in to settle the
details of our trip. I want my tailor to get busy on my wardrobe
to-morrow." Boyd shook his head.

"Ain't going to be no wardrobe," said Balt.

"Why? Has something happened to scare the fish?"

"I can't raise the money," Emerson confessed.

"Still shy that twenty-five thou?" questioned the clubman.

"Yes! I'm done."

"That's a shame! I had some ripping clothes planned--English
whip-cord--"

"That stuff won't rip," George declared. "But over-alls is plenty good."

Clyde tapped the narrow points of his shoes with his walking-stick,
frowning in meditation. "I'm all in, and so are the rest of the
fellows. By Jove, this will be a disappointment to Mildred! Have you
told her?"

"No. She doesn't know anything about the plan, and I didn't want to
tell her until I had the money. Now I can't go to her and acknowledge
another failure."

"I'm terribly disappointed," said Clyde. There was a moment's silence;
then he went to the telephone and called the hotel office: "Get me a
cab at once--Mr. Clyde. I'll be right down."

Turning to the others, he remarked: "I'll see what I can do; but as a
promoter, I'm a joke. However, the trip will do me good, and I am
hungry for the fray; the smell of battle is in my nostrils, and I am
champing at my bit. Woof! Leave it to me." He smote the air with his
slender cane, and made for the door with an appearance of fierce
determination upon his colorless face. "You'll hear from me in the
morning. So long!"

His martial air amused the two, but Boyd soon dismissed him from his
mind and spent that evening in such moody silence that, in desperation,
Big George forsook him and sought out the manicure parlor. Fraser was
busied on some enterprise of his own.

The thought of Alton Clyde's raising twenty-five thousand dollars where
he had failed was ridiculous to Emerson. He was utterly astounded when
that radiantly attired youth strolled into his room on the following
morning and tossed a thick roll of bills upon the table, saying,
carelessly:

"There it is; count it."

"What?"

"Twenty-five one-thousand-dollar notes. Anyhow, I think there are
twenty-five of them, but I'm not sure. I counted them twice: once I
made twenty-four and the next time twenty-six, but I had my gloves on;
so I struck an averages and took the paying teller's word for it."

Emerson leaped to his feet, staring at the dandy as if not
comprehending this sudden turn of fortune.

"Did you rustle this money without any help?" he demanded.

"Abso-blooming-lutely!"

"Is it your own?"

"Well, hardly! It is so far from it that I was sorely tempted to spread
my wings and soar to foreign parts. It wouldn't have taken much of a
nudge to butt me clear over into Canada this morning."

"Where in the world did you get it, Al?"

"What difference does that make? I _got_ it, didn't I?" He slapped his
trousers leg daintily with his stick. "You can issue the stock in my
name."

Boyd seized the little fellow and whirled him around the room, laughing
gleefully, lifted in one moment from the pit of despair to the height
of optimism.

"Stop it! I'm all rumpled!" gasped Clyde, finally, sinking into a chair
"When I get rumpled in the morning I stay rumpled all day. Don't you
touch me!"

"Whose money is this? What good angel took pity on us?"

Clyde's faded eyes dropped. "Well, I turned a trick, and to all intents
and purposes it is mine. There it is. I didn't steal it, and--you don't
have to know _everything,_ do you? That is why I got the check cashed."

"I beg your pardon," Boyd apologized; "I didn't mean to pry into your
affairs, and it is none of my business, anyhow. I'm glad enough to get
the money, no matter where it came from. I'd forgive you if you had
stolen it." He began to dress hurriedly. "You are the fairy prince of
this enterprise, Alton, and you can go to Kalvik and pick flowers or
play the mandolin or do anything you wish. Now for a telegram to the
bank at Seattle. We leave to-morrow."

"Oh, here, now! I can't get my wardrobe ready."

"Ward--nothing! You don't need any clothes! You can get all that stuff
in Seattle."

"Must have wardrobe," firmly maintained Clyde. "No can do without."

"George and I will be in Seattle for several weeks, so you can come on
later."

"No, sir! I'm going to trail my bet with yours. I might change my mind
if I hung around here alone. I'll make my tailor work all night
to-night; it will do him good. But it upsets me to be hurried; it
upsets me worse than being rumpled in the morning."

That was a busy day for Boyd Emerson, but he was too elated to notice
fatigue, even while dressing for the Waylands'. He had arranged to come
an hour before dinner, that Mildred and he might have a little time to
themselves, and his haste to acquaint her with the news of his success
brought him to the Lake Shore house ahead of time. She did not keep him
waiting, however, and when she appeared, gowned for dinner, he fairly
swept her off her feet with his abruptness.

"It's a go, my Lady; I have succeeded."

"I knew it by your smile. I am so glad!"

"Yes. I have all the money I need, and I am off for the Coast
to-morrow."

"Oh!" She drew back from him. "To-morrow! Why, you wretch! You seem
actually glad of it!"

"I am."

"Confusion! Of all the discourteous lovers--!" She simulated such an
expression of injury that his dancing eyes became grave. "My poor
heart!"

"Are you sorry?"

"Sorry? Indeed! La, la!" She gave a dainty French shrug of her bare
shoulders and tossed her head. "I summon my pride. My spirit is
aroused. I rejoice; I laugh; I sing! Sorry? Pooh!" Then she melted with
an impulsiveness rare in her, saying, "Tell me all about it, please;
tell me everything."

He held her slender hand. "This morning I was bluer than a tatooed man,
but to-night I am in the clouds, for I have overcome the greatest
obstacle that stands between us. It is only a question of months now
until I can come to your father with sufficient means to satisfy him.
Of course, there are chances of failure, but I don't admit them. I have
such a superabundance of courage now that I can't imagine defeat."

"Do you know," she said, hesitatingly, "you have never told me anything
about this plan of yours? You have never takes me into your confidence
in the slightest degree."

"I didn't think you would care to know the details, dear. This is so
entirely a business matter. It is so sordidly commonplace, and you are
so very far removed from sordid things that I didn't think you would
care to hear of it. My mind won't associate you with commercialism. I
have always burned incense to you; I have always seen you in shaded
light and through the smoke of altar fires, so to speak."

"I realize that I don't appreciate the things that you have done," said
the girl, "but I should like to know more about this new adventure."

"I warn you, it is not romantic," he smiled, "although to me anything
which brings me closer to you is invested with the very essence of
romance." He told her briefly of his enterprise and the difficulties he
had conquered. "It looks like plain sailing now," he concluded. "I will
have to work hard, but that just suits me, for it will occupy the time
while I am away from you. There will be no mail or communication with
the outside world after we sail, except at long intervals. But I am
sure you will feel the messages I shall send you every hour."

"And so you are going to put fish into little tin cans?" said Mildred.

"Very prosy, isn't it?"

"Of course, you will have men to do it. You won't do that sort of thing
yourself?"

"Assuredly not. There will be some hundreds of Chinese."

"Will you have to catch the fish? Will you pull on a long fish-line? I
should think that would be rather nice."

"No," he laughed.

"At any rate, you will wear oilskins and a 'sou'wester,' won't you?"

"Yes, just like the pictures you see on bill-boards."

She meditated for an instant. "Why don't you build a railroad or do
something such as father does? He makes a great deal of money out of
railroads."

"He is also a director in the largest packing concern at the Stock
Yards," Boyd reminded her. "This is much the same sort of thing."

"To be sure! Do you know, he has become greatly interested in your
country of late. I have heard him speak of Alaska frequently. In fact,
I think that is one reason why he has been so nice to you; he wants to
learn all he can about it."

"Why?"

"Oh, dear, I never know why he does anything."

"Tell me, does he still legislate in favor of this mysterious suitor
whose identity you have never revealed to me?"

"Nonsense!" said the girl. "There is no mysterious suitor, and father
does not legislate for or against any one. He isn't that sort."

"And yet I never seem to meet this stranger."

"Indeed!" she observed, a trifle indifferently. "It is your own fault.
You never go out any more. However, you won't have long to wait. Father
telephoned that he is to dine with us."

"To-night?"

"Yes."

"But, Mildred, this is our last evening together," said Emerson,
seriously. "Can't we have it alone?"

"I am afraid not. I had nothing to say in the matter. It is some
business affair."

So the fellow was a business associate of the magnate, thought Boyd.
"Who is he?"

"He is merely--" Mildred paused to listen. "Here they are now. Please
don't look so tragic, Othello."

Hearing voices outside the library, the young man asked, hurriedly:
"Give me some time alone with you, my Lady. I must leave early."

"We will come in here while they are smoking," she said.

There was time for no more, for Wayne Wayland entered, followed by
another gentleman, at the first sight of whom Emerson started, while
his mind raced off into a dizzy whirl of incredulity. It could not be!
It was too grotesque--too ridiculous! What prank of malicious fate was
this? He turned his eyes to the door again, to see if by any chance
there were a third visitor, but there was not, and he was forced to
respond to Mr. Wayland's greeting. The other man had meanwhile stepped
directly to Mildred, as if he had eyes for no one else, and was bowing
over her hand when her father spoke.

"Mr. Emerson, let me present you to Mr. Marsh. I believe you have never
happened to meet here." Marsh turned as if reluctant to release the
girl's hand, and not until his own was outstretched did he recognize
the other. Even then he betrayed his recognition only by a slight lift
of the eyebrows and an intensification of his glance.

The two mumbled the customary salutations while their eyes met. At
their first encounter Boyd had considered Marsh rather indistinct in
type, but with a lover's jealousy he now beheld a rival endowed with
many disquieting attributes.

"You two will get along famously," said Mr. Wayland. "Mr. Marsh is
acquainted with your country, Boyd."

"Ah!" Marsh exclaimed, quickly. "Are you an Alaskan, Mr. Emerson?"

"Indeed, he is so wedded to the country that he is going back
to-morrow," Mildred offered.

Marsh's first look of challenge now changed to one of the liveliest
interest, and Boyd imagined the fellow endeavoring to link him, through
the affair at the restaurant, with the presence of Big George in
Chicago. Although the full significance of the meeting had not struck
the young lover yet, upon the heels of his first surprise came the
realization that this man was to be not only his rival in love, but the
greatest menace to the success of his venture--that venture which meant
the world to him.

"Yes," he answered, cautiously, "I am a typical Alaskan--disappointed,
but not discouraged."

"What business?"

"Mining!"

"Oh!" indifferently. Marsh addressed himself to Mr. Wayland: "I told
you the commercial opportunities in that country were far greater than
those in the mining business. All miners have the same story." Sensing
the slight in his tone, rather than in his words, Mildred hastened to
the defence of her fiance, nearly causing disaster thereby.

"Boyd has something far better than mining now. He was telling me about
it as--"

"You interrupted us," interjected Emerson, panic stricken. "I didn't
have time to explain the nature of my enterprise."

The girl was about to put in a disclaimer, when he flashed a look at
her which she could not help but heed. "I am very stupid about such
things," she offered, easily. "I would not have understood it, I am
sure." To her father, she continued, leaving what she felt to be
dangerous ground: "I didn't look for you so early."

"We finished sooner than I expected," Mr. Wayland answered, "so I drove
Willis to his hotel and waited for him to dress. I was afraid he might
disappoint us if I let him out of my sight. I couldn't allow that--not
to-night of all nights, eh?" The magnate laughed knowingly at Marsh.

"I have never yet disappointed Miss Wayland, and I never shall," the
new-comer replied, eying the girl in such a way that Boyd felt a sudden
desire to choke him until his smooth, expressionless face matched the
color of his evening coat. "I can imagine your daughter's feminine
guests staying away, Mr. Wayland, but her masculine friends, never!"

"What rot!" thought Emerson.

"Well, I couldn't take any chances to-night," the father reasserted,
"for this is a celebration. I will tell Hawkins to open a bottle of
that Private Cuvee, '86."

"What machinations have you precious conspirators been at now?" queried
Mildred.

"My dear, I have effected a wonderful deal to-day," said her father.
"With the help of Mr. Marsh, I closed the last details of a
consolidation which has occupied me for many months."

"Another trust, I suppose."

"Certain people might call it that," chuckled the old man. "Willis was
the inspiring genius, and did most of the work; the credit is his."

"Not at all! Not at all!" disclaimed the modest Marsh. "I was but a
child in your father's hands, Miss Wayland. He has given me a liberal
education in finance."

"It was a beautiful affair, eh?" questioned the magnate.

"Wonderful."

"May I inquire the nature of this merger?" Emerson ventured, amazed at
this disclosure of the intimate relations existing between the two.

"Certainly," replied Wayne Wayland. "There is no longer any secret
about it, and the papers will be full of the story in the morning. I
have combined the packing industries of the Pacific Coast under the
name of the North American Packers' Association."

Boyd felt himself growing numb.

"What do you mean by 'packing industries'?" asked Mildred.

"Canneries--salmon fisheries! We own sixty per cent. of the plants of
the entire Coast, including Alaska. That's why I've been so keen about
that north country, Boyd. You never guessed it, eh?"

"No, sir," Boyd stammered.

"Well, we control the supply, and we will regulate the market. We will
allow only what competition we desire. Oh, it is all in our hands. It
was a beautiful transaction, and one of the largest I ever effected."

Was he dreaming? Boyd wondered. His mouth was dry, but he managed to
inquire:

"What about the independent canneries?"

Marsh laughed. "There is no sentiment in business! There are about
forty per cent. too many plants to suit us. I believe I am capable of
attending to them."

"Mr. Marsh is the General Manager," Wayland explained. "With the market
in our own hands, and sufficient capital to operate at a loss for a
year, or two years, if necessary, I don't think the independent plants
will cost us much."

Emerson found his sweetheart's eyes fixed upon him oddly. She turned to
her father and said: "I consider that positively criminal."

"Tut, tut, my dear! It sounds cruel, of course, but it is business, and
it is being done every day; isn't it, Boyd?"

Boyd made no answer, but Marsh hastened to add:

"You see, Miss Wayland, business, in the last analysis, is merely a
survival of the fittest; only the strong and merciless can hold their
own."

"Exactly," confirmed her father. "One can't allow sentiment to affect
one. It isn't business. But you don't understand such things. Now, if
you young people will excuse me, I shall remove the grime of toil, and
return like a giant refreshed." He chuckled to himself and left the
room, highly pleased with the events of the day.





CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH MISS WAYLAND IS OF TWO MINDS


That Willis Marsh still retained some curiosity regarding Emerson's
presence at the Annex on that night four weeks before, and that the
young man's non-committal reply to his inquiry about the new enterprise
mentioned by Mildred had not entirely satisfied him, was proved by the
remark which he addressed to the girl the moment her father's departure
afforded him an opportunity.

"You said Mr. Emerson's new proposition was better than mining, did you
not?" He was the embodiment of friendly interest, showing just the
proper degree of complaisant expectancy. "I am decidedly curious to
know what undertaking is sufficiently momentous to draw a young man
away from beauty's side up into such a wilderness, particularly in the
dead of winter."

Miss Wayland's guarded reply gave Emerson a moment in which to collect
his thoughts. He was still too much confused by the recent disclosures
to adjust himself fully to the situation. The one idea uppermost in his
mind was to enlighten Marsh as little as possible; for if this new
train of events was really to prove his undoing, as already he half
believed, he would at any rate save himself from the humiliation of
acknowledging defeat. If, on the other hand, he should decide to go
ahead and wage war against the trust as an independent packer, then
secrecy for the present was doubly imperative.

Once Marsh gained an inkling that he and Big George were equipping
themselves to go back to Kalvik--to Kalvik, Marsh's own stronghold, of
all places!--he could and would thwart them without doubt. These
thoughts flashed through Boyd's mind with bewildering rapidity, yet he
managed to equal the other's show of polite indifference as he remarked:

"I am not far enough along with my plans to discuss them."

"Perhaps if I knew their nature I might--"

Boyd laughed. "I am afraid a hydraulic proposition would not interest
such a hard-headed business man as you." To himself he added: "Good
heavens! I am worse than Fraser with his nebulous schemes!"

"Oh, hydraulic mining? Well, hardly!" the other replied. "I understood
Miss Wayland to say that this was something better than a mine."

"Is a hydraulic a mine?" inquired Mildred; "I thought it was a
water-power of some sort!"

"Once a miner always a miner," the younger man quoted, lightly.

As if with a shadow of doubt, Marsh next inquired:

"Didn't I meet you the other evening at the Annex?"

Boyd admitted the fact, with the air of one who exaggerates his
interest in a trifling topic for the sake of conversation. He was
beginning to be surprised at his own powers of dissimulation.

"And you were with George Balt?"

"Exactly. I picked him up on my way out from Nome; he was so thoroughly
disgusted with Alaska that I helped him get back to the States."

Marsh's eyes gleamed at this welcome intelligence for certain
misgivings had preyed upon him since that night of the encounter. He
turned to the girl with the explanation:

"This fellow we speak of is a queer, unbalanced savage who nurses an
insane hatred for me. I employed him once, but had to discharge him for
incompetence, and he has threatened my life repeatedly. You may imagine
the start it gave me to stroll into a cafe, at this distance from
Kalvik, and find him seated at a near-by table."

"How strange!" Miss Wayland observed. "What did he do?"

"Mr. Emerson prevented him from making a scene. Only for his
interference I might have been forced to--protect myself."

In spite of himself Boyd could not but wonder if Marsh were really the
sort of man he had been painted; or if, as might appear sufficiently
credible, he had been maligned through Cherry's prejudice and George
Balt's hatred. To-night he seemed the most kindly and courteous of men.

Under Mildred's skilful direction the conversation had drifted into
other channels by the time Mr. Wayland returned. Now, all at once, Boyd
beheld the magnate in a new guise. Until to-night he had seen in him
nothing more than a prospective father-in-law, a stubborn, dominant old
fellow whose half-contemptuous toleration, unpleasant enough at times,
never really amounted to active enmity. Now, however, he recognized in
Wayne Wayland a commercial foe, and his knowledge of the man's
character gave sufficient assurance that he might expect no mercy or
consideration from him one moment after it transpired that their
financial interests were in conflict.

So far the two had never seriously clashed, but sooner or later the
capitalist must learn the truth; and when he did, when that iron-jawed,
iron-willed autocrat once discovered that this youth whom he had taken
into his home with so little thought of possible harm had actually
dared to oppose him, his indignation would pass all bounds.

And then, for the first time, Emerson realized the impropriety of his
own present position. He was here under false pretences; they had bared
to him secrets not rightly his, with which he might arm himself. When
this, too, became known to the financier, he would regard him not only
as a presumptuous enemy, but as a traitor. Boyd knew the old tyrant too
well to doubt his course of action; thenceforth there would be war to
the hilt.

The enterprise which an hour ago had seemed so certain of success, the
enterprise which he had fathered at such cost of labor and suffering,
now seemed entirely hopeless. The futility of trying to oppose these
men, equipped as they were with limitless means and experience, struck
him with such force as to make him almost physically faint and sick.
Even had his canning plant been open and running, he knew that they
would never take him in; Wayne Wayland's consistent attitude toward him
showed that plainly enough. And with nothing more tangible to offer
than a half-born dream, they would laugh him to scorn. Furthermore,
they had proclaimed their determination to choke all rivalry.

A sort of panic seized Boyd. If his present scheme fell through, what
else could he do? Whither could he turn, even for his own livelihood,
except back to the hateful isolation of a miner's life? That would mean
other years as black as those just ended. There had been a time when he
could boldly have taken the bit in his teeth and forced Mr. Wayland to
reckon with him, but since his return Mildred herself had withdrawn her
consent to a marriage that would mean immediate separation from the
life that she loved. That course, therefore, was closed to him. If ever
he was to win her, he must play this game of desperate chances to the
end.

The announcement of dinner interrupted his dismayed reflections, and he
walked out in company with Mr. Wayland, who linked arms with him as if
to afford Willis Marsh every advantage, fleeting though it might prove.

"He is a wonderful fellow," the old gentleman observed, _sotto voce_,
indicating Marsh--"one of the keenest business men I ever met."

"Yes?"

"Indeed, he is. He is a money-maker, too; his associates swear by him.
If I were you, my boy, I would study him; he is a good man to imitate."

At the dinner-table the talk at first was general, and of a character
appropriate for the hour, but Miss Wayland, oddly enough, seemed bent
upon leading the discussion back into its former course, and displayed
such an unusual thirst for information regarding the North American
Packers' Association that her father was moved to remark upon it.

"What in the world has come over you, Mildred?" he said. "You never
cared to hear about my doings before."

"Please don't discourage me," she urged. "I am really in earnest; I
should like to know all about this new trust of yours. Perhaps my
little universe is growing a bit tiresome to me."

"Miss Mildred is truly your daughter," Marsh observed, admiringly. "But
I fear the matter doesn't interest Mr. Emerson?"

"Oh, indeed it does," Mildred smilingly responded. "Doesn't it, Boyd?"

He flushed uncomfortably as he acquiesced.

"Now, please tell me more about it," the girl went on. "You know you
are both full of the thing, and there are only we four here, so let's
be natural; I am dreadfully tired of being conventional."

"Tut, tut!" exclaimed her father. "That comes of association with these
untamed Westerners." Yet he plainly showed that he was flattered by her
unexpected enthusiasm and more than ready to humor her.

Both men, in truth, were jubilant, and so thoroughly in tune with the
subject which had obsessed them these past months that it took little
urging to set them talking in harmony with the girl's wishes. Readily
accepting the cue of informality, they grew communicative, and told of
the troubles they had encountered in launching the gigantic
combination, joking over the obstacles that had threatened to wreck it,
and complimenting each other upon their persistence and sagacity.

Meanwhile, Emerson's discomfort steadily increased. He wondered if this
were a deliberate effort on Mildred's part, or if she really had any
idea of what bearing it all had upon his plans. The further it went,
however, the more clearly he perceived the formidable nature of the new
barrier between himself and Mildred which her father had unwittingly
raised.

"So far it has been all hard work," Wayne Wayland at length announced,
"but in the future I propose to derive some pleasure from this affair.
I am tired out. For a long time I have been planning a trip somewhere,
and now I think I shall make a tour of inspection in the spring and
visit the various holdings of the North American Packers' Association.
In that way I can combine recreation and business."

"But you detest travel as much as I do," said Mildred.

"This would be entirely different from ordinary travel. The first
vice-president has his yacht on the Pacific Coast, and offers her to
the board of directors for a summer's cruise."

"How far will you go?" questioned Boyd.

"Clear up to Mr. Marsh's station."

"Kalvik?"

"Yes; that is the plan," Marsh chimed in. "The scenery is more
marvellous than that of Norway, the weather is delightful. Moreover,
_The Grande Dame_ is the best-equipped yacht on the Pacific, so the
board of directors can take their families with them, and enjoy a
wonderful outing among the fjords and glaciers beneath the midnight
sun. You see, I am selfish in urging it, Miss Wayland. I expect you to
join the party."

"I am sure you would like it, Mildred," the magnate added.

Boyd could scarcely believe his ears. Would they come to Kalvik? Would
they all assemble there in that unmapped nook? And suppose they
should--had he the courage to continue his mad enterprise? It was all
so unreal! He was torn between the desire to have Mildred agree, and
fear of the influence Marsh might gain during such a trip. But Miss
Wayland evidently had an eye to her own comfort, for she replied:

"No, indeed! The one thing I abhor above land travel is a sea voyage; I
am a wretched sailor."

"But this trip would be worth while," urged her father. "Why, it will
be a regular voyage of discovery; I am as excited over it as a country
boy on circus day."

Marsh seconded him with all his powers of persuasion, but the girl,
greatly to Emerson's surprise, merely reaffirmed her determination.

"Oh, I dare say I should enjoy the scenery," she observed, with a
glance at Boyd; "but, on the other hand, I don't care for rough things,
and I prefer hearing about canneries to visiting them. They must be
very smelly. Above all, I simply refuse to be seasick." In her eyes was
a half-defiant look which Emerson had never seen there before.

"I am sorry," Marsh acknowledged, frankly. "You see, there are no women
in our country; and six months without a word or a smile from your
gentle sex makes a man ready to hate himself and his fellow-creatures."

"Are there no women in Alaska?" questioned the girl.

"In the mining-camps, yes, but we fishermen live lonely lives."

"But the coy, shrinking Indian maidens? I have read about them."

"They are terrible affairs," Marsh declared. "They are flat of nose,
their lips are pierced, and they are very--well, dirty."

"Not always!" Boyd gave voice to his general annoyance and growing
dislike for Marsh in an abrupt denial, "I have seen some very
attractive squaws, particularly breeds."

"Where?" demanded the other, sceptically.

"Well, at Kalvik, for instance,"

"Kalvik!" ejaculated Marsh.

"Yes; your home. You must know Chakawana, the girl they call 'The
Snowbird'?"

"No."

"Come, come! She knows you very well."

"Ah, a mystery! He is concealing something!" cried Miss Wayland.

Marsh directed a sharp glance at Boyd before answering. "I presume you
refer to Constantine's sister; I was speaking generally--of course,
there are exceptions. As a matter of fact, I wasn't exactly right when
I said we had no white women whatever at Kalvik. Mr. Emerson doubtless
has met Cherry Malotte?"

"I have," acknowledged Boyd. "She was very kind to us."

"More damning disclosures," chuckled Mr. Wayland. "Pray, who is she?"

"I should like very much to know," Emerson answered.

"Oh, delightful!" exclaimed Mildred. "First, a beautiful Indian girl;
now, a mysterious white woman! Why, Kalvik is decidedly interesting."

"There is nothing mysterious about the white woman," said Marsh. "She
is quite typical--just a plain mining camp hanger-on who drifted down
our way."

"Not at all," Boyd disclaimed, angrily. "Miss Malotte is a fine woman;"
then, at Marsh's short laugh, "and her conduct bears favorable
comparison with that of the other white people at Kalvik."

Marsh allowed his eyes to waver at this, but to Mildred he apologized.
"She is not the sort one cares to discuss."

"How do you know?" demanded Cherry's champion. "Do you know anything
against her character?"

"I know she is a disturbing element at Kalviks and has caused us a
great deal of trouble."

It was Boyd's turn to laugh. "But surely that has nothing to do with
her character."

"My dear fellow"--Marsh shrugged his shoulders apologetically--"if I
had dreamed she was a friend of yours, I never would have spoken."

"She is a friend," Emerson persisted doggedly, "and I admire her
because she is a girl of spirit. If she had not been possessed of
enough courage to disregard your instructions, I might have been forced
to eject your watchman and take possession of one of your canneries."

"We can't entertain all comers. We leave that to Miss Malotte."

"And George Balt, eh?"

"Dear! dear!" laughed Miss Wayland. "I feel as if I were at a meeting
of the Woman's Guild."

"In our business we must adhere to a definite policy," Marsh explained
to the others. "Sometimes we are misjudged by travellers who consider
us heartless, but we can't take care of every one."

"Not even your sick natives. Well, but for Miss Malotte some of your
fishermen would have starved this winter, and you might have been
short-handed next year."

"We give them work. Why should we support them?"

"I don't know of any legal reason, and ethics don't count for much up
there. Nevertheless, Cherry Malotte has seen to it that the children,
at least, haven't suffered. She saved a little brother of this
Constantine you mention."

"Constantine has no brother," Marsh answered. "I happen to know,
because he worked for me."

"This was a little red-headed youngster."

"Ah!" Marsh's ejaculation was sharp. "What was the matter with it?"

"Measles."

"Did it get well?"

"It was getting along all right when I left."

The other fell silent, while Miss Wayland inquired, curiously: "What is
this mysterious woman like?"

"She is young, refined--thoroughly nice in every way."

"Good-looking also, I dare say?"

"Very."

She was about to pursue her inquiries further, but the dinner was
finished and Mr. Wayland had asked for his favorite cigars, so she rose
and Boyd accompanied her, leaving the others to smoke. But, strangely
enough, Marsh remained in such a state of preoccupation, even after
their departure, that Mr. Wayland's attempts at conversation elicited
only the vaguest and shortest of answers.

In the music-room Mildred turned upon Boyd. "Why didn't you tell me
about this woman before?"

"I didn't think of her."

"And yet she is young, beautiful, refined, lives a romantic sort of
existence, and entertained you--" She tossed her head.

"Are you jealous?" he inquired, with a smile.

"Of such a person? Certainly not."

"I wish you were," he confessed, truthfully. "If you would only get
really jealous, I should be delighted. I should begin to feel a little
sure of you."

She seated herself at the piano and struck a few idle notes, inquiring,
casually: "Kalvik is the name of the place where you are going, isn't
it?"

"It is."

"I suppose you will see a great deal of this--Cherry Malotte?"

"Undoubtedly, inasmuch as we are partners."

"Partners!" Mildred ceased playing and swung about. "What do you mean?"

"She is interested in this enterprise; the cannery site is hers."

"I see!" After a moment, "Does this new affair of father's have any
particular effect on your plans?"

"Yes and no," he answered, feeling again the weight of this last
complication, forgotten for the moment.

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Nothing; only for the present please don't mention my scheme either to
him or to Mr. Marsh. I am a bit uncertain as to my course. You see, it
means so much to me that I can't bear to give it up, and yet it may
lead to great--unpleasantness."

She nodded, comprehendingly.

The others joined them, and Boyd made his adieus; but in leaving he
bore with him a weight of doubt and uneasiness in strange contrast with
the buoyancy he had felt upon his arrival.

Willis Marsh, on the contrary, lost no time in emerging from his
taciturn mood upon Boyd's departure, and seemed filled with even more
than his accustomed optimism. Whatever had been the cause of his
transitory depression, he could not fail to reflect that his fortunes
had been singularly fair of late; and now that the other man was out of
the way, Miss Wayland, for the first time in his acquaintance, began to
display a lively interest in his affairs, which made his satisfaction
complete. She questioned him closely regarding his work and habits in
the North, letting down her reserve to such an unparalleled extent that
when Mr. Wayland at last excused himself and retired to the library,
Marsh felt that the psychological moment had arrived.

[Illustration: MILDRED CEASED PLAYING AND SWUNG ABOUT--"WHAT DO YOU
MEAN?"]

"This has been a day of triumphs for me," he stated, "and I am anxious
to crown it with even a greater good-fortune."

"Don't be greedy," the girl cautioned.

"That is man's nature."

She laughed lightly. "Having used my poor, yielding parent for your own
needs, you now wish to employ his innocent child in the same manner. Is
there no limit to your ambition?"

"There is, and I can reach it with your help."

"Please don't count on me; I am the most disappointing of creatures."

But he disregarded her words. "I hope not; at any rate, I must know."

"I warn you," she said.

"Nevertheless, I insist; and yet--I don't quite know how to begin. It
isn't a new story to you perhaps--what I am trying to say--but it is to
me, I can assure you--and it means everything to me. I don't even have
to tell you what it is--you must have seen it in my eyes. I--I have
never cared much for women--I am a man's man, but--"

"Please don't," she interrupted, quietly. But he continued, unheeding:

"You must know that I love you. Every man must love you, but no man
could love you more than I do. I--I could make a lot of romantic
avowals, Miss--Mildred, but I am not an adept at such things. You can
make me very happy if--"

"I am sorry--"

"I know. What I have said is trite, but my whole heart is in it. Your
father approves, I am quite sure, and so it all rests with you."

For the first time the girl realized the deadly earnestness of the man
and felt the unusual force of his personality, which made it seem no
light matter to refuse him. He took his disappointment quietly,
however, and raised himself immensely in her estimation by his graceful
acceptance of the inevitable.

"It is pretty hard on a fellow," he smiled, "but please don't let it
make any difference in our relations. I hope to remain a welcome
visitor and to see as much of you as before."

"More, if you wish."

"I begin to understand that Mr. Emerson is a lucky chap." He still
smiled.

She ignored his meaning, and replied: "Boyd and I have been the closest
of friends for many years."

"So I have been told," and he smiled at her again, in the same manner.
Somehow the smile annoyed her--it seemed to savor of self-confidence.
When he bade her good-bye an hour later he was still smiling.

Mr. Wayland was busy over some rare first edition, recently received
from his English collector, when she sought him out in the library. He
looked up to inquire:

"Has Willis gone?"

"Yes. He sent you his adieus by me." A moment later she added: "He
asked me to marry him."

"Of course," nodded the magnate, "they all do that. What did you say?"

"What I always say."

"H'm!" He tapped his eyeglasses meditatively upon the bridge of his
high-arched nose. "You might do worse. He suits me."

"I have no doubt he could hold the millions together. In fact, he is
the first one I have seen of whose ability in that line I am quite
certain. However--" She made a slight gesture of dismissal.

"I hope you didn't offend him?"

She raised her brows.

"Forgive me. I might have known--" He stared at the page before him for
a moment. "You have a certain finality about you that is almost
masculine. They never return to the charge--"

"Oh yes," she demurred. "There is Alton Clyde, for instance--"

Mr. Wayland dismissed Clyde with an inarticulate grunt of contempt
which measured that young man's claim to consideration more
comprehensively than could a wealth of words.

"I would think it over if I were you," he advised. Then he pondered.
"If you would only change your mind, occasionally, like other girls--"

"I have changed my mind to-night--since Mr. Marsh left."

"Good!" he declared, heartily.

"Yes. I have decided to go to Kalvik with you."

On that very night, in a little, snow-smothered cabin crouching close
against the Kalvik bluffs, another girl was seated at a piano. Her
slim, white fingers had strayed upon the notes of a song which Boyd
Emerson had sung. In her dream-filled eyes was the picture of a
rough-garbed, silent man at her shoulder, and in her ears was the sound
of his voice. Clear to the last melting note she played the air, and
then a pitiful sob shook her. She bowed her golden head and hid her
face in her arms, for a memory was upon her, a forgotten kiss was hot
upon her lips, and she was very lonely.





CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH CHERRY MALOTTE BECOMES SUSPICIOUS


At the hotel Emerson found Clyde and Fraser in Balt's room awaiting
him. They were noisy and excited at the success of the enterprise and
at the prospect of immediate action.

Quoth "Fingerless" Fraser: "It has certainly lifted a load off my mind
to put this deal through."

Emerson was forced to smile. "Now that you have succeeded," said he,
"what next?"

"Back to the Coast. This town is a bum."

"Are you going west with us?"

"Sure! Why not? This game ain't opened yet."

"How long are we to be favored with your assistance?"

"Hard telling. I want to see you get off on the right foot; I'd feel
bad if you fell down."

"Well, of all--"

"Let him rave," advised George. "He can't sell us nothing."

"I did _my_ share, anyhow," Alton Clyde declared, curling up
comfortably in his chair, with a smile of such beatitude that Fraser
cried:

"Now purr! Nice kitty! Seems like I can see a canary feather sticking
to your mustache."

"It is my debut in business," Clyde explained. "It's my commercial
coming-out party. I never did anything useful before in my whole life,
so, naturally, I'm all swelled up."

"It ain't necessary for me to itemize _my_ statement," Fraser observed.
"A moment's consecutive thought will show anybody who's capable of
bearing the strain of that much brain effort where I came in." Gazing
upon them with prophetic eye, he announced: "And mark what I say,
gents: I'll be even a bigger help to you before you get through. You do
the rough work; I'll be there with the bottle of oil and the
hand-polish. Yes, sir! When the time comes I'll go down in the little
bag of tricks and dig up anything you need, from a jig dance to a jimmy
and a bottle of soup."

"I know what you call 'soup'!" exclaimed Alton, with lively interest.
"Did you ever crack a safe? By Jove, that's immense!"

"I've worked in banks, considerable," "Fingerless" Fraser admitted,
with admirable caution. "What I mean to say is, I'm a general handy
man, and I may be useful, so you better let me stick around."

Boyd told them little of the news that had startled him earlier in the
evening, beyond the bare fact that Marsh had floated a packers' trust,
and that secrecy, for the present, was now doubly necessary to the
success of their undertaking. The full significance of the merger,
therefore, did not strike his associates, even when, on the train, the
next day, they read the announcement of its formation in the
newspapers. Balt alone took notice of it, and fell into a furious rage
at his enemy's success.

Alton Clyde, on the other hand, was more than ever elated over his
share in a conspiracy threatened by so formidable a foe; and when
Emerson constituted him a sort of secretary, with duties mainly of
sending and receiving telegrams, his delight was beyond measure. He
grew, in fact, insufferably conceited, and his overweening sense of his
own importance became a severe trial to Fraser, who was roused to his
most elaborate efforts of sarcasm. The adventurer wasted hours in a
search for fitting similes by which to measure the clubman's general
and comprehensive ineptitude, all of which rebounded from his victim's
armor of complacency.

No sooner were they fairly under way for the West than Emerson began
the definite shaping of his plans. He and George carefully went over
the many details of their coming work and sent many messages, with the
result that outfitters in a dozen lines were awaiting them when they
arrived in Seattle. Without loss of time Boyd installed himself and his
friends at a hotel, secured a competent and close-mouthed stenographer,
and then sought out the banker with whom he had made a tentative
agreement before going to Chicago. Mr. Hilliard greeted him cordially.

"I see you have carried out your part of the programme," said he; "but
before we definitely commit ourselves, we should like to know what
effect this new trust is going to have on the canning business."

"You mean the N. A. P. A.?"

"Precisely. Our Chicago correspondent can't tell us any more than we
have learned from the press--namely, that a combination has been
formed. We are naturally somewhat cautious about financing a
competitive plant until we know what policy the trust will pursue."

Here was exactly the complication Boyd had feared; therefore, it was
with some trepidation that he argued:

"The trust is in business for the money, and its very formation ought
to be conclusive evidence of your good judgment. However, you have
backed so many plants such as mine that you know, as well as I do, the
big profits to be taken."

"That isn't the point. Ordinarily we would not waver an instant, but
the Wayland-Marsh outfit is apt to upset conditions. If we only knew--"

"I know!" boldly declared Boyd. "Mr. Wayland outlined his policy to me
before the public knew anything about the trust."

"Indeed? Are you acquainted with Wayne Wayland?" asked Mr. Hilliard,
with a new light of curiosity in his eyes.

"I know him well."

"Ah! I congratulate you. Perhaps this is--er, Wayland money behind you?"

"That I am not at liberty to discuss," the younger man replied,
evasively. "However, just to make your loan absolutely sure, I have
taken steps to sell my season's output in advance. The commission men
will be in town shortly, and I shall contract for the entire catch at a
stipulated price. Is that satisfactory?"

"Entirely so," declared Mr. Hilliard, heartily. "Go ahead and order
your machinery and supplies." As Boyd rose to go, he added, "By the
way, what do you know about the mineral possibilities of the region
back of Kalvik?"

"Not much; the country is new. There is a--woman at Kalvik who has some
men out prospecting."

"Cherry Malotte?"

"Do you know her?" asked Boyd, with astonishment.

"Very well, indeed. I have had some correspondence with her quite
recently." Then, noting Boyd's evident curiosity, he went on: "You see,
I have made a number of mining investments in the North--entirely on my
own account," he hastened to explain. "Of course, the bank could not do
such a thing. My operations have turned out so well that I keep several
men just to follow new strikes."

"Has Miss Malotte made a strike?"

"Not exactly, but she has uncovered some promising copper prospects."

"H'm! That is news to me. It is rather a small country, after all,
isn't it?" He would have liked to ask the banker certain further
questions, but resisted the temptation, and shortly after plunged into
his work so vigorously that the subject faded wholly from his mind.

Now it was that George Balt made his importance felt. In the days which
followed he and Boyd toiled early and late, for a thousand things
needed doing at once. Promptness was, above all things, the essence of
this enterprise, and the lumber merchants, coal dealers, machinery
salesmen, and ship chandlers with whom they dealt vowed they never had
met men who reached their decisions so quickly and labored not only
with such consuming haste, but with such unerring certainty. There was
no haggling over prices, no loss of time in seeking competitive bids;
and because George always knew precisely what he wanted, their task of
selection became comparatively easy. With every detail of the business
he was familiar, from long experience. There was no piece of machinery
that he did not know better than its makers. There was never any
hesitancy as between rival types or loading down with superfluous gear.
His main concern was for dates of delivery.

Three weeks passed quickly in strenuous effort, and then one morning
the partners awoke to the realization that there was little more for
them to do. Orders were in, shipments had started. They had well-nigh
completed the charter of a ship, and a sailing date had been set. There
were numerous details yet to be arranged, but the enterprise was in
motion, and what remained was simple. Despite their desperate hurry
they had made no mistakes, and for this the credit lay largely with Big
George.

Through it all Clyde had lent them enthusiastic if feeble assistance;
and now that the strain was off, he gave fitting expression to his
delight by getting drunk. Being temperamental to a degree, he craved
company; and, knowing full well the opposition he would encounter from
his friends, he annexed a bibulous following of loafers whose time hung
heavy and who were at all times eager to applaud a loose tongue so long
as it was accompanied by a loose purse. Toward midnight "Fingerless"
Fraser, cruising in a nocturnal search for adventure and profit, found
him in a semi-maudlin state, descanting vaporously to his train; and,
upon catching mention of the Kalvik fisheries, snatched him homeward
and put him to bed, after which he locked him into his room, threw the
key over the transom, and stood guard outside until assured that he
slept.

At an early hour the adventurer was peremptorily roused, to find
Emerson hammering at his door in a fine fury.

"What is this?" demanded Boyd, through white lips, thrusting a morning
paper before Fraser's sleepy eyes.

"It's a newspaper," yawned the other--"a regular newspaper."

"Where did this story come from?" With menacing finger Boyd indicated a
front column, headed:

    NEW ENEMY OF THE SALMON TRUST!

        FIRST GUN FIRED IN BATTLE FOR FISHERIES!

    N. A. P. A. PROMISED BITTER FIGHT FOR SUPREMACY OF
                        ALASKAN WATERS!

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No; I never read anything but the 'Past Performances' and the funny
page. What does it say?"

"It is the whole story of our enterprise, but ridiculously garbled and
exaggerated. It says I have headed a new canning company to buck the
trust. It tells about George's feud with Marsh, and says we have both
been secretly preparing to down him. Good Lord! It's liable to queer us
with the bank and upset the whole deal."

"I didn't give it out."

"It is all done in your particularly picturesque style," declared
Emerson, angrily. "Alton swears he knows nothing about it, so you must
have done it. It is too nearly correct to have come from a stranger."

"Well?" inquired Fraser, quietly.

"The harm is done, but I want to know who is to blame." When the other
made no answer except to stare at him curiously, he flamed up, "Why
don't you confess?"

For the first time during their acquaintance, "Fingerless" Fraser
seemed at a loss for words; but whether for shame or some other motive,
his companion was unable to tell. His nature was so warped that his
emotions expressed themselves in ways not always easy to follow, and
now he merely remarked, with apparent sullenness:

"I'm certainly a hot favorite with you." He clambered stiffly back into
bed and turned his defiant face to the wall, nor would he meet his
accuser's eyes or open his lips, even when Boyd flung out of the room,
convinced that he was the culprit.

All that day Emerson waited fearfully for some word from Hilliard, but
night came without it; and when several days in succession had passed
without a sign from the banker, he breathed more easily. He had already
begun to assure himself that, after all, the exposure would have no
effect, when one evening the call he dreaded came. A telephone message
summoned him to the bank at eleven o'clock the following morning.

"That means trouble," he grimly told George.

"Maybe not," the big fisherman replied. "If Hilliard took any stock in
the story, it seems like he'd have jumped you the next day."

"Our machinery is ordered. You realize what it will mean if he backs
water now?"

"Sure! We'll have to go to some other bank."

"Humph! I'll wring Fraser's neck," muttered Emerson. "We have troubles
enough without any new ones."

It was with no little anxiety that he asked for the banker at the
appointed hour, and was shown into an anteroom, with the announcement:

"Mr. Hilliard is busy; he wishes you to wait."

Inside the glass partition Boyd heard a woman's voice and Hilliard's
laughter. He took some comfort in the thought that the banker was in a
good-humor, at least; but, being too nervous to sit still, he stood at
the window, gazing with vacant eyes at the busy street crowds. Facing
him, across the way, was a bulletin-board in front of a newspaper
office; and, after a time, he noted idly among its various items of
information the announcement that the mail steamer _Queen_ had arrived
at midnight from Skagway. He wondered why Cherry had not written.
Surely she must be anxious to know his progress. He should have advised
her of his whereabouts.

The door to Hilliard's office opened, and he heard the rustle of a
woman's dress; then his own name spoken--"Come in, Mr. Emerson."

His attention centred on the approaching interview, he did not glance
toward the departing visitor until she stopped suddenly at the outer
door, and came straight toward him with outstretched hands.

"Boyd!"

He checked himself, and turned to face Cherry Malotte.

"Why, Cherry," he ejaculated, "what in the world--" He took her two
hands in his, and she laughed up into his face. "In the name of Heaven,
where did you come from?"

"I arrived last night on the _Queen_," she said. "Oh, I'm glad to see
you!"

"But what brings you to the States? I thought you were in Kal--"

"Sh-h!" She laid a finger on her lips, with a glance over her shoulder
at the door to the inner office. "I'll tell you about it later."

"Mr. Hilliard will see you now, sir," the attendant announced to
Emerson.

"I must talk to you right away!" Boyd exclaimed, hurriedly. "I won't be
long. Can you wait?"

"Certainly; I'll wait right here. Only hurry, hurry!"

The pleasure of seeing her was so genuine that he squeezed her hands
heartily, and entered Hilliard's sanctum with a smile on his lips. It
was gone, however, when he reappeared a half-hour later, and in its
place an expression which caused her to inquire, quickly, "What is the
matter? Is something wrong?"

He nodded, but it was not until they had reached the outer office that
he said: "Yes, something is decidedly wrong." Then, in answer to her
further question: "Wait a while; I'm too angry to talk. I'll have to
tell you all about it before you'll understand." He began to mutter
harshly under his breath: "Come along. We'll have lunch, and I'll
explain. First, however, tell me why you came out at this season."

"I have a big mining deal on with Mr. Hilliard. He sent for me, and I
came. Oh, I hardly know where to begin! But you remember when you were
in Kalvik I told you that I had several men out prospecting?"

"Yes."

"Well, last summer, long before you came through, one of them located a
ledge of copper."

"You never told me."

"There wasn't anything to tell at that time--I hadn't received any
assay reports, and I didn't know whether the thing was worth telling;
but shortly after you left the returns came in, and they showed
remarkable values. Now here is the wonderful part of the story. Unknown
to me, my man had sent out other samples and a letter to a friend of
his here in Seattle. That man had assays made on his own account, and
came to Mr. Hilliard with the result. The very next boat brought him
and Hilliard's expert to Katmai. They came over with the mail-carrier.
We had opened up the ore body somewhat in the mean time, and it didn't
take those men long to see what we had. They were back at my place in
no time with a proposition. When I refused to tie up the ground, they
made me come out with them--foxy Mr. Halliard had foreseen what would
happen, and instructed them to bring me to him if they had to kidnap
me. Well, I was a willing victim, and here I am, prepared to deal with
Mr. Banker, provided we can reach an agreement. What do you think of me
as a business woman?"

Boyd smiled at her enthusiasm. "I think you are fine in every way, and
I hope you take all of his money away from him. I can't get any."

"It will take a lot of capital and time to develop the mine, and I am
fighting now for control--he is a tight-fisted old fellow."

"I should say he is," remarked Emerson. "He has just thrown a bomb into
our camp that makes my teeth rattle. He promised to back me for one
hundred thousand dollars, and this morning went back on his word and
lay down, absolutely."

"Begin at the beginning, and tell me everything," commanded the girl.
"I'm dying to know what you have been doing. Now, right from the start,
mind you."

They had reached Emerson's hotel, and, escorting her to the
luncheon-room, he proceeded to trace his progress from the day he had
bade her farewell in the snows of Kalvik. They had finished their meal
before his narrative came to a close.

"To-day Hilliard called me in and coolly informed me that his bank
could not make the loan he had promised me, notwithstanding the fact
that I had relied on his assurances and ordered my supplies, which are
now being shipped."

"Did he offer any reason for his withdrawal?"

"Oh, I dare say he gave a reason, but he beclouded it with so many
words that it was merely a fog by the time he got through. All I could
distinguish in the general obscurity was that he would not produce. He
said something about the bank being overloaded and the board refusing
its consent. It's remarkable what a barricade a banker can build out of
one board."

"And yet, as I understand it, you have sold your output in advance, at
a fixed price."

"Correct."

"It is very strange! The bank would be perfectly safe."

"He merely bulkheaded himself in with a lot of smooth language, and
when I tried to argue myself over I just slid off. The moment I stepped
into his office I felt the temperature drop. Something new has come up;
what it is, I don't know. Anyhow, he froze me out."

"We must raise that money somewhere or we are ruined," Cherry observed,
with decision.

"Well, rather!" Boyd agreed, with a desperate grimace.

The girl laughed. "Mr. Hilliard and I merely tried each other's mettle
this morning. I am to return at four."

"Let's meet later and dress each other's wounds," he suggested.
Cherry's presence had heartened him wonderfully, and the sight of her
brightly animated face across the table inspired him with a kind of
joyous courage, the like of which he had scarcely felt since their
former meeting. In her company his worries had almost disappeared,
laughter had become a living thing, and youth a blessing.

"I'll agree to anything," she answered; then, becoming suddenly
earnest, she spoke with shining eyes: "Mr. Hilliard is going to open up
this copper, and it is going to make me rich--rich! I can't tell you
what that means to me--you wouldn't understand. I can leave that whole
North Country behind me, and all that it signifies. I can be what I
want to be--what I really am."

Boyd saw the great yearning in her eyes, saw that she was fairly
breathless with the intensity of her hope. He reached forth and, taking
her tightly clasped hands in his, said, simply:

"If I can help you in any way it will be my greatest pleasure." Her
glance dropped before his straight gaze, and she answered:

"You are a good man. I am glad to have you for a friend. But you will
pardon my selfishness, won't you? I didn't mean to put forward my own
affairs when yours are going so badly."

"They went very well," he declared, "until I tried to climb
this--glacier."

"Did that newspaper story frighten Mr. Hilliard?"

"I couldn't make out whether it did or not."

"Let's see! It was nearly a week ago that it appeared."

"Five days, to be exact."

"It takes three days to come from Chicago, doesn't it?"

"What has that to do with it?"

"Hasn't it struck you as strange that Hilliard should wait until you
had sewed yourself up in a web of contracts and obligations before
advising you of the bad news?"

"If you mean that this is the doing of that Chicago outfit, why did
they wait so long? If the Associated Press sent that item to Chicago,
or if they were advised from here, why didn't they wire back? It all
could have been effected by telegraph in no time."

"It wouldn't be possible to do such a thing by wire or by mail, and,
besides, Willis Marsh doesn't work that way. If that despatch was
printed in Chicago, and if he saw it, I predict trouble for you in
raising one hundred thousand dollars in Seattle."

"You are not a bit reassuring. However, I shall soon determine." He
arose. "I'll call for you at seven, and I'll wager right now that your
fears are groundless. Prepare to see me return with a ring through the
nose of our giant."

"At seven, sharp!" she agreed. "Meanwhile I shall delight myself with a
shopping expedition. I'm a perfect sight."

At seven she descended from her room in answer to his call, to find him
pacing the hotel parlor, his jaw set stubbornly.

"What luck?" she demanded.

"You spoke with the tongue of a prophet. Money has suddenly become very
scarce in Seattle."

"How many banks did you try?"

"Three. I shall try the rest to-morrow. How did you fare?"

"First blood is mine. I feel that I shall capture Mr. Hilliard. Now, no
more business, do you understand? No, you are not to mention the
subject again. You need a rest. Do you know that your face is haggard
and drawn? You are tired out."

After a moment's pause, he acknowledged: "I believe I am. I--I am very
glad you have come, Cherry."





CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH THEY RECOGNIZE THE ENEMY


Boyd Emerson slept well that night, notwithstanding the disturbing
occurrences of the day, for during the evening Cherry had tactfully
diverted him from all mention of business, trusts, or canneries, much
as a good physical director, on the eve of a contest, relieves the
grinding monotony of an athlete's training. The brain, after all, is
but flesh and blood, and, like the muscles, requires rest; an unbroken
intensity of contemplation tends inevitably to weariness and pessimism.

They had dined gayly, tete-a-tete, while care fled before the girl's
exuberant spirits. Contentment had deepened in the companionable
enjoyment of a play, and later a little supper-party, at which Big
George and Alton Clyde were present, had completed Boyd's mental
refreshment, to Cherry's satisfaction.

True, it had required all her skill to prevent the big fisherman from
holding forth upon the issue uppermost in his mind; but his loyalty to
her was doglike, and once he found that his pet topic was tabooed, he
lapsed into a good-natured contemplation of his finger-nails, which he
polished industriously with his napkin.

The girl had further demonstrated her power over all sorts and
conditions of men by reducing the blase young club-man to a state of
grinning admiration, "Fingerless" Fraser alone had been missing from
the coterie. He had discovered them from a distance, to be sure, and
come over to exchange greetings with Cherry, but the disastrous result
of the fellow's garrulity was still so fresh in Boyd's mind that he
could not invite him to join them, and Fraser, with singular modesty,
had quickly withdrawn, to wander lonesomely for a while, till sheer
ennui drove him to bed. His dejection awakened little sympathy in Boyd,
who felt happier for the removal of his irritating presence.

In the morning Boyd was brought sharply back to a realization of his
difficult position by a letter from Mildred Wayland.

"Father and I had another scene over you," wrote Mildred. "It was the
first quarrel we ever had, and I'm half sick as a result. I simply
can't bear that sort of thing, and we have agreed to drop the subject.
What roused him to such a sudden fury I'm sure I don't know."

Boyd knew, however, and the knowledge did not add to his comfort.

It seemed, indeed, as if the Trust's enmity had marked him in the eyes
of the whole financial world; he was again denied assistance at the
banks, and this time in a manner to show him the futility of argument
or further effort. The reasons given were as final as they were vague,
and night found the young promoter half dazed and desperately
frightened at the completeness of the disaster which had overwhelmed
him in the brief space of thirty-six hours. He could not blind himself
to the situation. Those Chicago men who had backed him were personal
friends, and they had risked their hard-earned dollars purely upon the
strength of his vivid assurances. He had prevailed upon them to invest
more than they could afford, and while ultimate failure might be
forgiven, it savored less of indiscretion than of criminal culpability
to be left at the very outset of the enterprise with a shipload of
useless machinery upon the docks at Seattle. Ruin was close upon him.

In his perplexity he turned naturally to Cherry, who listened to his
tale of repeated failure with furrowed brows, pondering the matter as
seriously as if the responsibility had been her own.

"The battle has begun sooner than I expected," she said, at length. "I
never dreamed they could fix the banks so quickly."

"Somehow, I can't believe this is the work of the Trust people; I don't
see how they could accomplish so much in so short a time. Why, it came
like a thunderclap."

"I hope I am wrong," she answered, "but something unexpected must have
happened to change Mr. Hilliard's attitude. What could it be except
pressure from higher sources?"

"Has he dropped any hint before you?"

"Not a hint. He wouldn't let go of anything. Why, he is too
close-fisted to drop his r's."

"So I am told. He belongs to that anomalous class who are as rigid in
business methods as they are loose in private morals."

"Indeed!" Cherry seemed curious.

"But inasmuch as his extravagance begins at 10 P.M. and ends at 10
A.M., it doesn't seem to affect his social standing. However, we
needn't discuss his personal character; there's enough to think of
without that. Will you take dinner with me this evening, so that we can
talk over any further developments?"

"I am to dine with Mr. Hilliard," said the girl.

"Oh!" Boyd's tone of disappointment seemed disproportionate to the
occasion. He endeavored to disguise his feeling by saying, lightly:
"You are breaking into exclusive circles. He lives in quite a palace,
I'm told."

"I--I'm not dining at his home." Cherry hesitated, and Boyd flashed a
sharp glance at her. A faint color flushed her cheeks, as she
explained: "He could not see me at the office to-day, so he arranged
for me to take dinner with him."

"I see." Boyd detected a note hitherto strange in his own voice. "I am
going to try the Tacoma banks to-morrow. Would you like to run over
with me in the morning. The Sound trip is beautiful."

"I would love to," she exclaimed. "I may have something to report if I
can make Mr. Hilliard talk."

"Out of curiosity, I should like to know what influenced him." All
women were more or less suspicious, he reflected, and some of them were
highly intuitive; still, he could not believe that this was all Willis
Marsh's doing. As he mused he idly thumbed the pages of a magazine. He
was about to lay it down when his eye caught a well-known face, and he
started, then glanced at the date of issue. It was a duplicate of that
copy which had affected him so deeply in Cherry's house at Kalvik. He
lifted his eyes to find her scrutinizing him.

"No, you can't cut out that page," she said, with a slightly
embarrassed laugh.

"Where did you run across this?"

"I didn't run across it" she admitted; "I scoured the book-stalls for
it all the morning. Curiosity is a feminine trait, you know."

"I don't quite understand."

"That missing page has caused me insomnia for months. But now I'm as
puzzled as ever, for there are two pictures, one on either side of the
leaf, and each has possibilities. Which is it--the society bud or the
prima donna?"

"I don't know what you mean," he answered, somewhat stiffly. His love
for Mildred Wayland had always been so sacred and inviolable a thing
that even Cherry's frank inquisitiveness seemed an intrusion.

"I'll call for you in time for the nine-o'clock boat," he added, as he
arose to go. "Meanwhile, if you get a hint from Hilliard, it may be
useful."

Left to his own devices, Boyd spent the evening in gloomy solitude,
vainly seeking for some way out of his difficulties. But, despite his
preoccupation with his own affairs, a vague feeling of resentment at
the thought of Cherry and Hilliard kept forcing itself upon his mind.
Perhaps the girl's indiscretion was of no very serious nature; yet he
found it hard to excuse even a small breach of propriety upon her part.
Surely, she must understand the imprudence of dining alone with the
banker. His attentions to her could have but one interpretation. And
she was too nice a girl to compromise herself in the slightest degree.
Although he told himself that a business reason had prompted her, and
reflected that the business methods of women are baffling to the mind
of mere man, his reasoning quite failed to reconcile him to the
situation. In the end he had to acknowledge that he did not like the
look of it in the least.

But in the morning he found it impossible to maintain a critical
attitude in Cherry's presence. She had finished her breakfast when he
called, and was awaiting him, clad in a brown velvet suit which set off
her trim figure with all the effectiveness of skilful tailoring. Brown
boots and gloves to match, with a dainty turban in which lay the golden
gleam of a pheasant's plumage, completed the picture. She was as
perfect to the eye as the morning itself.

"Well, did Hilliard expose the hidden mysteries of the banking system?"
he questioned, as they walked down toward the water front.

"He did. It is no mystery at all now."

"Then it was that newspaper story that frightened him."

"Indirectly, perhaps. He didn't mention it."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! Then how--?",

"He informed me that you are in love with the society girl and not with
the actress. He said you are engaged to marry Miss Wayland."

"Yes. But what did he say about the loan?"

"Only what I have told you. The rest is easy. Had you been less
secretive, I would have known instantly whom to blame for this trouble.
Wayne Wayland and Willis Marsh are working double, and inasmuch as you
are _persona non grata--"_

"Who told you I am _persona non grata?"_

"You told me yourself without intending to. Please give me credit for
some shrewdness. If you had been a welcome suitor, you would have had
no difficulty in raising twice two hundred thousand dollars in Chicago.
Then, too, I remember the story you told me at Kalvik, your mental
attitude--many things, in fact. Oh, it was very simple."

"Well, what of it? What has all that got to do with my present
difficulty?"

"Listen! You want to marry the daughter of the greatest trust-builder
in the country, and he doesn't want you for a son-in-law. You undertake
an enterprise which seriously threatens his financial interests, and if
successful in that, you could defy his opposition in the other matter.
Now all goes well until he learns of your plans, then he strikes with
his own weapons. A word here and there, a hint to the banks, and your
fine castle comes tumbling down about your ears. I thought you had more
perception."

The girl's voice was sharp, and she wore that expression of unyouthful
weariness that Boyd had noted before. He could not help wondering what
bitter experience had taught her disillusion, what strange environment
had edged her wits with worldly wisdom.

"We haven't figured Marsh in at all," he said, tentatively.

"He figures, nevertheless, as I intend to show you to-day. To begin
with, please notice that unobtrusive man in the gray suit--not now!
Don't look around for a minute. You will see him on the opposite side
of the street."

Boyd turned, to observe a rat-faced fellow across the way, evidently
bound for the Tacoma boat.

"Is he following us?"

"I see him, everywhere I go."

Boyd's face clouded angrily, at which Cherry exclaimed: "Now, for
Heaven's sake, don't mimic Big George, or we'll never learn anything!"

"I won't stand for a spy!" he growled.

"And be arrested?"

"No," he assured her, grimly. "It may be as you suspect, but you
needn't fear that I'll ever go to jail for assaulting one of Willis
Marsh's helpers."

She glanced up quickly, as if detecting a double meaning in his words;
then, at the smouldering fires she beheld, observed, in a gentler tone:
"You care a great deal for Miss Wayland, don't you?"

His only answer was a deep breath and a slow turning of the head, but
once she had seen the look in his eyes she needed no other. She could
only say: "I hope she is worthy of all she is causing you to suffer,
Boyd, so few of us are."

She did not speak again, but in her heart was a great heaviness. They
reached the dock and lost sight of the spy, only to have him reappear
soon after the boat cleared, and while neither spoke of it, they felt
his presence during the whole trip.

Before them Rainier lifted its majestic, snow-crowned head high into
the heavens, its serrated <DW72>s softened by a purple haze, its soaring
crest limned in blazing glory by the sun. The bay beneath them was like
a huge silver shield, flat-rolled and glittering, inlaid with master
cunning between wooded hills that swept away into mysterious distances,
there to rise skyward in an ever-changing, ever-charming confusion. It
reflected fairy-like islands, overgrown till they bowed to their
mirrored likenesses. Now a smiling inlet opened up a perspective of
golden sand and whispering shingle; again a frowning bluff slipped
past, lost in lonely contemplation of its own inverted image. The day
was gorgeous, inspiring. Their course lay through an enchanted region,
so suggestive of splendid possibilities that Boyd was constrained to
observe:

"You know, if the Pilgrim Fathers had landed here in the first place,
New England would never have been discovered," a remark at which Cherry
nodded in complete agreement.

At Tacoma Boyd left her, to go about his business, but joined her later
at lunch, with the joyful announcement:

"I've had better luck, this time. They said there would be no
difficulty whatever in handling the matter, and they are to let me know
definitely to-morrow."

"Did Hawkshaw hound you to the bank?" she inquired.

"I rather think so."

"Then to-morrow will tell the tale."

"You mean the bank will turn me down?"

"Yes, if I've sized up the situation correctly. I dare say these banks
are as cautious as those in Seattle, and a few words over the telephone
would do the trick."

"I'm inclined to give that shadow a little personal attention," the
young man mused; but when she questioned him, he only smiled and
assured her of his caution.

Again on the return trip they discovered the fellow among the
passengers, but Boyd made no sign until the boat was landing. Then
Cherry found that he had edged her into the crowd massed at the
gangway, and caught sight of the man in gray immediately ahead of them.
She noticed that while Emerson maintained a flow of conversation his
eyes were constantly upon the fellow's back, and that he kept a
position close to his shoulder, regardless of jostling from the others.
She could not tell what this foreboded, nor did she gain a hint of
Boyd's purpose, until the gang-plank was in place and they were out
upon it. A narrow space separated the boat from the dock; as they
crossed this, Boyd slipped and half fell on the slanting planks. She
never knew exactly what happened, except that he released her arm and
lunged violently against the man in gray, who was next him. It occurred
with the suddenness of pure accident, and the next she saw was the
stranger plunging downward along the piling, clutching wildly at the
vessel's side, while Boyd clung to the guard-rope as if about to lose
his balance.

The man's cry as he struck the water alarmed the crowd and caused a
momentary stampede, in which Cherry and Boyd were thrust shoreward; but
the confusion quickly subsided, as an officer flung a heaving-line to
the gasping creature beneath. A moment later the hatless spy was
dragged to the dock, indignant and sputtering.

"I'm very sorry, sir." Boyd apologized, profusely. "It was all my
fault. The plank was steep, and I was forced off my feet. Whenever I'm
followed too closely, I lose my head--it's a weakness I have."

The man ceased cursing to dart a sharp glance at him, but he was still
too unmanned by his cold immersion to do more than chatter angrily. In
the hubbub Emerson led his companion out into the street, where she
beheld him shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Boyd," she cried, in a shocked voice, "then it was--you--you might
have killed him! Suppose his head had struck a timber!"

"Yes, that would have been too bad!" he declared; then, at the sight of
her face, his chuckle changed to a wolfish snarl. "He'll know enough to
keep away from me hereafter. I won't play with him the next time."

"Don't! Don't! I never saw you look so. Why, it might have been murder!"

"Well?" He stared at her, curiously.

"I--I didn't think it of you." She shuddered weakly, but he only
shrugged his shoulders and said, with a finality that cut off further
discussion: "He's a spy! I won't be spied upon."

When Boyd entered his room at the hotel, whither he had gone after
leaving Cherry at Hilliard's bank, Big George greeted him excitedly.

"Here's hell to pay. We can't get that barkentine."

"The _Margaret?_ Why not? The charter was all arranged."

"The agent telephoned that we couldn't have her."

"What reasons did he offer?"

"None. We can't have her, that's all."

"She's the only available ship on the Sound. Our stuff will be here in
a fortnight."

"Some of it will."

"What do you--?"

"Boilers held up."

"Boilers?"

"Yes. Read that." Balt tossed him a telegram.

"'Shipment delayed,'" read Boyd. "Well! This is growing interesting.
Thank Heaven, other people handle machinery!" He reached for a blank,
and hurriedly wrote a message cancelling his order. "I guess Cherry was
right. Marsh is fighting to delay us." He began a recital of the
morning's occurrences, but before he had finished he was called to the
telephone.

"More bad news!" he exclaimed, as he re-entered the room. "The
Jackson-Nebur Company say they can't make delivery of their order. I
wonder what next."

"We don't need nothing more to <DW36> us," George declared, blankly.
"Any one of these blows is a knockout."

It was perhaps an hour later that Cherry entered unannounced.

"I just ran in for a minute to tell you something new. When I came up
from the bank, the elevator boy at the hotel made a mistake and carried
me past my floor. Without noticing the difference, I went down the
hall, and whom should I run right into, coming out of a room, but our
detective! As he opened the door I heard him say, 'Very well, sir, I'll
report to-morrow.'"

"To whom was he reporting?"

"I don't know. A few minutes later I called you up, to tell you about
it; but while I was waiting for my number, the operator evidently got
the wires crossed or left a switch open, for I heard this much of a
conversation:

"'Our contract covers fifty thousand cases at five dollars. We thought
that was at least twenty cents under the market.'

"I was about to ring off when I remembered that you had sold your
output of fifty thousand cases to Bloc & Company for five dollars a
case, so I listened, on a chance, and heard another voice reply--"

"Whose voice?"

"I don't know. It said, 'We'll undersell that by one dollar.'

"'Good Lord!' said the first speaker, 'that means a loss of--' and then
I was cut off. I thought I'd better come over in person instead of
trusting to the wire."

"And you didn't recognize either speaker?"

"No. But I discovered at the office that rooms 610 and 612--the suite I
saw that detective coming out of--are occupied by a Mr. Jones, of New
York, who arrived three days ago. I'll bet anything you please that
you'll hear from Bloc & Company within twenty-four hours, and that the
occupant of those rooms at the Hotel Buller is Willis Marsh."

Big George began to mutter profanely. "It looks like they had us, and
all because Fraser's tongue is hung in the middle."

"All the same, we'll fight it out," said Emerson, grimly. "If I can
raise that money in Tacoma--" Again the telephone bell buzzed noisily.

"Bloc & Company," predicted Cherry, but for once she was wrong.

"A call from Tacoma," said Boyd, the receiver to his ear; "it must be
the Second National. They were not to let me know till to-morrow."
Through the open door of the adjoining room his words came distinctly,
while the others listened in tense silence.

"Hello! Yes! This is Boyd Emerson." Then followed a pause, during which
the thin, rasping voice of the distant speaker murmured unintelligibly.

"Why not? Can't you give me a reason? I thought you said--Very well.
Good-bye."

Emerson hung up the receiver carefully, and with the same deliberation
turned to face his companions. He nodded, and spread his hands outward
in an unmistakable gesture.

"What! already?" queried the girl.

"They must have been reached by 'phone."

"That detective may have called Marsh up from there."

"That means it won't do any good to try further in Tacoma. The other
banks have undoubtedly been fixed, or they soon will be. If I can slip
away undiscovered, I'll try Vancouver next, but I haven't much hope."

"It looks bad, doesn't it?" said Cherry.

"As we stand at present," Boyd acknowledged, "we are the owners of one
hundred thousand dollars' worth of useless machinery and unsalable
supplies."

"And all," mused the girl, "because of a loose tongue and a little
type!"





CHAPTER XV

THE DOORS OF THE VAULT SWING SHUT


"I say, old man, just how do we stack up?" questioned Alton Clyde,
when, later in the week, he had succeeded in pinning Boyd down for a
moment's conversation. "Blessed if I know what's going on."

"Well, we're up against it."

"How?"

"That newspaper story started it." Emerson's teeth snapped angrily, and
Clyde's colorless eyes shifted. "Fraser let his tongue wag, and
immediately the banks closed up on me. I've tried every one in this
city, in Tacoma, in Vancouver, and in Victoria, but it seems that they
have all been advised of war in the canning business. Our ship was
taken away from us, and although I have found another, I'm afraid to
charter it until I see my way out. Then there have been delays in
various shipments--boilers, tin, lumber, and all that. I haven't
worried you with half the details; but George and I have forgotten what
a night's rest looks like. Now Bloc & Company are trying to get out of
their contract to take our output." Emerson sighed heavily and sank
deeper into his chair, his weariness of mind and body betrayed by his
utter relaxation. "I guess we are done for. I'm about all in."

"Glory be!" exclaimed the dapper little club-man, with a comical furrow
of care upon his brow. "When you give up, it is quitting time."

"I haven't given up; I am doing all I can, but things are in a
diabolical tangle. Some of our supplies are here; others are laid out
on the road; some seem to be utterly lost. We have had to make
substitutions of machinery, our bills are overdue, and--but what's the
use! We need money. That's the crux of the whole affair. When Hilliard
balked, he threw the whole proposition."

"And I'm stung for ten thou," reflected Clyde, lugubriously. "Ten
thousand drops of my heart's red blood! Good Lord! I'm a fierce
business man. Say! I ought to be the purchasing agent for the Farmers'
Alliance; gold bricks are my specialty. I haven't won a bet since the
battle of Bull Run."

"What about the twenty-five thousand dollars that you raised?" Emerson
asked.

Clyde began to laugh, shrilly. "That's painfully funny. I hadn't
thought about that."

"The situation may be remarkable, but I don't see anything humorous in
it," said Emerson, dryly.

"Oh, you would if you only knew, but I can't tell you what it is. You
see, I promised not to divulge where the money came from, and when I
give my word I'm a regular Sphinx. But it's funny." After an instant he
said, in all seriousness: "If Hilliard holds the combination to this
thing, why don't you have Cherry help us?"

"Cherry! How can she help?"

"She can do anything she wants with him."

"What do you mean?"

"I may be a heavy autumn frost as a financier," the younger man
remarked, "but when it comes to women I'm as wise as a wharf rat. I've
been watching her work, and it's great; people have begun to talk about
it. Every night it's a dinner and a theatre party. Every day, orchids
and other extortionate bouquets, with jewel-boxes tied on with blue
ribbons. His motor is at her disposal at all times, and she treats his
chauffeur with open contempt. If that doesn't signify--"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the other with disgust. "She is too nice a girl
for that. You have misconstrued Hilliard's politeness."

Finding his worldly wisdom at issue, Clyde defended himself stoutly. "I
tell you, he has gone off his blooming balance; I know the symptoms;
leave it to old Doctor Clyde."

"You say other people have noticed it?"

"I do! Everybody in town except you and the news-dealer at the
corner--he's blind."

Emerson rose from his chair, and began to pace about slowly. "If
Hilliard has turned that girl's head with his attentions, I'll--"

Clyde threw back his head and laughed in open derision. "Don't worry
about her--he is the one to be pitied. She's taking him on a
Seeing-Seattle trip of the most approved and expensive character."

"She isn't that kind," Emerson hotly denied.

"Now don't be a boy until your beard trips you up. That girl is about
to break into old Hilliard's vault, and while she's in there, with the
gas lighted and a suit case to lug off the bank-notes, why not tell her
to toss in a few bundles for us?"

"If I can't get along without taking money from a woman, I'll throw up
the whole deal."

The curious look which Boyd had noted once before came into Clyde's
eyes, and this time, to judge by the young fellow's manner, he might
have translated it into words but for the entrance at that moment of
Cherry herself, accompanied by "Fingerless" Fraser.

"What luck in Vancouver?" she inquired,

"None whatever. The banks won't listen to me and I can't interest any
private parties."

"See here," volunteered Fraser, "why don't you let me sell some of your
stock? I'm there with the big talk."

Emerson turned on him suddenly. "You have demonstrated that. If you had
kept your mouth shut we'd have been at sea by now."

The fellow's face paled slightly as he replied: "I told you once that I
didn't tip your mit."

"Don't keep that up!" cried Boyd, his much-tried temper ready to give
way. "I can put up with anything but a lie."

Noting the signs of a rising storm, Clyde scrambled out of his chair,
saying: "Well, I think I'll be going." He picked up his hat and stick,
and hurriedly left the room, followed in every movement by the angry
eyes of Fraser, who seemed on the point of an explosion.

"I don't believe Fraser gave out the story," said Cherry, at which he
flashed her a grateful glance.

"You can make a book on that," he declared. "I may be a crook, but I'm
no sucker, and I know when to hobble my talk and when to slip the
bridle. I did five years once when it wasn't coming to me, and I can do
it again--if I have to." He jammed his hat down over his ears, and
walked out.

"I really think he is telling the truth," said the girl. "He is
dreadfully hurt to think you distrust him."

"He and I have threshed that out," Emerson declared, pacing the room
with nervous strides. "When I think what an idiotic trifle it was that
caused this disaster, I could throttle him--and I would if I didn't
blame myself for it." He paused to stare unseeingly at her. "I'm
waiting for the crash to come before I walk into room 610 at the Hotel
Buller and settle with 'Mr. Jones, of New York.'"

"You aren't seriously thinking of any such melodramatic finish, are
you?" she inquired.

"When I first met you in Kalvik, I said I would stop at nothing to
succeed. Well, I meant it. I am more desperate now than I was then. I
could have stood over that wretch at the dock, the other day, and
watched him drown, because he dared to step in between me and my work,
I could walk into Willis Marsh's room and strangle him, if by so doing
I could win. Yes!" he checked her, "I know I am wrong, but that is how
I feel. I have wrung my soul dry. I have toiled and sweated and
suffered for three years, constantly held down by the grip of some
cursed evil fortune. A dozen times I have climbed to the very brink of
success, only to be thrust down by some trivial cause like this. Can
you wonder that I have watched my honor decay and crumble?--that I've
ceased to care what means I use so long as I succeed? I have fought
fair so far, but now, I tell you, I've come to a point where I'd
sacrifice anything, everything to get what I want--and I want that
girl."

"You are tired and overwrought," said Cherry, quietly. "You don't mean
what you say. The success of this enterprise, with any happiness it may
bring you, isn't worth a human life; nor is it worth what you are
suffering."

"Perhaps not, from your point of view," he said, roughly, then struck
his palm with closed fist. "What an idiot I was to begin all this--to
think I could win with no weapons and no aid except a half-mad
fisherman, an addle-brained imbecile, a confidence man--"

"And a woman," supplemented Cherry. Then, more gravely: "I'm the one to
blame; I got you into it."

"No, I blame no one but myself. Whatever you're responsible for,
there's only one person you've harmed--yourself."

"What do you mean?" asked Cherry.

Her surprise left him unimpressed.

"Let's be frank," he said. "It is best to have such things out and be
done with them. I traded my friendship for money and I am ruined. You
are staking your honor against Hilliard's bank-notes." Her look
commanded him, pleaded with him, to stop; but her silence only made him
the more fiercely determined to force an explanation. "Oh, I'm in no
mood to speak gently," he said; then added, with a sting of contempt in
his tone: "I didn't think you would pay quite that price for your
copper-mine."

Cherry Malotte paled to her lips, and when she spoke her voice was
oddly harsh. "Kindly be more explicit; I don't know what you are
talking about."

"Then, for your own good, you'd better understand. According to
accepted standards, there is one thing no woman should trade upon."

"Go on!"

"You have set yourself to trap Hilliard, and, from what I hear, you are
succeeding. He is a married man. He is twice your age. He is
notorious--all of which you must know, and yet you have deliberately
yielded yourself to him for a price."

Suddenly he found the girl standing over him with burning eyes and
quivering body.

"What right have you to say such things to me?" she cried. "A moment
ago you acknowledged yourself a murderer--at least in thought; you said
you would sacrifice anything or everything to gain your ends. Do you
think I'm like that, too? Are my methods to be called shameful because
your own are criminal? And suppose they were! Do you think that you and
your love for that unfeeling woman, who sent you out to toil and suffer
and sweat your soul dry in the solitude of that horrible country, are
the only issues in the world?"

"We won't speak of her," he broke in, sharply.

"Oh yes, we will You say I have set a price on myself. Well, she set a
price on herself, but you can't see it. Her price was your honor, that
has crumbled; your conscience, that has rotted. You have paid it, and
you would pay double if she exacted it. But one thing you shall not do:
you shall not judge of my bargains, nor decide what I have paid to any
man."

Never before had Boyd seen a woman so transformed by the passion of
anger. Her lids had drooped, half hiding her eyes. Her whole expression
had hardened; she was the picture of defiant fury. The mask had
slipped, and he caught a glimpse of the naked, passionate soul,
upheaved to its depths. Oddly enough, he felt it thrill him.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "You are your own mistress, and you have
the right to make any bargain you choose."

She turned away, and, going to the window, stared down upon the busy
street, striving to calm herself. For a time the room was silent, save
for the muffled sounds from below; then she faced him again, and he saw
that her eyes were misty with tears. "I want you to know," she said,
"that I understand your position perfectly. If you don't succeed, you
not only lose the girl but ruin yourself, for you can never repay the
men who trusted you. That is a very big thing to a man, I know, yet
there must be a way out--there always is. Perhaps it will present
itself when you least expect it." She gave him a tired little smile
before lowering her veil.

He rose, and laid his hand on her arm. "Forgive my brutal bluntness.
I'm not clever at such things, but I would have said as much to my
sister if I had one."

It was an honest attempt to comfort her, but it failed. "Good-bye," she
said; "you mustn't give up."

All the way back to her hotel her mind dwelt bitterly upon his parting
words. "His sister! his sister!" she kept repeating. "God! Can't he
see?" If he had shown even a momentary jealousy of Hilliard it would
not have been so hard, but this impersonal attitude was maddening! The
man had but one idea in the world, one dream, one vision--another
woman. Alone in her room, she still felt the flesh of her arm burn,
where he had laid his hand, and then came the thrill of that forgotten
kiss. How many times had she felt the pressure of his lips upon hers!
How many hopes had she built upon that memory! But the thought of
Boyd's indifference rose in sharp conflict with the tenderness that
prompted her to help him at any cost. After all, why not take what was
offered her and let this man shift for himself? Why not live her life
as she had planned it before he came? The reward was at hand--she had
only to take it and let him go down as a sacrifice to that ice-woman he
coveted.

Dusk was falling when she ceased pacing the floor, and with set,
defiant face went to the telephone, to call up Hilliard at the Rainier
Club.

"I have thought over your proposition and I have changed my mind," she
said. "Yes, you may send the car for me at seven." Then, in reply to
some request, she laughed back, through white lips: "Very well, if you
wish it--the blue dress. Yes! The blue decollete dress." She hung up
the receiver, then stood with hands clinched while a shiver ran through
her slender body. She stepped to a closet, and flung open the door to
stare at the array of gowns.

"So this is the end of my good resolutions," she laughed, and snatched
a garment recklessly from its hook. "Now for all the miserable tricks
of the trade!"





CHAPTER XVI

WILLIS MARSH COMES OUT FROM COVER


George Balt, Clyde, and Fraser formed a glum trio as they sat in a nook
of the hotel cafe, sipping moodily at their glasses, when, on the
following afternoon, Emerson joined them. But they sensed some untoward
happening even before he spoke; for his face wore a look of dazed
incredulity, and his manner was so extraordinary that they questioned
in chorus:

"What's the matter? Are you sick?"

"No," said he. "But I--I must have lost my mind."

"What is it?"

"The trick is turned."

"The trick!"

"I have raised the money."

With a shout that startled the other occupants of the room, Balt and
Clyde jumped to their feet and began to caper about in a frenzy. Even
"Fingerless" Fraser's expressionless face cracked in a wide grin of
amazement.

"About noon I was called on the 'phone by Hilliard. He asked me to come
down to the bank at once, and I went. He said he had reconsidered, and
wanted to put up the money. It's up. He'll back us. I've got it in
writing. It's all cinched. One hundred thousand dollars--and more, if
we need it."

"You must have made a great talk," declared Clyde.

"I said nothing. He offered it himself, as a personal loan. It has
nothing to do with the bank."

"Well, I'm--!" cried Big George.

"And that goes two ways," supplemented Fraser.

"I'm going to tell Cherry, now. She will be delighted."

Alton Clyde tittered. "I told you she could pull it off," he said.

"This was Hilliard's own notion," Boyd returned, coldly. "He merely
reconsidered his decision, and--"

"Turn over! You're on your back."

"It was only yesterday afternoon that I talked with Cherry. I dare say
she hasn't seen him since."

"Well, I happen to know that she has. As I came home last night I saw
them together. They came out of that French cafe across the street, and
got into Hilliard's car. She was dressed up like a pony."

"What's that got to do with it?" demanded "Fingerless" Fraser.

"She pulled the old fellow's leg, that's all," explained Alton.

"Well, it wasn't your leg, was it?" inquired Fraser, sourly.

"No; I've no kick coming. I think she's mighty clever."

"If I thought she had done that," said Emerson, slowly, "I wouldn't
touch a penny of the money."

"I don't care where the money came from or how it got here," rumbled
Balt. "It's here; that's enough."

"I care, and I intend to find out."

"Oh, come now, don't spoil a good piece of work," cautioned Clyde,
visibly perturbed at Boyd's expression. "You know you aren't the only
one to consider in this matter; the rest of us are entitled to a
look-in. For Heaven's sake, try to control this excess of virtue, and
when you get into one of those Martin Luther moods, just reflect that I
have laid ten thousand aching simoleons on the altar."

"Sure!" supplemented George; "and look at me and Cherry. Success means
as much to her as it does to any of us, and if she pulled this off, you
bet she knew what she was doing. Anyhow, you ain't got any right to
break up the play."

But Boyd clung to his point with a stubbornness which he himself found
it difficult to explain. The arguments of the others only annoyed him.
The walk to Cherry's hotel afforded him time for reflection which,
while it deepened his doubt, somewhat lessened his impatience, and when
he was shown into her presence he did not begin in the impetuous manner
he had designed. A certain hesitation and dread of the truth mastered
him, and, moreover, the girl's appearance dismayed him. She seemed
almost ill. She was listless and fagged. Upon his announcement of the
good news, she only smiled wearily, and said:

"I told you not to give up. The unexpected always happens."

"And was it unexpected--to you?" he asked, awkwardly.

"What happens is nearly always unexpected--when it's good."

"Not to the one who brings it about."

"What makes you think I had anything to do with it?"

"You were with Hilliard last night."

She nodded slightly, "We closed our negotiations for the copper-mine
last night."

"How did you come out?"

"He takes it over, and does the development work," she answered.

"That means that you are independent; that you can leave the North
Country and do all the things you want to do?" This time her smile was
puzzling. "You don't seem very glad!"

"No! Realization discounts anticipation about ninety per cent but don't
let's talk about me. I--I'm unstrung to-day."

"I'm sorry you aren't going back to Kalvik," he said, with genuine
regret.

"But I am," she declared, quickly. "I'm going back with you and George
if you will let me. I want to see the finish of our enterprise."

"See here, Cherry, I hope you didn't influence Hilliard in this affair?"

"Why probe the matter?"

"Because I haven't lost all my manhood," he answered, roughly.
"Yesterday you assumed the blame for this trouble, and spoke of
sacrifices--and--well, I don't know much about women; but for all I
know, you may have some ridiculous, quixotic strain in your make-up. I
hope you didn't--"

"What?"

"Well, do anything you may be sorry for." At last he detected a gleam
of spirit in her eyes.

"Suppose I did. What difference to you would that make?" He shifted
uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

"Suppose that Mr. Hilliard had called on me for some great sacrifice
before he gave up that money. Would you allow it to affect you?"

"Of course," he answered. Then, unable to sit still under her searching
gaze, he arose with flushed face, to meet further discomfiture as she
continued:

"Even if it meant your own ruin, the loss of the fortune you have
raised among your friends--money that is entrusted to you--and--and the
relinquishment of Miss Wayland? Honestly, now"--her voice had softened
and dropped to a lower key--"would it make any difference?"

"Certainly!"

"How much difference?"

"I'm in a very embarrassing position," he said, slowly. "You must
realize that with others depending on me I'm not free to follow my own
inclinations."

She uttered a little, mocking laugh. "Pardon me. It was not a fair
question, and I shouldn't have asked it; but your hesitation was
sufficient answer." Then, as he broke into a heated denial, she went on:

"Like most men, you think a woman has but one asset upon which to
trade. However, if I felt responsible for your difficulties, that was
my affair; and if I determined to help extricate you, that also
concerned me alone." He stepped forward as if to protest, but she
silenced his speech with an imperious little stamp of her foot. "This
spasm of righteousness on your part is only temporary--yes it is"--as
he attempted to break in--"and now that you have voiced it and freed
your mind, you can feel at rest. Have you not repeatedly asserted that
to win Miss Wayland you would use any means that offered? You are not
really sincere in this sudden squeamishness, and I would like you
better if you had seized your advantage at once, without stopping to
consider whence or how it came. That would have been
primitive--elemental--and every woman loves an elemental lover."

He was no subtle casuist, and found himself without words to reply. The
girl's sharp challenging of his motives had disconcerted him without
helping him to a clearer understanding of his own mind, and in spite of
the cheering turn his fortunes had taken it was in no very amiable mood
that he left her at last, no whit the wiser for all his questioning. In
the hotel lobby below he encountered the newspaper reporter who had
fallen under Fraser's spell upon their first arrival from the North.
The man greeted him eagerly.

"How d'y'do, Mr. Emerson. Can you give me any news about the fisheries?"

"No!"

"I thought there might be something new bearing on my story."

"Indeed! So you are the chap who wrote that article some time ago, eh?"

"Yes, sir. Good, wasn't it?"

"Doubtless, from the newspaper point of view. Where did you get it?"

"From Mr. Clyde."

"Clyde! You mean Fraser--Frobisher, I should say."

"No, sir. Alton Clyde! He was pretty talkative the night I saw him."
The reporter laughed, meaningly.

"Drunk, do you mean?"

"Oh, not exactly drunk, but pretty wet. He knew what he was saying,
however. Can't you give me something more?"

"Nothing." Boyd hurried to his hotel, a prey to mingled anger and
contrition. So Fraser had told the truth, after all, and with a kind of
sullen loyalty had chosen to remain under a cloud himself rather than
inform on a friend. It was quite in keeping with the fellow's peculiar
temperament. As it happened, Boyd found the two men together and lost
no time in acquainting them with his discovery.

"I've come to apologize to you," he said to Fraser, who grinned broadly
and was seized with a sudden abashment which stilled his tongue.
Emerson turned to Clyde. "Why did you permit me to do this injustice?"

"I--I didn't mean to give out any secrets--I don't remember doing it,"
Alton apologized, lamely. "You know I can't drink much. I don't
remember a thing about it, honestly." Boyd regarded him coldly, but the
young man's penitence seemed so genuine, he looked so weak, so
pitifully incompetent, that the other lacked heart to chastise him. It
requires resistance to develop heat, and against the absence of
character it is impossible to create any sort of emotion.

"When you got drunk that night you not only worked a great hardship on
all of us, but afterward you allowed me to misjudge a very faithful
man," declared Boyd. "Fraser's ways are not mine, and I have said harsh
things to him when my temper prompted; but I am not ungrateful for the
service he has done me and the sacrifices he has made. Now, Alton, you
have chosen to join us in a desperate venture, and the farther we go
the more vigorous will be the resistance we shall meet. If you can't
keep a close mouth, and do as you are told, you'd better go back to
Chicago. By rare good luck we have averted this disaster, but I have no
hope of being so fortunate again."

"Don't climb any higher," admonished "Fingerless" Fraser. "He's all
fluffed up now. I'll lay you eight to one he don't make another break
of the kind."

"No, I was so com-cussed-pletely pickled that I forgot I even spoke
about the salmon-canning business. I'll break my corkscrew and seal my
flask, and from this moment until we come out next fall the demon rum
and I are divorced. Is that good news?"

"Everything is a joke to you, isn't it?" said Boyd. "If this trip
doesn't make a man of you, you'll never grow up. Now I've got work for
all of us, including you, Fraser."

"What is it?"

"Go down to the freight-office and trace a shipment of machinery, while
I--"

"Nix! That ain't my line. If you need a piece of rough money quick, why
I'll take my gat and stick somebody up in an alley, or I'll feel out a
safe combination for you in the dark; but this chaperoning freight cars
ain't my game. I'd only crab it."

"I thought you wanted to help."

"I do, sure I do! I'll be glad when you're on your way, but I must
respectfully duck all bills-of-lading and shipping receipts."

"You are merely lazy," Emerson smiled. "Nevertheless, if we get in a
tight place, I'll make you take a hand in spite of yourself."

"Any time you need me," cheerfully volunteered the other, lighting a
fresh cigar. "Only don't give me child's work."

As if Hilliard's conversion had marked the turning-point of their luck,
the partners now entered upon a period of almost uninterrupted success.
In the reaction from their recent discouragement they took hold of
their labors with fresh energy, and fortune aided them in unexpected
ways. Boyd signed his charter, securing a tramp steamer then
discharging at Tacoma. Balt closed his contracts for Chinese labor, and
the scattered car-loads of material, which had been lost en route or
mysteriously laid out on sidings, began to come in as if of their own
accord. Those supplies which had been denied them they found in
unexpected quarters close at hand; and almost before they were aware of
it _The Bedford Castle_ had finished unloading and was coaling at the
bunkers.

A brigade of Orientals and a miniature army of fishermen had appeared
as if by magic, and were quartered in the lower part of the city
awaiting shipment. Boyd and Big George worked unceasingly in the midst
of a maelstrom of confusion, the centre of which was the dock. There,
one throbbing April evening, _The Bedford Castle_ berthed, ready to
receive her cargo, and the two men made their way toward their hotel,
weary, but glowing with the grateful sense of an arduous duty well
performed. The following morning would find the wharf swarming with
stevedores and echoing to the rattle of trucks, the clank of hoists,
and the shrill whistles of the signalmen.

"Looks like they couldn't stop us now," said Balt.

"It does," agreed Emerson. "We ought to clear in four days--that'll be
the 15th."

"It smells like an early spring, too," the fisherman observed, sniffing
the air. "If it is, we'll be in Kalvik the first week in May."

"Is your sense of smell sharp enough to tell what's happening up there?"

"Sure."

"Suppose it's a backward season?"

"Then we'll lay in the ice alongside the Company boats till she breaks.
That may be in June."

"I would like to get in early, and have the buildings started before
Marsh arrives. There's no telling what he may try."

George gave his companion a short nod. "And there ain't no telling what
we may try right back at him. Anyhow, he'll have to fight in the open,
and that's better than this shadow-boxing that we've been doing."

"I'm off to tell Cherry," said Boyd. "She'll need to be getting ready."

His course took him past Hilliard's bank, and when abreast of it he
nearly collided with a man who came hurrying forth, an angry scowl
between his eyes giving evidence of a surly humor. In the well-groomed,
fiery-haired, plump-figured man who, absorbed in his own anger, was
rushing by without raising his eyes, Emerson recognized the manager of
the North American Packers' Association.

"Good-evening, Mr. Marsh."

Marsh whirled about. "Eh? Ah!" With a visible effort he smoothed the
lines from his brow; his full lips lost their angry pout, and he showed
his teeth in a startled, apprehensive smile.

"Why, yes--it's Emerson. How are you, Mr. Emerson?" He extended a soft
hand, which Boyd took. Apparently reassured by this mute response,
Marsh continued: "I heard you were in town. How is the new cannery
coming on?"

"Nicely, thank you. When did you arrive from the East?"

"I just got in. Haven't had time to get straightened out yet. We--Mr.
Wayland and I--were speaking of you before I left Chicago. We
were--somewhat surprised to learn that you were engaging in the same
line of business as ourselves."

"Doubtless."

"I told him there was room for us all."

"You did?"

"Yes! I assured him that his resentment was unwarranted."

"He resents something, does he?"

"Well, naturally," Marsh declared, with a wintry smile. "In view of the
circumstances I may truthfully say that his feelings embrace not only a
sense of resentment, but the firmly fixed idea that he has been
betrayed--however, you are no doubt aware of all that. You have an able
champion on the ground." He looked out across the street abstractedly.
"Miss Wayland and I did our utmost to convince him you merely took a
legitimate commercial advantage in dining at his house the night before
you left."

"It was good of you to take my part," said Boyd, with such an air of
simple cordiality that Marsh shot a startled glance at him. "Now that
we are to be neighbors this summer, I hope we will get well acquainted,
for Mr. Wayland spoke highly of you, and strongly advised me to pattern
after you."

Marsh hid his bewilderment behind an expression which he strove to make
as friendly as Emerson's own. "I understand you are banking here," he
said, jerking his head toward the building at his back.

"Yes. I was offered a number of propositions, but Mr. Hilliard was so
insistent and made such substantial inducements that I finally placed
the business with him."

The animosity that glimmered for one fleeting instant in Marsh's eyes
amused Boyd greatly, advertising as it did, that for once the Trust's
executive felt himself at a disadvantage. The younger man never doubted
for an instant that his coup in securing Hilliard's assistance at the
eleventh hour was responsible for his enemy's sudden appearance from
cover, nor that the arrival of _The Bedford Castle_ had brought Marsh
to the banker's office out of hours in final desperation. From the
man's bearing he judged that the interview had not been as placid as a
spring morning, and this awoke in him not only a keen sense of elation
but the very natural desire to goad his opponent.

"All in all, we have been singularly fortunate in our enterprise thus
far," he continued, smoothly. "We were held up on some of our
machinery, but in every instance the delay turned out a blessing in
disguise, for it enabled us to buy in other quarters at a saving."

"I'm delighted to hear it," Marsh declared. "When do you sail?"

"Immediately. We begin to load to-morrow."

"I have changed my plans somewhat," the other announced. "I'll follow
your tracks before long."

"What is your hurry?"

"Repairs. Kalvik is our most important station, so I want to get it in
first-class shape before Mr. Wayland and Mildred arrive."

"Mildred!" ejaculated Boyd, surprised past resenting Marsh's use of the
girl's first name. "Is she coming?"

The other's smile was peculiarly irritating.

"Oh, indeed yes! We expect to make the trip quite an elaborate
excursion. Sorry I can't ask you to join us on the homeward voyage,
but--" he shrugged his fat shoulders. "Run in and see me before you
leave. I may be able to give you some pointers."

"Thank you. I hope you'll enjoy the summer up there in the wilderness.
It will be a relief to get away from all conventions and restraints."

The men extended their hands and the Trust's manager said, in final
invitation, "Drop in on me any day at the office. I'm at the National
Building."

"Oh, you've moved, eh?" said Boyd, with a semblance of careless
interest.

"Moved? No!"

"Indeed! I thought you were still at 610, Hotel Buller." With a short
laugh and a casual gesture of adieu he turned, leaving the manager of
the Trust staring after him, an astonished pucker upon his womanish
mouth, a vindictive glare in his eyes. Not until his rival had turned
the corner did Willis Marsh remove his gaze. Then he found that he was
trembling as if from weakness.

"The ruffian!" He reached into his pocket and produced a gold
cigarette-case, repeatedly snapping the heavy sides together with
vicious force. When he attempted to light a match it broke in his
fingers, then in a temper he threw the cigarette from him and hurried
away, his plump face working, his lips drawn into a spiteful fold.

For the first time in a fortnight Boyd allowed himself the luxury of a
long sleep, and a late breakfast on the following morning. But the meal
came to an abrupt conclusion when Balt, who always arose with the sun,
rushed in upon him and exclaimed:

"Hey! come on down to the dock, quick. There's hell to pay!"

"What's up now?"

"Strike! The longshoremen have walked out on us. I was on hand early to
oversee the loading, but the whole mob refused to commence. There's
some union trouble because _The Bedford Castle_ discharged her cargo
with scab labor."

"In Tacoma?"

"No. In Frisco; next to her last trip."

"Why, that's ridiculous! What does Captain Peasley say?"

"He says--I'll have to wait till we're outside before I can repeat what
he says."

Together the two hurried to the water-front to find a crowd of surly
stevedores loafing about the dock, and an English sea-captain at
breakfast in his cabin, his attention divided equally between toast,
tea, marmalade and profanity.

"The beggars are mad, absolutely mad," declared the Captain. "I can't
understand it. I'm still in my bed when I'm aroused by an insolent
loafer who calls himself a walking delegate and tells me his union
won't load me until I pay some absurd sum."

"What did you tell him?" inquired Emerson.

"What did I tell him?" Captain Peasley laid down his knife gently and
wiped the tea from his drooping mustache, then squared about in his
seat. "Here's what I told him as near as my memory serves." Whereupon
he broke into a tornado of nautical profanity so picturesquely British
in its figures, and so whole-souled in its vigor, that his auditors
could not but smile. "Then I bashed him with my boot, and bloody well
pursued him over the rail. Two thousand dollars! Sweet mother of Queen
Anne! Wouldn't I look well, now, handing four hundred pounds over to
those highbinders? My owners would hang me."

"So they demand two thousand dollars!"

"Yes! Just because of some bally rot about who may and who may not work
for a living on the docks at Frisco."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to make a swimming delegate out of the next walking emissary
that boards me. Two thousand dollars!" He hid half a slice of toast
behind his mustache and stirred his tea violently.

"It's Marsh again," said Big George.

"I dare say," Emerson answered. "It's a hold-up pure and simple.
However, if ships can be unloaded with non-union labor they can be
loaded in the same manner, and Captain Peasley talks like a man who
would like to have the argument out. I want you to stay here and watch
our freight while I see the head of the union."





CHAPTER XVII

A NEW ENEMY APPEARS


When Boyd returned some two hours later he found the dock deserted save
for Big George, who prowled watchfully about the freight piles.

"Well, did you fix it up?" the fisherman inquired.

"No," exclaimed Boyd. "It's a rank frame-up, and I refused to be bled."

"Good for you."

"There are some things a fellow's manhood won't stand for. I'll carry
that freight aboard with my own hands before I'll be robbed by a labor
union at the bidding of Willis Marsh."

"Say! Will you let me load this ship my way?" George asked.

"Can you do it?"

Balt's thick lips drew back from his yellow teeth in that smile which
Emerson had come to recognize as a harbinger of the violent acts that
rejoiced his lawless soul.

"Listen," said he, with a chuckle. "Down the street yonder I've got a
hundred fishermen. Half of them are drunk at this minute, and the rest
are half drunk."

"Then they are of no use to us."

"I don't reckon you ever seen a herd of Kalvik fishermen out of a job,
did you? Well, there's just two things they know, fishing and fighting,
and this ain't the fishing season. When they hit Seattle, the police
force goes up into the residence section and stufts cotton in its ears,
because the only thing that is strong enough to stand between a uniform
and a fisherman is a hill."

"Can you induce them to work?"

"I can. All I'm afraid of is that I can't induce them to quit. They're
liable to put this freight aboard _The Bedford Castle_, and then pull
down the dock in a spirit of playfulness and pile it in Captain
Peasley's cabin. There ain't no convulsion of nature that's equal to a
gang of idle fishermen."

"When can they begin?"

"Well, it will take me all night to round them up, and I'll have to
lick four or five, but there ought to be a dozen or two on hand in the
morning." George cast a roving eye over the warehouse from the heavy
planking under foot to the wide-spanning rafters above. "Yes," he
concluded, "I don't see nothing breakable, so I guess it's safe."

"Would you like me to go with you?"

The giant considered him speculatively. "I don't think so. I ain't
never seen you in action. No, you better stay here and arrange to guard
this stuff till morning. I'll do the rest."

Boyd did not see him again that day, nor at the hotel during the
evening, but on the following morning, true to his word, the big fellow
walked into the warehouse followed by a score or more of fishermen. At
first sight there was nothing imposing about these men: they were
rough-garbed and unkempt, in the main; but upon closer observation Boyd
noticed that they were thick-chested and broad-shouldered, and walked
with the swinging gait that comes from heaving decks. While the
majority of them were neither distinctly American nor markedly foreign
in appearance, being rather of that composite caste that peoples the
outer reaches of the far West, they were all deeply browned by sun and
weather, and spoke the universal idiom of the sea. There were men here
from Finland and Florida, Portugal and Maine, fused into one
nondescript type by the melting-pot of the frontier. Some wore the
northern mackinaw in spite of the balmy April morning, others were
dressed like ranch hands on circus day, and a few with the ornateness
of Butte miners on parade.

Certain ones displayed fresh contusions on cheek and jaw, or peered
forth from lately blackened eyes, and these, Boyd noticed, invariably
fawned upon Big George or treated him with elephantine playfulness,
winking swollen lids at him in a mysterious understanding which puzzled
the young man, until he saw that Balt himself bore similar signs of
strife. The big man's lips were cut, while back of one ear a knot had
sprung up over night like a fungus.

They fell to work quickly, stripping themselves to their undershirts;
they manned the hoists, seized trucks and bale-hooks, and began their
tasks with a thoroughly non-union energy. Some of them were still so
drunk that they staggered, their awkwardness affording huge sport to
their companions, yet even in their intoxication they were surprisingly
capable. There was a great deal of laughter and disorder on every hand,
and all made frequent trips to the water-taps, returning adrip to the
waist, their hair and beards bejewelled with drops. Boyd saw one, a
well-dressed fellow in a checked suit, remove his clothes and hang them
carefully upon a nail, then painfully unlace his patent-leather shoes,
after which, regardless of the litter under foot and the splinters in
the floor, he tramped about in bare feet and red underwear. Without
exception, they seemed possessed by the spirit of boys at play. Having
seen them well under way and the winches working, George sought out
Boyd and proudly inquired:

"What do you think of them, eh?"

"They are splendid. But where are the others?"

"Well, there are two or three that won't be able to get around at all."
He meditatively stroked the knuckles of his right hand, which were
badly bruised. "But the balance will be here to-morrow. These are just
the mildest-mannered ones--the family men, you might say. The others
will show up gradual. You see, if there had been any fighting going on
here, I'd have got most of them right off the bat, but there wasn't any
inducement to offer except hard work, so they wasn't quite so anxious
to commence."

"Humph! There ought to be enough excitement before long to satisfy any
one," said Boyd, with a trace of worry in his voice.

"As sure as you're a foot high!" exclaimed George, hopefully. "It's the
only way we'll get that ship loaded on time. All we need is a riot or
two."

A man passed them trundling a heavy truck, but seeing Big George, he
paused, wiped the sweat from his face, then grinned and winked
fraternally.

"Hey! If this work is too heavy for you, why don't you quit?" growled
Balt, but strangely enough the fellow took no offence. Instead, he
closed his swollen eye for a second time, then spat upon his hands,
and, as he struggled with his burden, grunted pleasantly:

"I pretty near--got you, Georgie. If you hadn't 'a' ducked, we'd 'a'
been at it yet, eh?"

Balt smiled in turn, then gingerly felt of the knob behind his ear.

"Did you have a fight with him?" queried Emerson.

"Not exactly a fight, but he put this nubbin on my conch," answered the
fisherman. "He's a tough proposition, one of the best we've got."

"What was the trouble?"

"Nothing! I used to have to lick him every year. We've sort of missed
each other lately."

"Then you were merely renewing a pleasant acquaintance?" laughed the
younger man. "He hit you in the mouth too, I see."

"No, I got that from a stranger. I was bedding him down when he kicked
me with his boot. He ain't here this morning."'

"If I were you, I'd go up to the hotel and get some sleep," Boyd
advised. "I'll oversee things."

George hesitated. "I don't know if I'd better go or not. They've all
got hang-overs, and they're liable to bu'st out any minute if you don't
watch them. They ain't vicious, understand; they just like to frolic
around."

"I'll watch them."

After a contemplative glance at his companion's well-knit figure, Balt
gave in, with the final caution: "Don't let them get the upper hand, or
there won't be no living with them."

After his departure, Boyd was not long in learning the cause of his
hesitancy, for no sooner did the men realize the change in authority
over them than they undertook to feel out the mettle of their new
foreman. Directly one of them approached him, with the demand:

"Get us a drink, boss; we're thirsty."

"There is the water-tap," said Emerson. "Help yourself."

"Go on! We don't want water. Rustle up a keg of beer, will you?"

"Nothing doing."

He turned back to his task, but a moment later Boyd saw him making for
the shore end of the dock, and with a few strides placed himself in his
path.

"Where are you going?"

"After a drink, of course."

"You want to quit, eh?"

The man eyed him for an instant, then answered: "No! The job's all
right, but I'm thirsty."

Those working near ceased their labors and gathered around, whereupon
their companion addressed them.

"Say! It's a great note when a fellow can't have a drink. Come on,
boys, I'll set 'em up." There was a general laugh and a forward
movement of all within hearing, which Boyd checked with a rough command.

"Get back to work, all of you." But the spokesman, disregarding his
words, attempted to pass, whereupon without warning Boyd knocked him
down with a clean blow to the face. At this the others yelled and
rushed forward, only to be met by their foreman, who had snatched a
bale-hook. It was an ugly weapon, and he used it so viciously that they
quickly gave him room.

"Now get to work," he ordered, quietly. "You can quit if you want to,
but I'll lay out the first fellow that goes after a drink. Make up your
minds what you want to do. Quick!"

There was a moment's hesitation, and then, with the absurd vagary of a
crowd, they broke into loud laughter and slouched back to work, two of
them dragging the cause of the outburst to the water-faucet, where they
held his head under the stream until he began to sputter and squirm.
Before those at the gangway had noticed the disturbance it was all
over, and thereafter Boyd experienced no trouble. On the contrary, they
worked the better for his proof of authority, and took him into their
fellowship as if he had qualified to their entire satisfaction. Even
the man he had struck seemed to share in the general respect rather
than to cherish the least ill-feeling. The respite was brief, however,
for the work had not continued many hours before a stranger made his
way quietly in upon the dock and began to argue with the first
fisherman he met. Boyd discovered him quickly, and, approaching him,
demanded:

"What do you want?"

"Nothing," said the new-comer.

"Then get out."

"What for? I'm just talking to this man."

"I can't allow any talking here. Hurry up and get out."

"This is a free country. I ain't hurting you."

"Will you go?"

"Say! You can't load that cargo this way," the man began,
threateningly. "And you can't make me go--"

At which Emerson seized him by the collar and quickly disproved the
assertion, to the great delight of the fishermen. He marched his
prisoner to the dock entrance and thrust him out into the street with
the warning: "Don't you let me catch you in here again."

"I'm a union man and you can't load that ship with 'scabs!'" The
stranger swore as he slunk off. "You'll be sorry for this." But Boyd
motioned him away and summoned two of his men to stand guard with him.

All that morning the three held their posts, refusing to admit any one
who did not have business within, the while a considerable crowd
assembled in the street. The first actual violence, however, occurred
when the fishermen knocked off for the noon hour. Sensing the storm
about to break, Boyd called up the Police Department from the
dock-office, then summoned Big George, who appeared in quick time. It
was with considerable difficulty that the non-union crew fought its way
back to resume work at one o'clock.

During the afternoon the strikers made several attempts to enter the
dock-shed, and it required a firm stand by the guards to restrain them.
These growing signs of excitement pleased the fishermen intensely, and
at each advance of the crowd it became as great a task to hold them
back as it was to check the union forces. During one of these
disturbances Captain Peasley made his way shoreward from the ship to
scan the scene, and the sight of his uniform excited the ire of the
strikers afresh. After a glance over the mob, he remarked to Emerson:

"Bli'me! It looks like a bloody riot already, doesn't it? Four hundred
pounds to those dock wallopers! Huh! You know if I allowed them to
bleed me that way--"

At that instant, from some quarter, a railroad spike whizzed past the
Captain's head, banging against the boards behind him with such a thump
that the dignified Englishman ducked quickly amid a shout of derision.
He began to curse them roundly in his own particular style.

"You'd better keep under cover, Captain," advised Emerson. "They don't
seem to care for you."

"So it would appear," he agreed. "They're getting nawsty, aren't they?
I hope it doesn't lawst."

"Well, I hope it does," said George Balt. "If they'll only keep at it
and beat up some of our boys at quitting-time the whole gang will be
here in the morning."

It seemed that his wishes bade fair to be realized, for, as the day
wore on, instead of diminishing, the excitement increased. By evening
it became so menacing that Boyd was forced to send in an urgent demand
for a squadron of bluecoats to escort his men to their lodgings, and it
was only by the most vigorous efforts that a serious clash was averted.
Nor was this task the easier since it did not meet with the approval of
the fishermen themselves, who keenly resented protection of any sort.

True to George's prediction, the next morning found the non union men
out in such force that they were divided into a night and a day crew,
half of them being sent back to report later, while among the mountains
of freight the work went forward faster than ever. But the night had
served to point the anger of the strikers, and the dock owners,
becoming alarmed for the safety of their property, joined with Emerson
in establishing a force of a dozen able-bodied guards, armed with
clubs, to assist the police in disputing the shore line with the
rioters. The police themselves had proved ineffective, even betraying a
half-hearted sympathy with the union men, who were not slow to profit
by it. Even so, the day passed rather quietly, as did the next. But in
time the agitation became so general as to paralyze a wide section of
the water-front, and the city awoke to the realization that a serious
conflict was in progress. The handful of fishermen, hidden under the
roof of the great warehouse, outnumbered twenty to one, and guarded
only by a thin line of pickets, became a centre of general interest.

As the violence of the mob, stimulated rather than checked by the
indifference of the police, became more openly daring, so likewise did
the reprisals of the fishermen, goaded now to a stubborn rage. They
would not hear to having their food brought to them, but insisted daily
on emerging in a body at noon and spending the hour in combat. Not to
speak of the physical disabilities they incurred in these affrays, the
excitement distracted them and affected their work disastrously, to the
great concern of their employer.

It was on the fourth day that Boyd espied the man in the gray suit
among the strikers and pointed him out to his three companions, Clyde
and Fraser having joined him and George in a spirit of curiosity. Clyde
was for immediately executing a sally to capture the fellow, explaining
that once they had him inside the dock-house they could beat him until
he confessed that Marsh was behind the strike, but his valor shrank
amazingly when Fraser maliciously suggested that he himself lead the
dash.

"No!" he exclaimed. "I'm not a fighting man, but I'm a good general.
You know, Napoleon was about my size."

"I never noticed the resemblance," remarked Fraser.

"All the same, your idea ain't so bad," said Balt. "There's somebody
stirring those fellows up, and I think it's that detective. I wouldn't
mind getting my hands on him, and if you'll all stick with me I'll go
out after him."

"Not for mine," hastily declared "Fingerless" Fraser. "I don't want to
fight anybody. I'm here as a spectator."

"You're not afraid?" questioned Emerson.

"Not exactly afraid, but what's the use of my getting mixed up in this
row? It ain't _my_ cannery."

Now, while a mob is by nature noisy and threatening, there is little
real danger in it until its diffusive violence is directed into one
channel by a leader. Then, indeed, it becomes a terrible thing, and to
the watchers at the dock it became evident, in time, that a guiding
influence was at work among their enemies. Sure enough, late in the
afternoon of the fourth day, without a moment's warning, the strikers
rushed in a body, bearing down the guards like reeds. They came so
unexpectedly that there was no time to muster reinforcements at the
gate; almost before the fishermen could drop their tasks, their enemies
were inside the building and pandemonium had broken loose. The
structure rocked to the tumult of pounding heels, of yells and
imprecations, the lofty roof serving to toss back and magnify the
uproar.

Emerson and his companions found themselves carried away before the
onslaught like chips in the surf, then sucked into a maelstrom where
the first duty was self-preservation. Behind locked doors and shivering
glass a terrified office-clerk, receiver to ear, was calling madly for
Police Headquarters, while in the main building itself the crowd
bellowed and roared and the hollow floor reverberated to the thunder of
trampling feet and the crash of tumbling freight-piles.

Boyd succeeded in keeping his footing and eventually fought his way to
a backing of crated machinery, where he stooped and ripped a cleat
loose; then, laying about him with this weapon, he cleared a space. It
was already difficult to distinguish friend from foe, but he saw Alton
Clyde go down a short distance away and made a rush to rescue him. His
pine slat splintered against a head, he dodged a missile, then struck
with the fragment in his hand, and, snatching Clyde by the arm, dragged
him out from under foot. Battered and bruised, the two won back to
Emerson's first position, and watched the tide surge past.

At the first alarm the fishermen had armed themselves with bale-hooks
and bludgeons, and for a time worked havoc among their assailants; but
as the fight became more general they were forced apart and drawn into
the crowd, whereupon the combatants split up into groups, milling about
like frightened cattle. Men broke out from these struggling clusters to
nurse their injuries or beat a retreat, only to be overrun and
swallowed up again in a new commotion.

Emerson saw the big, barefooted fisherman in the red underclothes,
armed with a sledge-hammer, go through the ranks of his enemies like a
tornado, only to be struck by some missile hurled from a distance. With
a shout of rage the fellow turned and flung his own weapon at his
assailant, felling him like an ox, then he in turn was blotted out by a
surge of rioters. But there was little time for observation, as the
scene was changing with kaleidoscopic rapidity and there was the
ever-present necessity of self-protection. Seeing Clyde's helpless
condition, Emerson shouted:

"Come on! I'll help you aboard the ship." He found a hardwood club
beneath his feet--one of those cudgels that are used in pounding
rope-slings and hawsers--and with it cleared a pathway for Clyde and
himself. But while still at a distance from the ship's gangway, he
suddenly spied the man in the gray suit, who had climbed upon one of
the freight-piles, whence he was scanning the crowd. The man likewise
recognized Emerson, and pointed him out, crying something
unintelligible in the tumult, then leaped down from his vantage-point.
The next instant Boyd saw him approaching, followed by several others.
He endeavored to hustle Clyde to the big doors ahead of the oncomers,
but being intercepted, backed against the shed wall barely in time to
beat off the foremost.

His nearest assailant had armed himself with an iron bar and endeavored
to guard the first blow with this instrument, but it flew from his
grasp, and he sustained the main force of the impact on his forearm.
Then, though Boyd fell back farther, the others rushed in and he found
himself hard beset. What happened thereafter neither he nor Alton
Clyde, who was half-dazed to begin with, ever clearly remembered, for
in such over-charged instants the mental photograph is wont to be
either unusually distinct or else fogged to such a blur that only the
high-lights stand out clearly in retrospect.

Before he had recognized the personal nature of the assault, Emerson
found himself engaged in a furious hand-to-hand struggle where a want
of room hampered the free use of his cudgel, and he was forced to rely
mainly upon his fists. Blows were rained upon him from unguarded
quarters, he was kicked, battered, and flung about, his blind instinct
finally leading him to clinch with whomsoever his hands encountered.
Then a sudden blackness swallowed him up, after which he found himself
upon his knees, his arms loosely encircling a pair of legs, and
realized that he had been half-stunned by a blow from behind. The legs
he was clutching tried to kick him loose, at which he summoned all his
strength, knowing that he must go down no further; but as he struggled
upward, something smote him in the side with sickening force, and he
went to his knees again.

Close beside him he saw the club he had dropped, and endeavored to
reach it; but before he could do so, a hand snatched it away and he
heard a voice cursing above him. A second time he tried to rise, but
his shocked nerves failed to transmit the impulse to his muscles; he
could only raise his shoulder and fling an arm weakly above his head in
anticipation of the crushing blow he knew was coming. But it did not
descend, Instead, he heard a gun shot--that sound for which his ears
had been strained from the first--and then for an instant he wondered
if it had been directed at himself. A weight sank across his calves,
the legs he had been holding broke away from his grasp; then, with a
final effort, he pulled himself free and staggered to his feet, his
head rocking, his knees sagging. He saw a man's figure facing him, and
lunged at it, to bring up in the arms of "Fingerless" Fraser, who cried
sharply:

"Are you hurt, Bo?"

Too dazed to answer, he turned and beheld the body of a man stretched
face downward on the floor. Beyond, the fellow in the gray suit was
disappearing into the crowd. Even yet Boyd did not realize whence the
shot had come, although the smell of powder was sharp in his nostrils.
Then he saw a gleam of blue metal in Fraser's hands.

"Give me that gun!" he panted, but his deliverer held him off.

"I may need it myself, and I ain't got but the one here! Let's get
Clyde out of this."

Stepping over the motionless form at his feet, Fraser lifted the young
club-man, who was huddled in a formless heap as if he had fallen from a
great height, and together the two dragged him toward _The Bedford
Castle_. As they went aboard, they were nearly run down by a body of
reinforcements that Captain Peasley had finally mustered from between
decks. Down the gang-plank and over the side they poured, grimy
stokers, greasy oilers, and swearing deckhands, equipped with
capstan-bars, wrenches, and marlin-spikes. Without waiting to observe
the effect of these new-comers, Boyd and Fraser bundled Alton into the
first cabin at hand, then turned back.

"Better stay here and look after him. You're all in, yourself," the
adventurer advised. "I'm going to hunt up George."

He was away on the instant, with Boyd staggering after him, still weak
and shaking, the vague discomfort of running blood at the back of his
neck, muttering thickly as he went: "Give me your gun, Fraser! Give me
your gun!"

The battle was still raging when the police arrived, after an
interminable delay, and it ceased only at the rough play of
night-sticks, and after repeated charges of the uniformed men had
broken up the ranks of the strikers. The dock was cleared at length,
and wagon-loads of bleeding, struggling combatants rolled away to jail,
union and non-union men bundled in together. But work was not resumed
that day, despite the fact that Big George, bruised, ragged, and torn,
doubled his force of pickets and took personal charge of them.

That night, under glaring headlines, the evening papers told the story,
reporting one fisherman fatally hurt, one striker dead of a gunshot
wound, and many others injured.





CHAPTER XVIII

WILLIS MARSH SPRINGS A TRAP


The ensuing days were strenuous ones for the partners, working as they
did, with a crippled force and under constant guard. Riot was in the
air, and violence on every side. By the police, whose apathy
disappeared only when an opportunity occurred of arresting the men they
were supposed to protect, they were more handicapped than helped. The
appearance of a fisherman at any point along the water-front became a
sure signal for strife.

Day by day the feeling on both sides grew stronger, till the non-union
men were cemented together in a spirit of bitterest indignation, which
materially lessened their zeal for work. Every act of violence
intensified their rage. They armed themselves, in defiance of orders,
tossed restraint to the winds, and sought the slightest opportunity of
wreaking vengeance upon their enemies. Nor were the rioters less
determined. Authority, after all, is but a hollow shell, which, once
broken, is quickly disintegrated. Fierce engagements took place,
populating the hospitals. It became necessary to guard all property in
the warehouse districts, and men ceased to venture there alone after
dark.

One circumstance caused Boyd no little surprise and uneasiness--the
fact that no vigorous effort had been made to fix the blame for the
striker's death on that riotous afternoon. Surely, he reasoned, Marsh's
detective must have witnessed the killing, and must recognize the ease
with which the act could now be saddled upon him. If delay were their
object, Emerson could not understand why they did not seek to have him
arrested. The consequences might well be serious if Marsh's money were
used; but, as the days slipped past and nothing occurred, he decided
that he had been overfearful on this score, or else that the manager of
the Packers' Trust had limits beyond which he would not push his
persecution.

A half-mile from Captain Peasley's ship, the rival Company tenders were
loading rapidly with union labor, and it seemed that in spite of Boyd's
plan to be first at Kalvik, Marsh's force would beat him to the ground
unless greater efforts were made. When he communicated these fears to
Big George, the fisherman suddenly became a slave-driver. He passed
among his men, cajoling, threatening, bribing, and they began to work
like demons, with the result that when the twentieth arrived he was
able to announce to his partner that the work would be finished some
time during the following morning.

The next day Emerson and Clyde drove down to the dock with Cherry in a
closed carriage, experiencing no annoyance beyond some jeers and
insults as they passed through the picket line. Boyd had barely seen
them comfortably established on board, when up the ship's gangway came
"Fingerless" Fraser radiantly attired, three heavily laden hotel
porters groaning at his back, the customary thick-waisted cigar between
his teeth.

"Are you going with us?" Boyd inquired.

"Sure."

"See here. Is life one long succession of surprise parties with you?"

"Why, I've figgered on this right along."

"But the ship is jammed now. There is no room."

"Oh, I fixed that up long ago. I am going to bunk with the steward."

"Well, why in the world didn't you let us know you were coming?"

"Say, don't kid yourself. You knew I couldn't stay behind." Fraser blew
a cloud of smoke airily. "I never start anything I can't finish, I keep
telling you, and I'm going to put this deal through, now that I've got
it started." With a half-embarrassed laugh and a complete change of
manner, he laid his hand upon Boyd's shoulder, saying: "Pal, I ain't
much good to myself or anybody else, but I like you and I want to stick
around. Maybe I'll come in useful yet--you can't tell."

Emerson had never glimpsed this side of the man's nature, and it rather
surprised him.

"Of course you can come along, old man," he responded, heartily. "We're
glad to have you."

To one who has never witnessed the spring sailing of a Northern
cannery-tender, the event is well worth seeing; it is one of the
curiosities of the Seattle water-front. Not only is there the
inevitable confusion involved in the departure of an overloaded craft,
but likewise there is all the noisy excitement that attends a shipment
of Oriental troops.

The Chinese maintain such a clatter as to drown the hoarse cries of the
stevedores, the complaint of the creaking tackle, and the rumble of the
winches. They scurry hither and yon like a distracted army, forever in
the way, shouting, clacking, squealing in senseless turmoil. They are
timid as to the water, and for them a voyage is at all times beset with
many alarms. It is no more possible to restrain them than to calm a
frightened herd of wild pigs, nor will they embark at all until their
frenzy has run its course and died of its own exhaustion. To discipline
them according to the seamen's standard is inadvisable, for many of
them are "cutters," big, evil, saffron-hued fellows, whose trade it is
to butcher and in whose dextrous hands a knife becomes a frightful
weapon.

The <DW61>s, ordinarily so noiseless and submissive, yield to the
contagion and add their share to the uproar. Each man carries a few
pounds of baggage in bundles or packs or valises, and these scanty
belongings he guards with shrieking solicitude.

While the pandemonium of the Orientals who gathered to board _The
Bedford Castle_ was sufficient in itself to cause consternation, it was
as nothing to that which broke loose when the fishermen began to
assemble. To a man they were drunk, belligerent and, declamatory. A
few, to be sure, were still busy with the tag ends of the cargo, but
the majority had gone to their lodgings for their packs, and now
reappeared in a state of the wildest exuberance; for this would be
their last spree of the season, and before them lay a period of long,
sleepless nights, exposure, and unceasing labor, wherein a year's work
must be crowded into three months. They, therefore, inaugurated the
change in befitting style.

On the whole, no explosive has ever been invented that is so noisy in
its effect, so furiously expansive in its action, as the fumes of cheap
whiskey. The great dock-shed soon began to reverberate to the wildest
clamor, which added to the fury of the crowd outside. The strikers,
unable to enter the building, flowed down upon the adjoining wharf, or
clambered to the roofs nearby, whence they jeered insultingly. Among
them was a newspaper photographer, bent on securing an unusual picture
for his publication, and in truth the scene from this point of view was
sufficiently novel and striking.

The decks of the big, low-lying tramp steamer were piled high with gear
of every description. A trio of stout tow-boats were blocked up
amidships, long piles of lumber rose higher than a man's head, and the
roofs of the deck-houses were jammed with fishing-boats nested, one
inside the other, like pots in a kitchen. Every available inch was
crowded with cases of gasoline, of groceries, and of the varied
provisions required on an expedition of this magnitude. Aft, on rows of
hooks, were suspended the carcasses of sheep and bullocks and hogs;
there seemed to be nowhere another foot of available room. The red
water-line of the ship was already submerged, yet notwithstanding this
fact her derricks clanged noisily, her booms swung back and forth, and
her gaping hatches swallowed momentary loads. Those fishermen who had
come aboard early had settled like flies in the rigging, whence they
taunted their enemies, hurling back insult for insult.

It was much like the departure of a gold steamer during the early
famine stages of the northward stampede, save that now there were no
women, while the confusion was immeasurably greater, and through it all
might be felt a certain strained and angry menace. All the long
afternoon _The Bedford Castle_ lay at her moorings subjected to the
customary eleventh-hour delays. As the time dragged on, and the liquor
died in the fishermen, it became a herculean task to prevent them from
issuing forth into the street, while the crowds outside seemed
possessed of a desperate determination to force an entrance and bring
the issue to a final settlement. But across the shore end of the dock a
double cordon was drawn which hurled back the intruders at every
advance.

The fishermen who remained inside the barnlike structure, unable to
come at their enemies, fought among themselves, bidding fair to wreck
the building in the extravagance of their delirium, while outside the
rival faction kept up a fire of missiles and execrations. As the hours
crept onward the tension increased, and at last Boyd turned to Captain
Peasley saying, "You'd better be ready to pull out at any minute, for
if the mob breaks in we'll never be able to hold these maniacs." He
pointed to the black swarm aloft, whence issued hoarse waves of sound.
"I don't like the look of things, a little bit."

"They are a trifle strained, to be sure," the Captain acknowledged.
"I'll stand by to cast off at your signal, so you'd better pass the
word around."

Boyd left the ship and went to the dock-office, for there still
remained one thing to be done: he could not leave without sounding a
final note of triumph for Mildred. How sweet it would be to her ears he
knew full well, yet he could not help wondering if she would feel the
thrill that mastered him at this moment. As he saw the empty spaces
where had stood those masses of freight which he had gathered at such
cost, as he heard his own men bellowing defiance at his enemies and
realized that his first long stride toward success had been taken, his
heart swelled with gladness and the breath caught momentarily in his
throat. After all, he was going to win! Out of the shimmering distance
of his desire, the lady of his dreams drew closer to him; and ere long
he could lay at her feet the burden of his travail, and then--.
Oblivious to the turmoil all about, he wrote rapidly, almost
incoherently, to Mildred, transcribing the mood of mingled tenderness
and exultation which possessed him.

"Outside the building," he concluded, "there is a raging mob. They
would ruin me if they could, but they can't do it, they can't do it. We
have beaten them all, my lady. We have won!"

He was sealing his letter, when, without warning, "Fingerless" Fraser
appeared at his side, his fishlike eyes agleam, his colorless face
drawn with anxiety.

"They've come to grab you for killing that striker," he began,
breathlessly; "there's a couple of 'square-toes' on the dock now.
Better take it on the 'lam'--quick!"

"God!" So Marsh had withheld this stroke until the last moment, when
the least delay would be fatal. Boyd knew that if he were brought into
court he would have hard shift to clear himself against the mass of
perjured testimony that his rival had doubtless gathered; but even this
seemed as nothing in comparison with the main issue. For one wild
instant he considered sending George Balt on with the ship. That would
be folly, no doubt; yet plainly he could not hold _The Bedford Castle_
and keep together that raging army of fishermen while he fought his way
through the tedious vexations of a trial. He saw that he had
under-estimated his enemy's cunning, and he realized that, if Marsh had
planned this move, he would press his advantage to the full.

"There's two plain-clothes men," he heard Fraser running on. "I 'made'
'em as they were talking to Peasley. You'd better 'beat' it, quick!"

"How? I couldn't get through that crowd. They know me. Listen!" Outside
the street broke into a roar at some taunt of the fishermen high up in
the rigging. "I can't run away, and if those detectives get me I'm
ruined."

"Well! What's to be done?" demanded Fraser, sharply. "If you say the
word, we'll shoot it out with them, and get away on the ship before--"

"We can't do that--there are a dozen policemen in front here."

"Well, you'll have to move quick, or they'll 'cop' you, sure."

Boyd clinched his hands in desperation. "I guess they've got me," he
said, bitterly. "There's no way out."

His eyes fell upon the letter containing his boastful assurance of
victory. What a mockery!

"From what they said I don't think they know you," Fraser continued.
"Anyhow, they wanted Peasley to point you out. When they come off,
maybe you can slip 'em."

"But how?" Boyd seized eagerly upon the suggestion. "The wharf is
empty--see! I'll have to cross it in plain sight."

Through the rear door of the office that opened upon the dock proper
they beheld the great floor almost entirely clear. Save for a few tons
of freight at which Big George's men were working, it was as
unobstructed as a lawn; and, although it was nearly the size of a city
block, it afforded no more means of concealment than did the little
office itself, with its glass doors, its counter, and its long desk, at
the farther end of which a bill-clerk was poring over his task.
Iron-barred windows at the front of the room looked out upon the
street; other windows and a door at the right opened upon the driveway
and railroad track, while at the rear the glass-panelled door through
which they had just been peering gave egress only to the dock itself,
up which the two officers were likely to come at any instant. Even as
Emerson, with a last desperate glance, summed up the possible places of
concealment, Fraser exclaimed, softly:

"There they are now!" and they saw at the foot of the gang-plank two
men talking with Big George. They saw Balt point the strangers
carelessly to the office, whence he had seen Boyd disappearing a few
moments before, and turn back to his stevedores; then they saw the
plain-clothes men approaching.

"Here! Gimme your coat and hat, quick!" cried Fraser in a low voice,
his eyes blazing at a sudden, thought. He stripped his own garments
from his back with feverish haste. "Put mine on. There! I'll stall for
you. When they grab me, take it on the run. Understand!"

"That won't do. Everybody knows me." Boyd cast an apprehensive glance
at the arched back of the bill-clerk, but Fraser, quick of resource in
such a situation, forced him swiftly to make the change, saying:

"Nix. It's your only 'out.' Stand here, see!" He indicated a position
beside the rear door. "I'll step out the other way where they can see
me," he continued, pointing to the wagon-way at the right. "Savvy? When
they grab me, you beat it, and don't wait for nothing."

"But you--"

Already they could hear the footsteps of the officers.

"I'll take a chance. Good-bye."

There was no time even for a hand-shake; Fraser stepped swiftly to the
door, then strolled quietly out into the view of the two men, who an
instant later accosted him.

"Are you Mr. Boyd Emerson?"

The adventurer answered brusquely, "Yes, but I can't talk to you now."

"You are under arrest, Mr. Emerson."

Boyd waited to hear no more. The glass door swung open noiselessly
under his hand, and he stepped out just as the bill-clerk looked up
from his work, staring out through the other entrance.

"Fingerless" Fraser's voice was louder now, as if for a signal. "Arrest
me? What do you mean? Get out of my way."

"You'd better come peaceably."

Boyd heard a sharp exclamation--"Get him, Bill!" And then the sound of
men struggling. He ran, followed by a roar from the strikers, in whose
full view Fraser's encounter with the plain-clothes men was taking
place. A backward glance showed him that Fraser had drawn his pursuers
to the street. He had broken away and dodged out into the open, where
the other officers responded at a call and seized him as he apparently
undertook to break through the cordon. This diversion served an
unexpected purpose. Not only did it draw attention from Emerson's
retreat, but it also gave the mob its long-awaited opportunity.
Recognizing in the officers' quarry the supposed figure of Emerson, the
hated cause of all this strife, the strikers gave vent to a great shout
of rage and triumph, and surged forward across the wide street,
carrying the police before them with irresistible force.

In a moment it became not a question of keeping the entrance to the
wharf, but of protecting the life of the prisoner, and the policemen
rallied with their backs to the wall, their clubs working havoc with
the heads that came within striking distance.

Scarcely had Boyd reached Big George, when a wing of the besieging army
swept in through the unguarded entrance and down the dock like an
avalanche, leaving behind them the battling officers and the hungry
pack clamoring for the prisoner.

"Drop that freight, and get aboard the best way you can!" Boyd yelled
at the fishermen, and with a bound was out into the open crying to
Captain Peasley on the bridge:

"Here they come! Cast off, for God's sake!"

Instantly a wild cry of rage and defiance rose from the clotted rigging
and upper works of _The Bedford Castle_. Down the fishermen swarmed,
ready to over-flow the sides of the ship, but, with a sharp order to
George, Boyd ran up the gang-plank and rushed along the rail to a
commanding position in the path of his men, where, drawing his
revolver, he roared at them to keep back, threatening the first to go
ashore. His lungs were bursting from his sprint, and it was with
difficulty that his voice rose above the turmoil; but he presented such
a figure of determination that the men paused, and then the steamship
whistle interrupted opportunely, with a deafening blast.

The dozen men who had been slinging freight on the dock hastened up the
gang-plank or climbed the fenders, while the signal-man clung to the
lifting tackle, and, at the piping cry of his whistle, was swung aloft
out of the very arms of the rioters.

Above, on the flying bridge, Captain Peasley was bellowing orders; a
quartermaster was running up the iron steps to the pilot-house; on deck
the sailors were fighting their way to their posts through the ranks of
the raging fishermen and the shrieking confusion of the Orientals; the
last men aboard, with a "Heave Ho!" in unison, slid the gang-plank
upward and out of reach. The neighboring roofs, lately so black, were
emptying now, the onlookers hastening to join in the attack.

Big George alone remained upon the wharf. As he saw the rush coming he
had ordered his men to abandon their load; then he ran to the
after-mooring, and, taking slack from a deck hand, cast it off. Back up
the dock he went to the forward hawser, where, at a signal, he did the
same, moving, toward the last, without excessive hurry, as if in a
spirit of bravado. The ship was clear, and he had not cut a hawser. He
had done his work; all but a ton or two of the cargo was stowed. There
was no longer cause for delay.

"Get aboard! Are you mad?" Emerson shouted, but the cry never reached
him. Back he came slowly, in front of the press, secure in his
tremendous strength, defiance in his every move, a smouldering
challenge in his eyes; and noting that gigantic frame with its
square-hewn, flaming face, not one of his enemies dared oppose him. But
as he passed they yapped and snarled and jostled at his heels, hungry
to rend him and only lacking courage.

As yet the ship, although throbbing to the first pulsations of her
engines, lay snug along the piling, but gradually her stern swung off
and a wedge of clearance showed. Almost imperceptibly she drew back and
rubbed against the timbers. A fender began to squeeze and complain. The
dock planking creaked. Sixty seconds more and she would be out of
arm's-reach, and still George made no haste. Again Boyd shouted at him,
and then with one farewell glower over his shoulder the big fellow
mounted a pile, stretched his arms upward to the bulwarks, and swung
himself lightly aboard.

Even yet Emerson's anxiety was of the keenest; for, notwithstanding the
stress of these dragging moments, he had not forgotten Fraser, the
vagabond, the morally twisted rascal, to whose courage and
resourcefulness he owed so much. He strained his eyes for a glimpse of
the fellow, at the same time dreading the sight of a uniform. Would the
ship never get under way and out of hailing distance? If those officers
had discovered their mistake, they might yet have time to stop him. He
vowed desperately that he would not let them, not if he had to take
_The Bedford Castle_ to sea with a gun at the back of her helmsman. He
made his way hurriedly to the bridge, where he hastily explained to
Captain Peasley his evasion of the officers; and here he found Cherry,
her face flushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement, but far too wise
to speak to him in his present state of mind.

A scattered shower of missiles came aboard as the strikers kept pace
with the steamer to the end of the slip, exciting the fishermen, who
had again mounted the rigging, to a simian frenzy. Oaths, insults, and
jeers were hurled back and forth; but as the big steamer gathered
momentum and slid out of her berth, they grew gradually more
indistinct, until at last they became muffled, broken, and meaningless.
Even then the rival ranks continued to volley profanely at each other,
while the Captain, with hand on the whistle-rope, blew taunting blasts;
nor did the fishermen descend from their perches until the forms on the
dock had blurred together and the city lay massed in the distance, tier
upon tier, against the gorgeous evening sky.





CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH A MUTINY IS THREATENED


Even after they were miles down the Sound, Boyd remained at his post,
sweeping the waters astern in an anxious search for some swift harbor
craft, the appearance of which would signal that his escape had been
discovered.

"I won't feel safe until we are past Port Townsend," he confessed to
Cherry, who maintained a position at his side.

"Why Port Townsend? We don't stop there."

"No. But the police can wire on from Seattle to stop us and take me off
at that point."

"If they find out their mistake."

"They must have found it out long ago. That's why I've got Peasley
forcing this old tub; she's doing ten knots, and that's a breakneck
speed for her. Once we're through the Straits, I'll be satisfied. But
meanwhile--" Emerson lowered his glasses with a sigh of fatigue, and in
the soft twilight the girl saw that his face was lined and careworn.
The yearning at her heart lent poignant sympathy to her words, as she
said:

"You deserve to win, Boyd; you have made a good fight."

"Oh, I'll win!" he declared, wearily. "I've got to win; only I wish we
were past Port Townsend."

"What will happen to Fraser?" she queried.

"Nothing serious, I am sure. You see, they wanted me, and nobody else;
once they find they have the wrong man I rather believe they will free
him in disgust."

A moment later he went on: "Just the same, it makes me feel depressed
and guilty to leave him--I--I wouldn't desert a comrade for anything if
the choice lay with me."

"You did quite right," Cherry warmly assured him.

"You see, I am not working for myself; I am doing this for another."

It was the girl's turn to sigh softly, while the eyes she turned toward
the west were strangely sad and dreamy. To her companion she seemed not
at all like the buoyant creature who had kindled his courage when it
was so low, the brave girl who had stood so steadfastly at his shoulder
and kept his hopes alive during these last, trying weeks. It struck him
suddenly that she had grown very quiet of late. It was the first time
he had had the leisure to notice it, but now, when he came to reflect
on it, he remembered that she had never seemed quite the same since his
interview with her on that day when Hilliard had so unexpectedly come
to his rescue. He wondered if in reality this change might not be due
to some reflected alteration in himself. Well! He could not help it.

Her strange behavior at that time had affected him more deeply than he
would have thought possible; and while he had purposely avoided
thinking much about the banker's sudden change of front, back of his
devout thankfulness for the miracle was a vague suspicion, a curious
feeling that made him uncomfortable in the girl's presence. He could
not repent his determination to win at any price; yet he shrank, with a
moral cowardice which made him inwardly writhe, from owning that Cherry
had made the sacrifice at which Clyde and the others had hinted. If it
were indeed true, it placed him in an intolerable position, wherein he
could express neither his gratitude nor his censure. No doubt she had
read the signs of his mental confusion, and her own delicate
sensibility had responded to it.

They remained side by side on the bridge while the day died amidst a
wondrous panoply of color, each busied with thoughts that might not be
spoken, in their hearts emotions oddly at variance. The sky ahead of
them was wide-streaked with gold, as if for a symbol, interlaid with
sooty clouds in silhouette; on either side the mountains rose from
penumbral darkness to clear-cut heights still bright from the slanting
radiance. Here and there along the shadowy shore-line a light was born;
the smell of the salt sea was in the air. Above the rhythmic pulse of
the steamer rose the voices of men singing between decks, while the
parting waters at the prow played a soft accompaniment. A steward
summoned them to supper, but Boyd refused, saying he could not eat, and
the girl stayed with him while the miles slowly slipped past and the
night encompassed them.

"Two hours more," he told her, as the ship's bell sounded. "Then I can
eat and sleep--and sing."

Captain Peasley was pacing the bridge when later they breasted the
glare of Port Townsend and saw in the distance the flashing
searchlights of the forts that guard the Straits. They saw him stop
suddenly, and raise his night-glasses; Boyd laid his hand on Cherry's
arm. Presently the Captain crossed to them and said:

"Yonder seems to be a launch making out. See? I wonder what's up."
Almost in their path a tiny light was violently agitated. "By Jove!
They're signalling."

"You won't stop, will you?" questioned Emerson.

"I don't know, I am sure. I may have to."

The two boats were drawing together rapidly, and soon those on the
bridge heard the faint but increasing patter of a gasoline exhaust.
Carrying the same speed as _The Bedford Castle_, the launch shortly
came within hailing distance. The cyclopean eye of the ship's
searchlight blazed up, and the next instant, out from the gloom leaped
a little craft, on the deck of which a man stood waving a lantern. She
held steadfastly to her course, and a voice floated up to them:

"Ahoy! What ship?"

"_The Bedford Castle_, cannery-tender for Bristol Bay," Peasley shouted
back.

The man on the launch relinquished his lantern, and using both palms
for a funnel, cried, more clearly now: "Heave to! We want to come
aboard."

With an exclamation of impatience, the commanding officer stepped to
the telegraph, but Emerson forestalled him.

"Wait, they're after me, Captain; it's the Port Townsend police, and if
you let them aboard they'll take me off."

"What makes you think so?" demanded Peasley.

"Ask them."

Turning, the skipper bellowed down the gleaming electric pathway, "Who
are you?"

"Police! We want to come aboard."

"What did I tell you?" cried Emerson.

Once more the Captain shouted: "What do you want?"

"One of your passengers--Emerson. Heave to. You're passing us."

"That's bloody hard luck, Mr. Emerson; I can't help myself," the
Captain declared. But again Boyd blocked him as he started for the
telegraph.

"I won't stand it, sir. It's a conspiracy to ruin me."

"But, my dear young man--"

"Don't touch that instrument!"

From the launch came cries of growing vehemence, and a startled murmur
of voices rose from somewhere in the darkness of the deck beneath.

"Stand aside," Peasley ordered, gruffly; but the other held his ground,
saying, quietly:

"I warn you. I am desperate."

"Shall I stop her, sir?" the quartermaster asked from the shadows of
the wheel-house.

"No!" Emerson commanded, sharply, and in the glow from the
binnacle-light they saw he had drawn his revolver, while on the instant
up from the void beneath heaved the massive figure of Big George Balt,
a behemoth, more colossal and threatening than ever in the dim light.
Rumbling curses as he came, he leaped up the pilot-house steps,
wrenched open the door, and with one sweep of his hairy paw flung the
helmsman from his post, panting,

"Keep her going, Cap', or I'll run them down!"

"We stood by you, old man," Emerson urged; "you stand by us. They can't
make you stop. They can't come aboard."

The launch was abreast of them now, and skimming along so close that
one might have tossed a biscuit aboard of her. For an instant Captain
Peasley hesitated; then Emerson saw the ends of his bristly mustache
rise above an expansive grin as he winked portentously. But his voice
was convincingly loud and wrathful as he replied:

"What do you mean, sir? I'll have my blooming ship libelled for this."

"I'll make good your losses," Emerson volunteered, quickly, realizing
that other ears were open.

"Why, it's mutiny, sir."

"Exactly! You can say you went out under duress."

"I never heard of such a thing," stormed the skipper. Then, more
quietly, "But I don't seem to have any choice in the matter; do I?"

"None whatever."

"Tell them to go to hell!" growled Balt from the open window above
their head.

A blasphemous outcry floated up from the launch, while heads protruded
from the deck-house openings, the faces white in the slanting glare.
"Why don't you heave to?" demanded a voice.

Peasley stepped to the end of the bridge and called down: "I can't
stop, my good man, they won't allow it, y' know. You'll have to bloody
well come aboard yourself." Then, obedient to his command, the
search-light traced an arc through the darkness and died out, leaving
the little craft in darkness, save for its dim lantern.

Unseen by the amazed quartermaster, who was startled out of speech and
action, Emerson gripped the Captain's shoulder and whispered his
thanks, while the Britisher grumbled under his breath:

"Bli' me! Won't that labor crowd be hot? They nearly bashed in my head
with that iron spike. Four hundred pounds! My word!"

The sputter of the craft alongside was now punctuated by such a volley
of curses that he raised his voice again: "Belay that chatter, will
you? There's a lady aboard."

The police launch sheered off, and the sound of her exhaust grew
rapidly fainter and fainter. But not until it had wholly ceased did Big
George give over his post at the wheel. Even then he went down the
ladder reluctantly, and without a word of thanks, of explanation, or of
apology. With him this had been but a part of the day's work. He saw
neither sentiment nor humor in the episode. The clang of the
deep-throated ship's bell spoke the hour, and, taking Cherry's arm,
Boyd helped her to the deck.

"Now let's eat something," said she.

"Yes," he agreed, relief and triumph in his tone, "and drink something,
too."

"We'll drink to the health of 'Fingerless' Fraser."

"To the health of 'Fingerless' Fraser," he echoed. "We will drink that
standing."

A week later, after an uneventful voyage across a sea of glass, _The
Bedford Castle_ made up through a swirling tide-rip and into the
fog-bound harbor of Unalaska. The soaring "goonies" that had followed
them from Flattery had dropped astern at first sight of the volcanic
headlands, and now countless thousands of sea-parrots fled from the
ship's path, squattering away in comic terror, dragging their fat
bodies across the sea as a boy skips a flat rock. It had been Captain
Peasley's hope, here at the gateway of the Misty Sea, to learn
something about the lay of the big ice-floes to the northward, but he
was disappointed, for the season was yet too young for the
revenue-cutters, and the local hunters knew nothing. Forced to rely on
luck and his own skill, he steamed out again the next day, this time
doubling back to the eastward and laying a cautious course along the
second leg of the journey.

Once through the ragged barrier that separates the North Pacific from
her sister sea, the dank breath of the Arctic smote them fairly. The
breeze that wafted out from the north brought with it the chill of
limitless ice-fields, and the first night found them hove-to among the
outposts of that shifting desert of death which debouches out of
Behring Straits with the first approach of autumn, to retreat again
only at the coming of reluctant summer. From the crow's-nest the
lookout stared down upon a white expanse that stretched beyond the
horizon. At dawn they began their careful search, feeling their way
eastward through the open lanes and tortuous passages that separated
the floes, now laying-to for the northward set of the fields to clear a
path before them, now stealing through some narrow lead that opened
into freer waters.

_The Bedford Castle_ was a steel hull whose sides, opposed to the jaws
of the ponderous masses, would have been crushed like an eggshell in a
vise. Unlike a wooden ship, the gentlest contact would have sprung her
plates, while any considerable collision would have pierced her as if
she had been built of paper. Appreciating to the full the peril of his
slow advance, Captain Peasley did all the navigating in person; but
eventually they were hemmed in so closely that for a day and a night
they could do nothing but drift with the pack. In time, however, the
winds opened a crevice through which they retreated to follow the outer
limits farther eastward, until they were balked again.

Opposed to them were the forces of Nature, and they were wholly
dependent upon her fickle favor. It might be a day, a week, a month
before she would let them through, and, even when the barrier began to
yield, another ship, a league distant, might profit by an opening which
to them was barred. For a long, dull period the voyagers lay as
helpless as if in dry-dock, while wandering herds of seals barked at
them or bands of walruses ceased their fishing and crept out upon the
ice-pans to observe these invaders of their peace. When an opportunity
at last presented itself, they threaded their way southward, there to
try another approach, and another, and another, until the first of May
had come and gone, leaving them but little closer to their goal than
when they first hove-to. Late one evening they discerned smoke on the
horizon, and the next morning's light showed a three-masted steamship
fast in the ice, a few miles to the westward.

"That's _The Juliet_," Big George informed his companions, "one of the
North American Packers' Association tenders."

"She was loading when we left Seattle," Boyd remarked.

"It is Willis Marsh's ship, so he must be aboard," supplemented Cherry.
"She's a wooden ship, and built for this business. If we don't look out
he'll beat us in, after all."

"What good will that do him?" Clyde questioned. "The fish don't bite--I
mean run--for sixty days yet."

Emerson and Balt merely shrugged.

To Cherry Malotte this had been a voyage of dreams; for once away from
land, Boyd had become his real self again--that genial, irrepressible
self she had seen but rarely--and his manner had lost the restraint and
coolness which recently had disturbed their relations. Of necessity
their cramped environment had thrown them much together, and their
companionship had been most pleasant. She and Boyd had spent long hours
together, during which his light-heartedness had rivalled that of Alton
Clyde--hours wherein she had come to know him more intimately and to
feel that he was growing to a truer understanding of herself. She
realized beyond all doubt that for him there was but one woman in all
the world, yet the mere pleasure of being near him was an anodyne for
her secret distress. Womanlike, she took what was offered her and
strove unceasingly for more.

Two days after sighting _The Juliet_ they raised another ship, one of
the sailing fleet which they knew to be hovering in the offing, and
then on the fifth of the month the capricious current opened a way for
them. Slowly at first they pushed on between the floes into a vast area
of slush-ice, thence to a stretch as open and placid as a country
mill-pond. The lookout pointed a path out of this, into which they
steamed, coming at length to clear water, with the low shores of the
mainland twenty miles away.

At sundown they anchored in the wide estuary of the Kalvik River, the
noisy rumble of their chains breaking the silence that for months had
lain like a smother upon the port. The Indian village gave sign of life
only in thin, azure wisps of smoke that rose from the dirt roofs; the
cannery buildings stood as naked and uninviting as when Boyd had last
seen them. The Greek cross crowning the little white church was gilded
by the evening sun. Through the glasses Cherry spied a figure in the
door of her house which she declared was Constantine, but with
commendable caution the big breed forebore to join the fleet of kyaks
now rapidly mustering. Taking Clyde with them, she and Boyd were soon
on their way to the land, leaving George to begin discharging his
cargo. The long voyage that had maddened the fishermen was at last at
an end, and they were eager to begin their tasks.

A three-mile pull brought the ship's boat to Cherry's landing, where
Constantine and Chakawana met them, the latter hysterical with joy, the
former showing his delight in a rare display of white teeth and a flow
of unintelligible English. Even the sledge-dogs, now fat from idleness,
greeted their mistress with a fierce clamor that dismayed Alton Clyde,
to whom all was utterly new and strange.

"Glory be!" he exclaimed. "They're nothing but wolves. Won't they bite?
And the house--ain't it a hit! Why, it looks like a stage setting! Oh,
say, I'm for this! I'm getting rough and primitive and brutal already!"

When they passed from the store, with its shelves sadly naked now, to
the cozy living quarters behind, his enthusiasm knew no bounds. Leaving
Chakawana and her mistress to chatter and clack in their patois, he
inspected the premises inside and out, peering into all sorts of
corners, collecting souvenirs, and making friends with the saturnine
breed.

Cherry would not return to the ship, but Emerson and Clyde re-embarked
and were rowed down to the cannery site, abreast of which lay _The
Bedford Castle_, where they lingered until the creeping twilight forced
them to the boat again. When they reached the ship the cool Arctic
night had descended, but its quiet was broken by the halting nimble of
steam-winches, the creak of tackle, the cries of men, and the sounds of
a great activity. Baring his head to the breezes Boyd filled his lungs
full of the bracing air, sweet with the flavor of spring, vowing
secretly that no music that he had ever heard was the equal of this. He
turned his face to the southward and smiled, while his thoughts sped a
message of love and hope into the darkness.





CHAPTER XX

WHEREIN "FINGERLESS" FRASER RETURNS


Big George had lost no time, and already the tow-boats were overboard,
while a raft of timber was taking form alongside the ship. As soon as
it was completed, it was loaded with crates and boxes and paraphernalia
of all sorts, then towed ashore as the tide served. Another took its
place, and another and another. All that night the torches flared and
the decks drummed to a ceaseless activity. In the morning Boyd sent a
squad of fishermen ashore to clear the ground for his buildings, and
all day new rafts of lumber and material helped to increase the pile at
the water's edge.

His early training as an engineer now stood him in good stead, for a
thousand details demanded expert supervision; but he was as completely
at home at this work as was Big George in his own part of the
undertaking, and it was not long before order began to emerge from what
seemed a hopeless chaos. Never did men have more willing hands to do
their bidding than did he and George; and when a week later _The
Juliet_, with Willis Marsh on board, came to anchor, the bunk-houses
were up and peopled, while the new site had become a beehive of
activity.

The mouth of the Kalvik River is several miles wide, yet it contains
but a small anchorage suitable for deep-draught ships, the rest of the
harbor being underlaid with mud-bars and tide-flats over which none but
small boats may pass; and as the canneries are distributed up and down
the stream for a considerable distance, it is necessary to transport
all supplies to and from the ships by means of tugs and lighters. Owing
to the narrowness of the channel, _The Juliet_ came to her moorings not
far from _The Bedford Castle_.

To Marsh, already furious at the trick the ice had played him, this
forced proximity to his rival brought home with added irony the fact
that he had been forestalled, while it emphasized his knowledge that
henceforth the conflict would be carried on at closer quarters. It
would be a contest between two men, both determined to win by fair
means or foul.

Emerson was a dream-dazzled youth, striving like a knight-errant for
the love of a lady and the glory of conquest, but he was also a born
fighter, and in every emergency he had shown himself as able as his
experienced opponent.

As Marsh looked about and saw how much Boyd's well-directed energy was
accomplishing, he was conscious of a slight disheartenment. Still, he
was on his own ground, he had the advantage of superior force, and
though he was humiliated by his failure to throttle the hostile
enterprise in its beginning, he was by no means at the end of his
expedients. He was curious to see his rival in action, and he decided
to visit him and test his temper.

It was on the afternoon following his arrival that Marsh, after a tour
of inspection, landed from his launch and strolled up to where Boyd
Emerson was at work. He was greeted courteously, if a bit coolly, and
found, as on their last meeting, that his own bearing was reflected
exactly in that of Boyd. Both men, beneath the scant politeness of
their outward manner, were aware that the time for ceremony had passed.
Here in the Northland they faced each other at last as man to man.

"I see you have a number of my old fishermen," Marsh observed.

"Yes, we were fortunate in getting such good ones."

"You were fortunate in many ways. In fact you are a very lucky young
man."

"Indeed! How?"

"Well, don't you think you were lucky to beat that strike?"

"It wasn't altogether luck. However, I do consider myself fortunate in
escaping at the last moment," Boyd laughed easily. "By the way, what
happened to the man they mistook for me?"

"Let him go, I believe. I didn't pay much attention to the matter."
Marsh had been using his eyes to good advantage, and, seeing the work
even better in hand than he had supposed, he was moved by irritation
and the desire to goad his opponent to say more than he had intended:
"I rather think you will have a lot to explain, one of these days," he
said, with deliberate menace.

"With fifty thousand cases of salmon aboard _The Bedford Castle_ I will
explain anything. Meanwhile the police may go to the devil!" The cool
assurance of the young man's tone roused his would-be tormentor like a
personal affront.

"You got away from Seattle, but there is a commissioner at Dutch
Harbor, also a deputy marshal, who may have better success with a
warrant than those policemen had." The Trust's manager could not keep
down the angry tremor in his voice, and the other, perceiving it,
replied in a manner designed to inflame him still more:

"Yes, I have heard of those officers. I understand they are both in
your employ."

"What!"

"I hear you have bought them."

"Do you mean to insinuate--"

"I don't mean to insinuate anything. Listen! We are where we can talk
plainly, Marsh, and I am tired of all this subterfuge. You did what you
could to stop me, you even tried to have me killed--"

"You dare to--"

"But I guess it never occurred to you that I may be just as desperate
as you are."

The men stared at each other with hostile eyes, but the accusation had
come so suddenly and with such boldness as to rob Marsh of words.
Emerson went on in the same level voice: "I broke through in spite of
you, and I'm on the job. If you want to cry quits, I'm willing; but, by
God! I won't be balked, and if any of your hired marshals try to take
me before I put up my catch I'll put you away. Understand?"

Willis Marsh recoiled involuntarily before the sudden ferocity that
blazed up in the speaker's face. "You are insane," he cried.

"Am I?" Emerson laughed, harshly. "Well, I'm just crazy enough to do
what I say. I don't think you're the kind that wants hand-to-hand
trouble, so let's each attend to his own affair. I'm doing well, thank
you, and I think I can get along better if yon don't come back here
until I send for you. Something might fall on you."

Marsh's full, red lips went pallid with rage as he said "Then it is to
be war, eh?"

"Suit yourself." Boyd pointed to the shore. "Your boatman is waiting
for you."

As Marsh made his way to the water's edge he stumbled like a blind man;
his lips were bleeding where his small, sharp teeth had bitten them,
and he panted like an hysterical woman.

During the next fortnight the sailing-ships began to assemble, standing
in under a great spread of canvas to berth close alongside the two
steamships; for, once the ice had moved north, there was no further
obstacle to their coming, and the harbor was soon livened with puffing
tugs, unwieldy lighters, and fleets of smaller vessels. Where, but a
short time before, the brooding silence had been undisturbed save for
the plaint of wolf-dogs and the lazy voices of natives, a noisy army
was now at work. The bustle of a great preparation arose; languid
smoke-wreaths began to unfurl above the stacks of the canneries; the
stamp and clank of tin-machines re-echoed; hammer and saw maintained a
never-ceasing hubbub. Down at the new plant scows were being launched
while yet the pitch was warm on their seams; buildings were rising
rapidly, and a crew had gone up the river to get out a raft of piles.

On the morning after the arrival of the last ship, Emerson and his
companions were treated to a genuine surprise. Cherry had come down to
the site as usual--she could not let a day go by without visiting the
place--and Clyde, after a tardy breakfast, had just come ashore. They
were watching Big George direct the launching of a scow, when all of a
sudden they heard a familiar voice behind them cry, cheerfully:

"Hello, white folks! Here we are, all together again."

They turned to behold a villanous-looking man beaming benignly upon
them. He was dirty, his clothes were in rags, and through a riotous
bristle of beard that hid his thin features a mangy patch showed on
either cheek. It was undeniably "Fingerless" Fraser, but how changed,
how altered from that radiant flower of indolence they had known! He
was pallid, emaciated, and bedraggled; his attitude showed hunger and
abuse, and his bony joints seemed about to pierce through their
tattered covering. As they stood speechless with amazement, he made his
identification complete by protruding his tongue from the corner of his
mouth and gravely closing one eye in a wink of exceeding wisdom.

"Fraser!" they cried in chorus, then fell upon him noisily, shaking his
grimy hands and slapping his back until he coughed weakly. Summoned by
their shouts, Big George broke in upon the incoherent greeting, and at
sight of his late comrade began to laugh hoarsely.

"Glad to see you, old man!" he cried, "but how did you get here?"

Fraser drew himself up with injured dignity, then spoke in dramatic
accents. "I worked my way!" He showed the whites of his eyes,
tragically.

"You look like you'd walked in from Kansas," George declared.

"Yes, sir, I _worked! Me!"_

"How? Where?"

"On that bloody wind-jammer." He stretched a long arm toward the harbor
in a theatrical gesture.

"But the police?" queried Boyd.

"Oh, I squared them easy. It's you they want. Yes, sir, I _worked_."
Again he scanned their faces anxiously. "I'm a scullery-maid."

"What?"

"That's what I said. I've rustled garbage-cans till the smell of food
gives me a cold sweat. I'm as hungry as a starving Cuban, and yet the
sight of a knife and fork turns my stomach." He wheeled suddenly upon
Alton Clyde, whose burst of shrill laughter offended him. "Don't cry.
Your sympathy unmans me."

"Tell us about it," urged Cherry.

"What's the use?" he demanded, with a glare at Clyde. "That bone-head
wouldn't understand."

"Go ahead," Boyd seconded, with twitching lips. "You look as if you had
worked, and worked hard."

"Hard? I'm the only man in the world who knows what hard work is!"

"Start at the beginning--when you were arrested."

"Well, I didn't care nothing about the sneeze," he took up the tale,
"for I figure it out that they can't slough me without clearing you, so
I never take no sleeping-powders, and, sure enough, about third
drink-time the bulls spring me, and I screw down the main stem to the
drink and get Jerry to your fade--"

"Tell it straight," interrupted Cherry. "They don't understand you."

"Well, there ain't any Pullmans running to this resort, so I stow away
on a coal-burner, but somebody flags me. Then I try to hire out as a
fisherman, but I ain't there with the gang talk and my stuff drags, so
I fix it for a hide-away on _The Blessed Isle_--that's her name. Can
you beat that for a monaker? This sailor of mine goes good to grub me,
but he never shows for forty-eight hours--or years, I forget which.
Anyhow, I stand it as long as I can, then I dig my way up to a hatch
and mew like a house-cat. It seems they were hep from the start, and
battened me down on purpose, then made book on how long I'd stay hid.
Oh, it's a funny joke, and they all get a stomach laugh when I show.
When I offer to pay my way they're insulted. Nix! that ain't their
graft. They wouldn't take money from a stranger. Oh, no! They permit me
to _work_ my way. The scullion has quit, see? So they promote me to his
job. It's the only job I ever held, and I held it because it wouldn't
let go of me, savvy? There's only three hundred men aboard _The Blessed
Isle_, so all I have to do, regular, is to understudy the cooks, carry
the grub, wait on table, wash the dishes, mop the floors, make the
officers' beds, peel six bushels of potatoes a day, and do the laundry.
Then, of course, there's some odd tasks. Oh, it was a swell job--more
like a pastime. When a mop sees me coming now it dances a hornpipe, and
I can't look a dish-rag in the face. All I see in my dreams is
potato-parings and meat-rinds. I've got dish-water in my veins, and the
whole universe looks greasy to me. Naturally it was my luck to pick the
slowest ship in the harbor. We lay three weeks in the ice, that's all,
and nobody worked but me and the sea-gulls."

"You deserted this morning, eh?"

"I did. I beat the barrier, and now I want a bath and some clean
clothes and a whole lot of sleep. You don't need to disturb me till
fall."

He showed no interest whatever in the new plant, refusing even to look
it over or to express an opinion upon the progress of the work; so they
sent him out to the ship, where for days he remained in a toad-like
lethargy, basking in the sun, sleeping three-fourths of the time and
spending his waking hours in repeating the awful tale of his
disgraceful peonage.

To unload the machinery, particularly the heavier pieces, was by no
means a simple matter, owing to the furious tides that set in and out
of the Kalvik River. The first mishap occurred during the trip on which
the boilers were towed in, and it looked to Boyd less like an accident
than a carefully planned move to <DW36> him at one stroke. The other
ships were busily discharging and the roadstead was alive with small
craft of various kinds, when the huge boilers were swung over the side
of _The Bedford Castle_ and blocked into position for the journey to
the shore. George and a half-dozen of his men went along with the load
while Emerson remained on the ship. They were just well under way when,
either by the merest chance or by malicious design, several of the
rival Company's towboats moored to the neighboring ships cast off. The
anchorage was crowded and a boiling six-mile tide made it difficult at
best to avoid collision.

Hearing a confused shouting to shoreward, Boyd ran to the rail in time
to see one of the Company tugs at the head of a string of towboats
bearing down ahead of the current directly upon his own slow-moving
lighter. Already it was so close at hand as to make disaster seem
inevitable. He saw Balt wave his arms furiously and heard him bellow
profane warnings while the fishermen scurried about excitedly, but
still the tug held to its course. Boyd raised his voice in a wild
alarm, but had they heard him there was nothing they could have done.
Then suddenly the affair altered its complexion.

The oncoming tug was barely twice its length from the scow when Boyd
saw Big George cease his violent antics and level a revolver directly
at the wheel-house of the opposing craft. Two puffs of smoke issued
from weapon, then out from the glass-encased structure the steersman
plunged, scrambled down the deck and into the shelter of the house.
Instantly the bow of the tug swung off, and she came on sidewise,
striking Balt's scow a glancing blow, the sound of which rose above the
shouts, while its force threw the big fellow and his companions to
their knees and shattered the glass in the pilot-house windows. The
boats behind fouled each other, then drifted down upon the scow, and
the tide, seizing the whole flotilla, began to spin it slowly. Rushing
to the ladder, Emerson leaped into another launch which fortunately was
at hand, and the next instant as the little craft sped out from the
side of _The Bedford Castle_, he saw that a fight was in progress on
the lighter. It was over quickly, and before he reached the scene the
current had drifted the tows apart. George, it seemed, had boarded the
tug, dragged the captain off, and beaten him half insensible before the
man's companions had come to his rescue.

"Is the scow damaged?" Emerson cried, as he came alongside.

"She's leaking, but I guess we can make it," George reassured him.

They directed the second launch to make fast, and, towed by both tugs,
they succeeded in beaching their cargo a mile below the landing.

"We'll calk her at low tide," George declared, well satisfied at this
outcome of the misadventure. Then he fell to reviling the men who had
caused it.

"Don't waste your breath on them," Boyd advised. "We're lucky enough as
it is. If that tug hadn't sheered off she would have cut us down, sure."

"That fellow done it a-purpose," George swore. "Seamen ain't that
careless. He tried to tell me he was rattled, but I rattled _him_."

"If that's the case they may try it again," said the younger man.

"Huh! I'll pack a 'thirty-thirty' from now on, and I bet they don't get
within hailing distance without an iron-clad."

The more calmly Emerson regarded the incident, the more he marvelled at
the good-fortune that had saved him. "We had better wake up," he said.
"We have been asleep so far. If Marsh planned this, he will plan
something more."

"Yes, and if he puts one wallop over we're done for," George agreed,
pessimistically. "I'll keep a watchman aboard the scows hereafter.
That's our vital spot."

But the days sped past without further interference, and the
construction of the plant progressed by leaps and bounds, while _The
Bedford Castle_, having discharged her cargo, steamed away to return in
August.

The middle of June brought the first king salmon, scouts sent on ahead
of the "sockeyes;" but Boyd made no effort to take advantage of this
run, laboring manfully to prepare for the advance of the main army,
that terrific horde that was soon to come from the mysterious depths,
either to make or ruin him. Once the run proper started, there would be
no more opportunity for building or for setting up machinery. He must
be ready and waiting by the first of July.

For some time his tin-machines had been busy, night and day, turning
out great heaps of gleaming cans, while the carpenters and machinists
completed their tasks. The gill-netters were overhauling their gear,
the beach was lined with fishing-boats. On the dock great piles of
seines and drift-nets were being inspected. Three miles below, Big
George, with a picked crew and a pile-driver, was building the
fish-trap. It consisted of half-mile "leads," or rows of piling, capped
with stringers, upon which netting was hung, and terminated in
"hearts," "corrals," and "spillers," the intricate arrangements of
webbing and timbers out of which the fish were to be taken.

It was for the title to the ground where his present operations were
going forward that George had been so cruelly disciplined by the
"interests;" and while he had held stubbornly to his rights for years
in spite of the bitterest persecution, he was now for the first time
able to utilize his site. Accordingly his exultation was tremendous.

As for Boyd, the fever in his veins mounted daily as he saw his dream
assuming concrete form. The many problems arising as the work advanced
afforded him unceasing activity; the unforeseen obstacles which were
encountered hourly required swift and certain judgment, taxing his
ingenuity to the utmost. He became so filled with it all, so steeped
with the spirit of his surroundings, that he had thought for nothing
else. Every dawn marked the beginning of a new battle, every twilight
heralded another council. His duties swamped him; he was worried,
exultant, happy. Always he found Cherry at his shoulder, unobtrusive
and silent for the most part, yet intensely observant and keenly alive
to every action. She seemed to have the faculty of divination, knowing
when to be silent and when to join her mood with his, and she gave him
valuable help; for she possessed a practical mind and a masculine
aptitude for details that surprised both him and George. But, rapidly
as the work progressed, it seemed that good-fortune would never smile
upon them for long. One day, when their preparations were nearly
completed, a foreman came to Boyd, and said excitedly:

"Boss, I'd like you to look at the Iron Chinks right away."

"What's up?"

"I don't know, but something is wrong." A hurried examination showed
the machines to be cunningly crippled; certain parts were entirely
missing, while others were broken.

"They were all right when we brought them ashore," the man declared.
"Somebody's been at them lately."

"When? How?" questioned Boyd. "We have had watchmen on guard all the
time. Have any strangers been about?"

"Nobody seems to know. When we got ready to set 'em just now, I saw
this."

The Iron Chink, or mechanical cleaner, is perhaps the most ingenious of
the many labor-saving devices used in the salmon fisheries. It is an
awkward-looking, yet very effective contrivance of revolving knives and
conveyors which seizes the fish whole and delivers it cleaned, clipped,
cut, and ready to be washed. With superhuman dexterity it does the work
of twenty lightning-like butchers. Without the aid of these Iron
Chinks, Boyd knew that his fish would spoil before they could be
handled. In a panic, he pursued his investigation far enough to realize
that the machines were beyond repair; that what had seemed at first a
trivial mishap was in fact an appalling disaster. Then, since his own
experience left him without resource, he hastened straightway to George
Balt. A half-hour's run down the bay and he clambered from his launch
to the pile-driver, where, amid the confusion and noise, he made known
his tidings. The big fellow's calmness amazed him.

"What are you going to do now?"

"Butcher by hand," said the fisherman.

"But how? That takes skilled labor--lots of it."

George grinned. "I'm too old a bird to be caught like this. I figured
on accidents from the start, and when I hired my Chinamen I included a
crew of cutters."

"By Jove, you never told me!"

"There wasn't no use. We ain't licked yet, not by a damned sight.
Willis Marsh will have to try again."





CHAPTER XXI

A HAND IN THE DARK


While they were talking a tug-boat towing a pile-driver came into view.
Boyd asked the meaning of its presence in this part of the river.

"I don't know," answered Big George, staring intently. "Yonder looks
like another one behind it, with a raft of piles."

"I thought all the Company traps were up-stream."

"So they are. I can't tell what they're up to."

A half-hour later, when the new flotilla had come to anchor a short
distance below, Emerson's companion began to swear.

"I might have known it."

"What?"

"Marsh aims to 'cork' us."

"What is that?"

"He's going to build a trap on each side of this one and cut off our
fish."

"Good Lord! Can he do that?"

"Sure. Why not? The law gives us six hundred yards both ways. As long
as he stays outside of that limit he can do anything he wants to."

"Then of what use is our trap? The salmon follow definite courses close
to the shore, and if he intercepts them before they reach us--why, then
we'll get only what he lets through."

"That's his plan," said Big George, sourly, "It's an old game, but it
don't always work. You can't tell what salmon will do till they do it.
I've studied this point of land for five years, and I know more about
it than anybody else except God 'lmighty. If the fish hug the shore,
then we're up against it, but I think they strike in about here; that's
why I chose this site. We can't tell, though, till the run starts. All
we can do now is see that them people keep their distance."

The "lead" of a salmon-trap consists of a row of web-hung piling that
runs out from the shore for many hundred feet, forming a high, stout
fence that turns the schools of fish and leads them into cunningly
contrived enclosures, or "pounds," at the outer extremity, from which
they are "brailed" as needed. These corrals are so built that once the
fish are inside they cannot escape. The entire structure is devised
upon the principle that the salmon will not make a short turn, but will
swim as nearly as possible in a straight line. It looked to Boyd as if
Marsh, by blocking the line of progress above and below, had virtually
destroyed the efficiency of the new trap, rendering the cost of its
construction a total loss.

"Sometimes you can cork a trap and sometimes you can't," Balt went on.
"It all depends on the currents, the lay of the bars, and a lot of
things we don't know nothing about. I've spent years in trying to
locate the point where them fish strike in, and I think it's just below
here. It'll all depend on how good I guessed."

"Exactly! And if you guessed wrong--"

"Then we'll fish with nets, like we used to before there was any traps."

That evening, when he had seen the night-shift started, Emerson decided
to walk up to Cherry's house, for he was worried over the day's
developments and felt that an hour of the girl's society might serve to
clear his thoughts. His nerves were high-strung from the tension of the
past weeks, and he knew himself in the condition of an athlete trained
to the minute. In his earlier days he had frequently felt the same
nervousness, the same intense mental activity, just prior to an
important race or game, and he was familiar with those disquieting,
panicky moments when, for no apparent reason, his heart thumped and a
physical sickness mastered him. He knew that the fever would leave him,
once the salmon began to run, just as it had always vanished at the
crack of the starter's pistol or the shrill note of the referee's
whistle. He was eager for action, eager to find himself possessed of
that gloating, gruelling fury that drives men through to the finish
line. Meanwhile, he was anxious to divert his mind into other channels.

Cherry's house was situated a short distance above the cannery which
served as Willis Marsh's headquarters, and Boyd's path necessarily took
him past his enemy's very stronghold. Finding the tide too high to
permit of passing beneath the dock, he turned up among the buildings,
where, to his surprise, he encountered his own day-foreman talking
earnestly with a stranger.

The fisherman started guiltily as he saw him, and Boyd questioned him
sharply.

"What are you doing here, Larsen?"

"I just walked up after supper to have a talk with an old mate."

"Who is he?" Boyd glanced suspiciously at Larsen's companion.

"He's Mr. Marsh's foreman."

Emerson spoke out bluntly: "See here. I don't like this. These people
have caused me a lot of trouble already, and I don't want my men
hanging around here."

"Oh, that's all right," said Larsen, carelessly. "Him and me used to
fish together." And as if this were a sufficient explanation, he turned
back to his conversation, leaving Emerson to proceed on his way,
vaguely displeased at the episode, yet reflecting that heretofore he
had never had occasion to doubt Larsen's loyalty.

He found Cherry at home, and, flinging himself into one of her
easy-chairs, relieved his mind of the day's occurrences.

"Marsh is building those traps purely out of spite," she declared,
indignantly, when he had finished. "He doesn't need any more fish--he
has plenty of traps farther up the river."

"To be sure! It looks as if we might have to depend upon the
gill-netters."

"We will know before long. If the fish strike in where George expects,
Marsh will be out a pretty penny."

"And if they don't strike in where George expects, we will be out all
the expense of building that trap."

"Exactly! It's a fascinating business, isn't it? It's a business in
which the unexpected is forever happening. But the stakes are high
and--I know you will succeed."

Boyd smiled at her comforting assurance, her belief in him was always
stimulating.

"By-the-way," she continued, "have you heard the historic story about
the pink salmon?"

He shook his head.

"Well, there was a certain shrewd old cannery-man in Washington State
whose catch consisted almost wholly of pink fish. As you know, that
variety does not bring as high a price as red salmon, like these. Well,
finding that he could not sell his catch, owing to the popular
prejudice about color, this man printed a lot of striking can-labels,
which read, 'Best Grade Pink Salmon, Warranted not to Turn Red in the
Can.' They tell me it worked like a charm."

"No wonder!" Boyd laughed, beginning to feel the tension of his nerves
relax at the restfulness of her influence. As usual, he fell at once
into the mood she desired for him. He saw that her brows were furrowed
and her rosy lips drawn into an unconscious pout as she said, more to
herself than to him:

"I wish I were a man. I'd like to engage in a business of this sort,
something that would require ingenuity and daring. I'd like to handle
big affairs."

"It seems to me that you are in a business of that sort. You are one of
us."

"Oh, but you and George are doing it all."

"There is your copper-mine. You surely handled that very cleverly."

Cherry's expression altered, and she shot a quick glance at him as he
went on:

"How is it coming along, by-the-way? I haven't heard you mention it
lately?"

"Very well, I believe. The men were down the other day, and told me it
was a big thing."

"I'm delighted. How does it seem, to be rich?"

There was the slightest hint of constraint in the girl's voice as she
stared out at the slowly gathering twilight, murmuring:

"I--I hardly know. Rich! That has always been my dream, and yet--"

"The wonderful feature about dreams," he took advantage of her pause to
say, "is that they come true."

"Not all of them--not the real, wonderful dreams," she returned.

"Oh yes! My dream is coming true, and so is yours."

"I have given up hoping for that," she said, without turning.

"But you shouldn't give up. Remember that all the great things ever
accomplished were only dreams at first, and the greater the
accomplishments, the more impossible they seemed to begin with."

Something in the girl's attitude and in her silence made him feel that
his words rang hollow and commonplace. While they had talked, an
unaccustomed excitement had been mounting in his brain, and it held him
now in a kind of delicious embarrassment. It was as if both had been
suddenly enfolded in a new and mysterious understanding, without the
need of speech. He did not tell himself that Cherry loved him; but he
roused to a fresh perception of her beauty, and felt himself privileged
in her nearness. At the same time he was seized with the old,
half-resentful curiosity to learn her history. What wealth of romance
lay shadowed in her eyes, what tragic story was concealed by her
consistent silence, he could only guess; for she was a woman who spoke
rarely of herself and lived wholly in the present. Her very reticence
inspired confidence, and Boyd felt sure that here was a girl to whom
one might confess the inmost secrets of a wretched soul and rest secure
in the knowledge that his confession would be inviolate as if locked in
the heart of mountains. He knew her for a steadfast friend, and he
t'elt that she was beautiful, not only in face and form, but in all
those little indescribable mannerisms which stamp the individual. And
this girl was here alone with him, so close that by stretching out his
arms he might enfold her. She allowed him to come and go at will; her
intimacy with him was almost like that of an unspoiled boy--yet
different, so different that he thrilled at the thought, and the blood
pounded up into his throat.

It may have been the unusual ardor of his gaze that warmed her cheeks
and brought her eyes back from the world outside. At any rate, she
turned, flashing him a startled glance that caused his pulse to leap
anew. Her eyes widened and a flush spread slowly upward to her hair,
then her lids drooped, as if weighted by unwonted shyness, and rising
silently, she went past him to the piano. Never before had she
surprised that look in his eyes, and at the realization a wave of
confusion surged over her. She strove to calm herself through her
music, which shielded while it gave expression to her mood, and neither
spoke as the evening shadows crept in upon them. But the girl's
exaltation was short-lived; the thought came that Boyd's feeling was
but transitory; he was not the sort to burn lasting incense before more
than one shrine. Nevertheless, at this moment he was hers, and in the
joy of that certainty she let the moments slip.

He stopped her at last, and they talked in the half-light, floating
along together half dreamily, as if upon the bosom of some great
current that bore them into strange regions which they dreaded yet
longed to explore.

They heard a child crying somewhere in the rear of the house, and
Chakawana's voice soothing, then in a moment the Indian girl appeared
in the doorway saying something about going out with Constantine.
Cherry acquiesced half consciously, impatient of the intrusion.

For a long time they talked, so completely in concord that for the most
part their voices were low and their sentences so incomplete that they
would have sounded incoherent and foolish to other ears. They were
roused finally by the appreciation that it had grown very late and a
storm was brewing. Boyd rose, and going to the door, saw that the sky
was deeply overcast, rendering the night as dark as in a far lower
latitude.

"I've overstayed my welcome," he ventured, and smiled at her answering
laugh.

With a trace of solicitude, she said:

"Wait! I'll get you a rain-coat," but he reached out a detaining hand.
In the darkness it encountered the bare flesh of her arm.

"Please don't! You'd have to strike a light to find it, and I don't
want a light now."

He was standing on the steps, with her slightly above him, and so close
that he heard her sharp-drawn breath.

"It _has_ been a pleasant evening," she said, inanely.

"I saw you for the first time to-night, Cherry. I think I have begun to
know you."

Again she felt her heart leap. Reaching out to say good-bye, his hand
slipped down over her arm, like a caress, until her palm lay in his.

With trembling, gentle hands she pushed him from her; but even when the
sound of his footsteps had died away, she stood with eyes straining
into the gloom, in her breast a gladness so stifling that she raised
her hands to still its tumult.

Emerson, with the glow still upon him, felt a deep contentment which he
did not trouble to analyze. It has been said that two opposite impulses
may exist side by side in a man's mind, like two hostile armies which
have camped close together in the night, unrevealed to each other until
the morning. To Emerson the dawn had not yet come. He had no thought of
disloyalty to Mildred, but, after his fashion, took the feeling of the
moment unreflectively. His mood was averse to thought, and, moreover,
the darkness forced him to give instant attention to his path. While
the waters of the bay out to his right showed a ghostly gray, objects
beneath the bluff where he walked were cloaked in impenetrable shadow.
The air was damp with the breath of coming rain, and at rare intervals
he caught a glimpse of the torn edges of clouds hurrying ahead of a
wind that was yet unfelt.

When the black bulk of Marsh's cannery loomed ahead of him, he left the
gravel beach and turned up among the buildings, seeking to retrace his
former course. He noticed that once he had left the noisy shingle, his
feet made no sound in the soft moss. Thus it was that, as he turned the
corner of the first building, he nearly ran against a man who was
standing motionless against the wall. The fellow seemed as startled at
the encounter as Emerson, and with a sharp exclamation leaped away and
vanished into the gloom. Boyd lost no time in gaining the plank runway
that led to the dock, and finding an angle in the building, backed into
it and waited, half-suspecting that he had stumbled into a trap. He
reflected that both the hour and the circumstances were unpropitious;
for in case he should meet with foul play, Marsh might plausibly claim
that he had been mistaken for a marauder. He determined, therefore, to
proceed with the greatest caution. From his momentary glimpse of the
man as he made off, he knew that he was tall and active--just the sort
of person to prove dangerous in an encounter. But if his suspicions
were correct there must be others close by, and Boyd wondered why he
had heard no signal. After a breathless wait of a moment or two, he
stole cautiously out, and, selecting the darkest shadows, slipped from
one to another till he was caught by the sound of voices issuing from
the yawning entrance of the main building on his right. The next moment
his tension relaxed; one of the speakers was a woman. Evidently his
alarm had been needless, for these people, whoever they were, made no
effort to conceal their presence. On the contrary, the woman had raised
her tone to a louder pitch, although her words were still
undistinguishable.

Greatly relieved, Boyd was about to go on, when a sharp cry, like a
signal, came in the woman's voice, a cry which turned to a genuine wail
of distress. The listener heard a man's voice cursing in answer, and
then the sound of a scuffle, followed at length by a choking cry, that
brought him bounding into the building. He ran forward, recklessly, but
before he had covered half the distance he collided violently with a
piece of machinery and went sprawling to the floor. A glance upward
revealed the dim outlines of a "topper," and showed him farther down
the building, silhouetted briefly against the lesser darkness of the
windows, two struggling figures. As he regained his footing, something
rushed past him--man or animal he could not tell which, for its feet
made no more sound upon the floor than those of a wolf-dog. Then, as he
bolted forward, he heard a man cry out, and found himself in the midst
of turmoil. His hands encountered a human body, and he seized it, only
to be hurled aside as if with a giant's strength. Again he clinched
with a man's form, and bore it to the floor, cursing at the darkness
and reaching for its throat. His antagonist raised his voice in wild
clamor, while Boyd braced himself for another assault from those huge
hands he had met a moment before. But it did not come. Instead, he
heard a cry from the woman, an answer in a deeper voice, and then
swift, pattering footsteps growing fainter. Meanwhile the man with whom
he was locked was fighting desperately, with hands and feet and teeth,
shouting hoarsely. Other footsteps sounded now, this time approaching,
then at the door a lantern flared. A watchman came running down between
the lines of machinery, followed by other figures half revealed.

Boyd had pinned his antagonist against the cold sides of a retort at
last, and with fingers clutched about his throat was beating his head
violently against the iron, when by the lantern's gleam he caught one
glimpse of the fat, purple face in front of him, and loosed his hold
with a startled exclamation. Released from the grip that had nearly
made an end of him, Willis Marsh staggered to his feet, then lurched
forward as if about to fall from weakness. His eyes were staring, his
blackened tongue protruded, while his head, battered and bleeding,
lolled grotesquely from side to side as if in hideous merriment. His
clothes were torn and soiled from the litter underfoot, and he
presented a frightful picture of distress. But it was not this that
caused Emerson the greatest astonishment. The man was wounded, badly
wounded, as he saw by the red stream which gushed down over his breast.
Boyd cast his eyes about for the other participants in the encounter,
but they were nowhere visible; only an open door in the shadows close
by hinted at the mode of their disappearance.

There was a brief, noisy interval, during which Emerson was too
astounded to attempt an answer to the questions hurled broadcast by the
new-comers; then Marsh levelled a trembling finger at him and cried,
hysterically:

"There he is, men. He tried to murder me. I--I'm hurt. I'll have him
arrested."

The seriousness of the accusation struck the young man on the instant;
he turned upon the group.

"I didn't do that. I heard a fight going on and ran in here--"

"He's a liar," the wounded man interrupted, shrilly. "He stabbed me!
See?" He tried to strip the shirt from his wounds, then fell to
chattering and shaking. "Oh, God! I'm hurt." He staggered to a
packing-case and sank upon it weakly fumbling at his sodden shoulder.

"I didn't do that," repeated Boyd. "I don't know who stabbed him. I
didn't."

"Then who did?" some one demanded.

"What are you doing in here? You'd a killed him in a minute," said the
man with the lantern.

"We'll fix you for this," a third voice threatened.

"Listen," Boyd said, in a tone to make them pause. "There has been a
mistake here. I was passing the building when I heard a woman scream,
and I rushed in to prevent Marsh from choking her to death."

"A woman!" chorused the group.

"That's what I said."

"Where is she now?"

"I don't know. I didn't see her at all. I grappled with the first
person I ran into. She must have gone out as you came in." Boyd
indicated the side door, which was still ajar.

"It's a lie," screamed Marsh.

"It's the truth," stoutly maintained Emerson, "and there was a man with
her, too. Who was she, Marsh? Who was the man?"

"She--she--I don't know."

"Don't lie."

"I'm hurt," reiterated the stricken man, feebly. Then, seeing the
bewilderment in the faces about him, he burst out anew: "Don't stand
there like a lot of fools. Why don't you get him?"

"If I stabbed him I must have had a knife," Emerson said, again
checking the forward movement. "You may search me if you like. See?" He
opened his coat and displayed his belt.

"He's got a six-shooter," some one said.

"Yes, and I may use it," said Emerson, quietly.

"Maybe he dropped the knife," said the watchman, and began to search
about the floor, followed by the others.

"It may have been the woman herself who stabbed Mr. Marsh," offered
Emerson. "He was strangling her when I arrived."

Roused by this statement to a fresh denial, Marsh cried out:

"I tell you there wasn't any woman."

"And there isn't any knife either," Emerson sneered.

The men paused uncertainly. Seeing that they were undecided whether to
believe him or his assailant, Marsh went on:

"If he hasn't a knife, then he must have had a friend with him--"

"Then tell your men what we were doing in here and how you came to be
alone with us in the dark." Emerson stared at his accuser curiously,
but the Trust's manager seemed at a loss. "See here, Marsh, if you will
tell us whom you were choking, maybe we can get at the truth of this
affair."

Without answering, Marsh rose, and, leaning upon the watchman's arm,
said:

"Help me up to the house. I'm hurt. Send the launch to the upper plant
for John; he knows something about medicine." With no further word, he
made his way out of the building, followed by the mystified fishermen.

No one undertook to detain Emerson, and he went his way, wondering what
lay back of the night's adventure. He racked his brain for a hint as to
the identity of the woman and the reason of her presence alone with
Marsh in such a place. Again he thought of that mysterious third person
whose movements had been so swift and furious, but his conjectures left
him more at sea than ever. Of one thing he felt sure. It was not enmity
alone that prompted Marsh to accuse him of the stabbing. The man was
concealing something, in deadly fear of the truth, for rather than
submit to questioning he had let his enemy go scot-free.

Suddenly Boyd paused in his walk, recalling again the shadowy outlines
of the figure with whom he had so nearly collided on his way up from
the beach. There was something familiar about it, he mused; then, with
a low whistle of surprise, he smote his palms together. He began to see
dimly.

For more than an hour the young man paced back and forth before the
door of his sleeping-quarters, so deeply immersed in thought that only
the breaking storm drove him within. When at last he retired, it was
with the certainty that this night had placed a new weapon in his hand;
but of what tremendous value it was destined to prove, he little knew.





CHAPTER XXII

THE SILVER HORDE


The main body of salmon struck into the Kalvik River on the first day
of July. For a week past the run had been slowly growing, while the
canneries tested themselves, but on the opening day of the new month
the horde issued boldly forth from the depths of the sea, and the
battle began in earnest. They came during the hush of the dawn, a mad,
crowding throng from No Man's Land, to wake the tide-rips and people
the shimmering reaches of the bay, lashing them to sudden life and
fury. Outside, the languorous ocean heaved as smiling and serene as
ever, but within the harbor a wondrous change occurred.

As if in answer to some deep-sea signal, the tides were quickened by a
coursing multitude, steadfast and unafraid, yet foredoomed to die by
the hand of man, or else more surely by the serving of their destiny.
Clad in their argent mail of blue and green, they worked the bay to
madness; they overwhelmed the waters, surging forward in great droves
and columns, hesitating only long enough to frolic with the shifting
currents, as if rejoicing in their strength and beauty.

At times they swam with cleaving fins exposed: again they churned the
placid waters until swift combers raced across the shallow bars like
tidal waves while the deeper channels were shot through with shadowy
forms or pierced by the lightning glint of silvered bellies. They
streamed in with the flood tide to retreat again with the ebb, but
there was neither haste nor caution in their progress; they had come in
answer to the breeding call of the sea, and its exultation was upon
them, driving them relentlessly onward. They had no voice against its
overmastering spell.

Mustering in the early light like a swarm of giant white-winged moths,
the fishing-boats raced forth with the flowing tide, urged by sweep and
sail and lusty sinews. Paying out their hundred-fathom nets, they
drifted over the banks like flocks of resting sea-gulls, only to come
ploughing back again deep laden with their spoils. Grimy tugboats lay
beside the traps, shrilling the air with creaking winches as they
"brailed" the struggling fish, a half-ton at a time, from the "pounds,"
now churned to milky foam by the ever-growing throng of prisoners; and
all the time the big plants gulped the sea harvest, faster and faster,
clanking and gnashing their metal jaws, while the mounds of salmon lay
hip-deep to the crews that fed the butchering machines.

The time had come for man to take his toll.

Now dawned a period of feverish activity wherein no one might rest
short of actual exhaustion. Haste became the cry, and comfort fled.

At Emerson's cannery there fell a sudden panic, for fifty fishermen
quit. Returning from the banks on the night before the run started,
they stacked their gear and notified Boyd Emerson of their
determination. Then, despite his utmost efforts to dissuade them, they
took their packs upon their shoulders and marched up the beach to
Willis Marsh's plant. Larsen, the day-foreman, acted as their
spokesman, and Boyd recognized, too late, the result of that
conversation he had interrupted on the night of his visit to Cherry.

This defection diminished his boat-crew by more than half, and while
the shoremen stoutly maintained their loyalty, the chance of putting up
a pack seemed lost. Success or failure in the Behring Sea fisheries may
depend upon the loss of a day. Emerson found himself facing a situation
more desperate than any heretofore; Marsh had delayed the execution of
his plans until the run had started, and there was no possibility of
recruiting a new force. Alarmed beyond measure, Boyd swallowed his
pride and went straightway to his enemy. He found Marsh well recovered
from his flesh-wound of a week or more before, yet extremely cautious
for his safety, as he evidenced by conducting the interview before
witnesses.

"We are short-handed, and I gave instructions to secure every available
man," he announced at the conclusion of Emerson's story. "It is not my
fault if your men prefer to work for me."

"Then you force me to retaliate," said Boyd. "I shall hire your men out
from under you."

Marsh laughed provokingly.

"Try it! I am a good organizer if nothing else. If you send emissaries
to my plants, it will cause certain violence--and I think you had
better avoid that, for we outnumber you ten to one."

Stormy accusations and retorts followed, till Emerson left the place in
helpless disgust.

Nor had he hit upon any method of relief when Cherry came down to the
plant on the following morning, though he and Big George had spent the
night in conference. She lost no time in futile indignation, but
inquired straightway:

"What are you doing about it? The fish have begun to run, and you can't
afford to lose an hour."

"I have sent a man to each of the other plants to hire fishermen at any
price, but I have no hope that they will succeed. Marsh has his crews
too well in hand for that."

Cherry nodded. "They wouldn't dare quit him now. He'd never let them
return to this country if they did. Meanwhile, the rest of your force
is on the banks, I presume."

"Yes."

"How many boats have you?"

"Ten."

"Heavens! And this is the first day of the run! It looks bad, doesn't
it? Has the trap begun to fill?"

"No. George is down there now. I guess Marsh succeeded in corking it.
Meanwhile all the other plants are working while my Chinks are playing
fan-tan."

Cherry gazed curiously at her companion, to see how he accepted this
latest shift of fortune. She knew that it spelled disaster; for a light
catch, with the tremendous financial loss entailed, would not only mean
difficulty with Hilliard's loan, but other complications impossible to
forecast. Her mind sped onward to the effect of a failure upon Boyd's
private affairs. He had told her in unmistakable terms that this was
his last chance, the final hope upon which hung the realization of his
dreams. In some way his power to hold Mildred Wayland was bound up with
his financial success. If he should lose her, where would he turn? she
asked herself, and something within her answered that he would look for
consolation to the woman who had stood at his shoulder all these weary
months. Sudden emotion swept over her at the thought. What cared she
for his success or failure? He was the one man she had ever known, the
mate for whom she had been moulded. If this were his last chance, it
promised to be the opportunity she had so long awaited; for once that
other was out of his mind, Cherry felt that he would turn to her. She
knew it intuitively, knew it from the light she had seen in his eyes
that night at her house, knew it by the promptings of her own heart at
this moment. She began to tremble, and felt her breast swelling with a
glad determination; but he interrupted her flight of fancy with a sigh
of such hopeless weariness that her pity rose instinctively. He gave
her a sad little smile as he said:

"I seem to bring misfortune upon every one connected with me, don't I?
I'm afraid I'm a poor sort."

How boyish he was, the girl thought tenderly, yet how splendidly brave
he had been throughout the fight! There was a voiceless, maternal
yearning in her heart as she asked him, gravely:

"If you fail now, it will mean--the end of everything, will it not?"

"Yes." He squared his tired shoulders. "But I am not beaten yet. You
taught me never to give up, Cherry. If I have to go back home without a
catch and see Hilliard take this plant over, why--I'll begin once more
at something new, and some day I will succeed. But I sha'n't give up.
I'll can what salmon we catch and then begin all over again next
season."

"And--suppose you don't succeed? Suppose Hilliard won't carry you?"

"Then I shall try something else; maybe I shall go to mining again, I
don't know. Anyhow, _she_ would not let me grow disheartened if she
were here, she wouldn't let me quit. She isn't that sort."

Cherry Malotte stirred and shifted her gaze uncertainly to the gleaming
bay. Abreast of them the fleet of fishing-boats were drifting with the
tide; in the distance others were dotted, clear away to where the opal
ocean lay. A tug was passing, and she saw the sun flash from the cargo
in its tow, while the faint echo of a song came wafting to her ears.
She stood so for a long moment, fighting manfully with herself, then
wheeled upon him suddenly. There was a new tone in her voice as she
said:

"If you will let me have one of your launches, I may be able to help
you."

"How?" he demanded, quickly.

"Never mind how--it's a long chance and hardly worth trying, but--may I
take the boat?"

"Certainly," said he, "there's one lying at the dock."

He led her to the shore and saw her aboard, then waved good-bye and
walked moodily back to the office, gratified that she should try to
help him, yet certain that she could not succeed where he and George
had failed.

"Fingerless" Fraser had breakfasted late, as was his luxurious custom,
and shortly before noon, in the course of his dissatisfied meanderings,
he found his friend in the office, lost in sombre thought. It was the
first time in many weeks that he had seen this mood in Boyd, and after
a fruitless effort to make him talk, he fell into his old habit of
imaginary reading, droning away to himself as if from a printed page:

"'Your stay among us has not been very pleasant, has it?' Mr. Emerson
inquired.

"'Not so that you could notice it," replied our hero. 'I don't like
fish, and I never did.'

"'That is the result of prejudice; the fish is a noble animal,' Mr.
Emerson declared.

"'He's not an animal at all,' our hero gently corrected. 'He's a biped,
a regular wild biped without either love of home or affection for his
children. The salmon is of a low order of intelligence, and has a Queen
Anne slant to his roof. No person with a retreating forehead like that
knows very much. The only other member of the animal kingdom that is as
foolish as the salmon is Alton Clyde. The fish has got a shade the best
of it over him; but as for friendship and the gentler emotions--why,
the salmon hasn't got them at all. The only thing he's got is a million
eggs and a sense of direction. If he had a spark of intelligence he'd
lay one egg a year, like a hen, and thus live for a million years. But
does he? Not on your Sarony! He's a spendthrift, and turns his eggs
loose--a hatful at a time. He's worse than a shotgun. And then, too,
he's as clannish as a Harvard graduate, and don't associate with nobody
out of his own set. No, sir! Give me a warm-blooded animal that suckles
its young. I'll take a farmer, every time.'

"'These are points I had never considered,' said Mr. Emerson, 'but
every business has its drawbacks, you'll agree. If I have failed as a
host, what can I do to entertain you while you grace our midst?'

"'You can do most anything,' remarked his handsome companion, 'You can
climb a tree, or do anything except fish all the time.'

"'But it is a dark night without, and I fear some mischief is afoot!'

"'True! But yonder beautcheous gel--'"

Roused by the familiarity of these lines, Emerson looked up from his
preoccupation and smiled at Fraser's serious pantomime.

"Am I as bad as all that?" he inquired, with an effort at pleasantry.

"You're worse, Bo! I guess you didn't know I was here, eh?"

"No. By-the-way, what about that 'beautcheous gel and the mischief that
is afoot? What is the rest of the story?"

"I don't know. I never got past that place. Say! If I had time, I'll
bet I could write a good book. I've got plenty to say."

"Why don't you try it?"

"Too busy!" yawned the adventurer, lazily. "Gee, this is a lonesome
burg! Kalvik is sure out in the tall grass, ain't it? I feel as if I'd
like to break a pane of glass. Let's start something."

"I don't find it particularly dull at the present moment." Boyd rose
and began to pace the room.

"Oh, I heard all about your trouble. I just left the pest-house."

"The what?"

"The pest-house--Clyde's joint. Ain't he a calamity?"

"In what way?"

"Is there any way in which he ain't?"

"You don't like him, do you?"

"No, I don't," declared "Fingerless" Fraser stoutly, "and what's more
I'm glad I don't like him. Because if I liked him, I'd associate with
him, and I hate him."

"What's the matter?"

"Well, I like silence and quietude--I'm a fool about my quiet--but
Clyde--" he paused, as if in search for suitable expression. "Well,
whenever I try to say anything he interrupts me." After another pause
he went on: "He's dead sore on this place, too, and whines around like
a litter of pups. He says he was misled into coming up here, and has a
hunch he's going to lose his bank-roll."

"Last night's episode frightened him, I dare say."

"Yes. Ever since he got that wallop on the burr in Seattle a guinea pig
could lick him hand to hand. You'd think that ten thou' he put up was
all the wealth of the Inkers."

"The wealth of what?"

"Inkers! That's a tribe of rich Mexicans. However, I suppose I'd hang
to my coin the same way he does if I had a mayonnaise head like his.
He's an awful shine as a business-man."

"So he's homesick, eh?"

"Sure! Offered to sell me his stock." Fraser threw back his head and
gave vent to one of his rare laughs. "Ain't that a rave?"

"Here he comes now," Boyd announced, with a glance out the window, and
the next instant Alton Clyde entered, a picture of dejection.

"Gee! This is fierce, isn't it?" the club-man began, flinging himself
into the nearest chair. "They tell me it's all off, finally. What are
you going to do?"

"Put up what fish I can with a short crew," said Boyd.

"We'll lose a lot of money."

"Probably."

Clyde's tone was querulous as he continued:

"I'm sorry I ever went into this thing. You bet if I had known as much
in Chicago as I know now, I would have hung on to my money and stayed
at home."

"You knew as much as we did," Boyd declared, curtly.

"Oh, it's all right for you to talk. You haven't risked any coin in the
deal, but I'm a rotten businessman, and I'll never make my ante back
again if I lose it."

"Don't whine about it," said Boyd, stiffly. "You can at least be game
and lose like a man."

"Then we _are_ going to lose, eh?" queried Clyde, in a scared voice. "I
thought maybe you had a plan. Look here," he began an instant later,
"Cherry pulled us out once before, why don't you let her see what she
can do with Marsh?"

Boyd scanned the speaker's face sharply before speaking.

"What do you mean by that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Because he wanted to, I dare say."

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

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

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

"How do you know?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will!" declared Alton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only casual."

"Where?"

"Nome--the year of the big rush."

"During the mining troubles, eh?"

"Sure."

"What was she doing?"

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

"What do you know about her?"

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

"What else?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What luck with the boats?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you say?" queried Balt.

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

"Good!"

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

"Look yonder!" cried Boyd.

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER XXIII

IN WHICH MORE PLANS ARE LAID


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wait! I want to talk with you."

The breed halted.

"How long have you known Mr. Marsh?"

"Me know him long time."

"Do you like him?"

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

"Yes. Him good man."

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

"Yes."

"Why did you quit?"

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

"Why?"

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

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

"I 'member."

"Where did you go?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"These men say this money no good."

"What do you mean?"

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

Boyd saw that the group was eying him suspiciously.

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

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

It was evident that even Constantine was vaguely distrustful.

Another native extended a coin, saying;

"We want money like this."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where you go?" she asked her mistress.

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

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

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

"Yes." Chakawana nodded her pretty head vigorously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The yacht! What yacht?"

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

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

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At the Indian village after help. Why?"

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

"What's up?"

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER XXIV

WHEREIN "THE GRANDE DAME" ARRIVES, LADEN WITH DISAPPOINTMENTS


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

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

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

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

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

"What craft is that?" he inquired.

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

The big fellow stared curiously after the retreating ship.

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

"We all need breakfast."

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

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

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

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

"S'pose he turns you down?"

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

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

Boyd laid his hand on his companion's shoulder.

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

Balt eyed him shrewdly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Boyd."

"And are you glad?"

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

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

"And you? How have you been?"

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

She withdrew it quickly.

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

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

"Not at all. Have you?"

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

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

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

"I don't care-"

"I do."

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

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

"Marsh!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who?"

"Cherry Malotte."

"Yes. How did you learn that?"

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

"That is true."

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

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

"Has anybody discovered who or what she is?"

"Why are you so curious about her?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You may come out this evening."

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

As the others came up, she said:

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

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

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

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

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

"Go ahead."

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

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

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

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

"I expect relief."

"You remember our agreement?"

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

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

"I don't consider it so."

"Very well. Proceed."

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

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

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

"How do you know he did that?"

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

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

"I do; and for the action of the police in trying to fix the crime upon
me. You know, perhaps, how I got away from Seattle. When Marsh arrived
at Kalvik, he first tried to sink my boilers; failing in that, he
ruined my Iron Chinks; then he 'corked' my fish-trap, not because he
needed more fish, but purely to spoil my catch. The day the run started
he bribed my fishermen to break their contracts, leaving me
short-handed. He didn't need more men, but did that simply to <DW36>
me. I got Indians to replace the white men, but he won them away by a
miserable trick and by threats that I have no doubt he would make good
if the poor devils dared to stand out.

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

"You are through?"

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

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

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

Completely taken back by this unexpected reply, Boyd exclaimed:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How?"

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

Emerson leaped to his feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Believe what you choose."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boyd turned and strode from the cabin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER XXV

THE CLASH


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you see--her?" questioned Cherry.

"Yes!"

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

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

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

"I didn't tell her that."

"Why not?"

"What good would it have done?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! Have you seen Chakawana?"

"No."

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

"Doesn't Constantine know where she is?"

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

"He hasn't been here since yesterday."

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

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

"Oh no!"

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

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

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

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

"Umph! I guess they all right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is the Greek church."

"How interesting! Are there many Greeks here?"

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

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

"Yes. In the log house yonder."

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

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

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

"Cherry Malotte, of course."

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

"I am sorry."

"I beg your pardon?"

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

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

"Nobody in Alaska likes him. Do you?"

"You see, I am not an Alaskan."

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

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

"Boyd's?"

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

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

"I have just come from him."

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

"Then you don't know him."

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

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

"I? How?"

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

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

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

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

"I went there on my own business."

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

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

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

"What attempt?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yes, I shall."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is that?"

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

"Humph!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, silk."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"S'pose he don' marry her?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where are you going?" Boyd asked him.

"I'm going out into society."

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

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

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

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

"Good-morning!" he began.

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

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

"Indeed!" said the young lady.

"Yes. It's mine."

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

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

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

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

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

"I beg your pardon."

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

"Are you very intimate with him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ill enough to lick a den of wildcats."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hardly!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gathered up her wild flowers and rose, saying:

"I must be going."

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

"Thank you. I prefer to walk alone."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is not for sale."

"How many fish are you getting?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then Clyde sold out!" exploded Boyd.

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

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

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

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

"She told me, of course."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you? Then tell me."

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

"I do."

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

"How do you know?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I can explain to her in a word."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"MILDRED."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH A SCORE IS SETTLED


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

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

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

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

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

"I--I would rather not"

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

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

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

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

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

She was pale to the lips.

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

Cherry was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I agree with you in that."

"I came away from the mining camps because of wagging tongues--because
I was forever misjudged. Whatever I may have been, I have at least
played fair with that girl; it hurts me now to be accused by her. I saw
your love for her, and I never tried to rob her. Oh, don't look as if I
couldn't have done differently if I had tried. I could have injured her
very easily if I had been the sort she thinks me. But I helped you in
every way I could. I made sacrifices, I did things she would never have
done."

She stopped on the verge of tears. Boyd felt the justice of her words.
He could not forget the unselfish devotion and loyalty she had shown
throughout his long struggle. For the hundredth time there came to him
the memory of her services in the matter of Hilliard's loan, and the
thought caused him unspeakable distress.

"Why--did you do all this?" he asked.

"Don't you know?" Cherry gazed at him with a faint smile.

Then, for the first time, the whole truth burst upon him. The surprise
of it almost deprived him of speech, and he stammered:

"No, I--I--" Then he fell silent.

"What little I did, I did because I love you," said the girl, in a
tired voice. "You may as well know, for it makes no difference now."

"I--I am sorry," he said, gripped by a strong emotion that made him go
hot and cold. "I have been a fool."

"No, you were merely wrapped up in your own affairs. You see, I had
been living my own life, and was fairly contented till you came; then
everything changed. For a long time I hoped you might grow to love me
as I loved you, but I found it was no use. When I saw you so honest and
unselfish in your devotion to that other girl, I thought it was my
chance to do something unselfish in my turn. It was hard--but I did my
best. I think I must love you in the same way you love her, Boyd, for
there is nothing in all the world I would not do to make you happy.
That's all there is to the poor little story, and it won't make any
difference now, except that you and I can't go on as we have done; I
shall never have the courage to come back after this. You will win Miss
Wayland yet, and attain your heart's desire. I am only sorry that I
have made it harder for you--that I cannot help you any further. But I
cannot. There is but one thing more I can do--"

"I want no more sacrifice!" he cried, roughly. "I've been blind. I've
taken too much from you already."

The girl stood for a moment with her eyes turned toward the river. Then
she said:

"I must think. I--I want to go away. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," he returned, and stood watching her as she hurried away,
half suspecting the tears that were trembling amid her lashes.

It was not until supper-time that Boyd saw "Fingerless" Fraser, and
questioned him about his quest for an heiress.

"Nothing doing in the heiress business," replied the adventurer. "I
couldn't stand the exposure."

"They were cold, eh?"

"Yep! They weathered me out."

"Did you really meet any of those people?"

"Sure! I met 'em all, but I didn't catch their names. I 'made' one
before I'd gone a mile--tall, slim party, with cracked ice in her
voice."

Boyd looked up quickly. "Did you introduce yourself?"

"As Chancy De Benville, that's all. How is that for a drawing-room
monaker? She fell for the name all right, but there must have been
something phony about the clothes. That's the trouble with this park
harness; if I'd wore my 'soup and fish' and my two-gallon hat, I'd have
passed for a gentleman sure. I'm strong for those evening togs. I see
another one later; a little Maduro  skirt with a fat nose."

"Miss Berry."

"I'm glad to meet her. I officed her out of a rowboat and told her I
was Mr. Yonkers of New York. We was breezing along on the bit till
Clyde broke it up. He called me Fraser, and it was cold in a minute.
Fraser is a cheap name, anyhow; I'm sorry I took it."

"Do you mean to say it isn't your real name?" asked his companion, in
genuine bewilderment.

"Naw! Switzer is what I was born with. Say it slow and it sounds like
an air brake, don't it? I never won a bet as long as I packed it
around, and Fraser hasn't got it beat by more than a lip."

"Well!" Boyd breathed deeply. "You are the limit."

"Speaking of clothes, I notice you are dressed up like a fruit salad.
What is it? The yacht!"

"Yes."

"You'd better hurry; she sails at high tide."

"Sails!"

"Alton told me so, and said that he was going along."

"Thank Heaven for that, anyhow, but--I don't understand about the
other."

Boyd voiced the question that was foremost in his mind.

"Did you know Cherry in the 'upper country'?"

"Nope."

"She said you did."

"She said that?"

"Yes. She thought you had told me who she was."

"Hell! She might have known I'd never crack. It's her own business,
and--I've got troubles enough with this cannery on my hands."

"I wish you had told me," said Emerson.

"Why? There's no use of rehearsing the dog-eared dope. Nobody can live
the past over again, and who wants to repeat the present? It's only the
future that's worth while. I guess her future is just as good as
anybody's."

"What she told me came as a shock."

"Fingerless" Fraser grunted. "I don't know why. For my part, I can't
stand for an ingenue. If ever I get married, Cherry's the sort for me.
I'm out of the kindergarten myself, and I'd hate to spend my life
cutting paper figures for my wife. No, sir! If I ever seize a frill, I
want her to know as much as me; then she won't tear away with the first
dark-eyed diamond broker that stops in front of my place to crank up
his whizz-buggy. You never heard of a wise woman breaking up her own
home, did you? It's the pink-faced dolls from the seminary that fall
for Bertie the Beautiful Cloak Model."

Fraser whittled himself a toothpick as he went on:

"A feller in my line of business don't gather much useful information,
but he certainly gets Jerry to the female question in all its dips,
angles, and spurs. Cherry Malotte is the squarest girl I ever saw, and
while she may have been crowded at the turn, she'll finish true. It
takes a thoroughbred to do that, and the guy that gets her will win his
Derby. Now, those fillies on the yacht, for instance, warm up fine, but
you can't tell how they'll run."

"We're not talking of marriage," said Boyd, as he rose. When he had
gone out, Fraser ruminated aloud:

"Maybe not! I ain't very bright, and we may have been talking about the
weather. However, if you're after that wild-flower dame with the
cold-storage talk instead of Cherry Malotte, why, I hope you get her.
There's no accounting for tastes. I certainly did my best to send you
along this morning." Turning to the <DW61> steward, he remarked, sagely:
"My boy, always remember one thing--if you can't boost, don't knock."

Wayne Wayland was by no means sure that Boyd would not make good his
threat to visit the yacht that evening, and in any case he wished to be
prepared. A scene before the other passengers of _The Grande Dame_ was
not to be thought of. Besides, if the young man were roughly handled,
it would make him a martyr in Mildred's eyes. He talked over the matter
with Marsh, who suggested that the sightseers should dine ashore and
spend the evening with him at the plant. With only Mildred and her
father left on the yacht, there would be no possibility of scandal,
even if Emerson were mad enough to force an interview.

"And what is more," declared Mr. Wayland, "I shall give orders to clear
on the high tide. That fellow is a menace, and the sooner Mildred is
away from him the better. You shall go with us, my boy."

But when he went to Mildred, to explain the nature of his arrangements,
he found her in a furious temper.

"Why did you announce my engagement to Mr. Marsh?" she demanded,
angrily. "The whole ship is talking about it. By what right did you do
that?"

"I did it for your own sake," said the old man. "This whelp, Emerson,
has made a fool of you and of me long enough. There must be an end to
it."

"But I don't love Willis Marsh!" she cried. "You forget I am of age."

"Nonsense! Willis is a fine fellow, he loves you, and he is the best
business man for his years I have ever known. If it were not for this
foolish boy-and-girl affair, you would return his love. He suits me,
and--well, I have put my foot down, so there's an end of it."

"Do you intend to force me to marry him?"

Mr. Wayland recognized the danger-signal.

"Absurd! Take all the time you wish; you'll come around all right. That
reprobate you were engaged to defied me and defended that woman."

He told of his stormy interview with Boyd, concluding: "It is fortunate
we found him out, Mildred. I have guarded you all my life. I have
lavished everything money could buy upon you. I have built up the
greatest fortune in all the West for you. I have kept you pure and
sweet and good--and to think that such a fellow should dare--" Mr.
Wayland choked with anger. "The one thing I cannot stand in a man or a
woman is immorality. I have lived clean myself, and my son shall be as
clean as I."

"Did you say that Boyd threatened to come aboard this evening?"
questioned the girl.

"Yes. But I swore that he should not."

"And still he repeated his threat?" Mildred's eyes were strangely
bright. She was smiling as if to herself.

"He did, the braggart! He had better not try it."

"Then he'll come," said Mildred.

It was twilight when Willis Marsh was rowed out to the yacht. He found
Mr. Wayland and Mildred seated in deck-chairs enjoying the golden
sunset while the old man smoked. Marsh explained that he had excused
himself from his guests to go whither his inclination led him, and drew
his seat close to Mildred, rejoicing in the fact that no one could
gainsay him this privilege. In reality, he had been drawn to _The
Grande Dame_ largely by a lurking fear of Emerson. He was not entirely
sure of the girl, and would not feel secure until the shores of Kalvik
had sunk from sight and his rival had been left behind. But in spite of
his uneasiness, it was the happiest moment of his life. If he had
failed to ruin his enemy in the precise way he had planned, he was
fairly satisfied with what he had accomplished. He had shifted the
battle to stronger shoulders, and he had gained the woman he wanted.
Moreover, he had won the unfaltering loyalty of Wayne Wayland, the
dominant figure of the West. Nothing could keep him now from the
success his ambition demanded. It added to his satisfaction to note the
group of lusty sailors at the rail. He almost wished that Emerson would
try to come aboard, that he might witness his discomfiture. Meanwhile
he did his best to be pleasant.

His complaisant enjoyment was interrupted at last by the approach of
the second officer, who announced that a lady wished to see Mr. Wayland.

"A lady?" asked the old man, in surprise.

"Yes, sir. She came alongside in a small boat, just now, with some
natives. I stopped her at the landing, but she says she must see you at
once."

"Ah! That woman again." Mr. Wayland's jaws snapped. "Tell her to
begone. I refuse to see her."

"Very well, sir!" The mate turned, but Mildred said, suddenly:

"Wait! Why don't you talk to her, father?"

"That creature? I have nothing to say to her."

"Quite right!" agreed Marsh, with a cautionary glance at the speaker.
"She is up to some trick."

"She may have something really important to say to you," urged the girl.

"No."

Mildred leaned forward, and called to the ship's officer: "Show her up.
I will see her."

"Mildred, you mustn't talk to that woman!" her father cried.

"It is very unwise," Marsh chimed in, apprehensively. "She isn't the
sort of person--"

Miss Wayland chilled him with a look and waved the mate away, then sank
back into her chair.

"I have talked with her already. I assure you she is not dangerous."

"Have your own way," Mr. Wayland grunted. "But it is bound to lead to
something unpleasant. She has probably come with a message from--that
fellow."

Willis Marsh squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He fixed his eyes upon
the knot of men at the starboard rail; an expression of extreme
alertness came over his bland features. His feet were drawn under him,
and his fingers were clinched upon the arms of his chair. Then, with a
sharp indrawing of his breath, he leaped up and darted down the deck.

Over the side had come Cherry Malotte, accompanied by an Indian girl in
shawl and moccasins--a slim, shrinking creature who stood as if
bewildered, twisting her hands and staring about with frightened eyes.
Behind them, head and shoulders above the sailors, towered a giant
copper-hued breed with a child in his arms.

They saw that Marsh was speaking to the newcomers, but could not
distinguish his words. The Indian girl fell back as if terrified. She
cried out something in her own tongue, shook her head violently, and
pointed to her white companion. Marsh's face was livid; he shook a
quivering hand in Cherry Malotte's face. It seemed as if he would
strike her; but Constantine strode between them, scowling silently down
into the smaller man's face, his own visage saturnine and menacing.
Marsh retreated a step, chattering excitedly. Then Cherry's voice came
clearly to the listeners:

"It is too late now, Mr. Marsh. You may as well face the music."

Followed by the stares of the sailors, she came up the deck toward the
old man and his daughter, who had arisen, the Indian girl clinging to
her sleeve, the tall breed striding noiselessly behind. Willis Marsh
came with them, his white lips writhing, his face like putty. He made
futile detaining grasps at Constantine, and in the silence that
suddenly descended upon the ship, they heard him whispering.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Mr. Wayland.

"I heard you were about to sail, so I came out to see you before--"

Marsh broke in, hoarsely: "She's a bad woman! She has come here for
blackmail!"

"Blackmail!" cried Wayne Wayland. "I thought as much!"

"That's her game. She wants money!"

Cherry shrugged her shoulders and showed her white teeth in a smile.

"Mr. Marsh anticipates slightly. You may judge if he is right."

Marsh started to speak, but Mildred Wayland, who had been watching him
intently, was before him.

"Who sent you here, Miss?"

"No one sent me. If Mr. Marsh will stop his chatter, I can make myself
understood."

"Don't listen to her--"

Cherry turned upon him swiftly. "You've got to face it, so you may as
well keep still."

He fell silent.

"We heard that Mr. Marsh was going away with you, and I came out to ask
him for enough money to support his child while he is gone."

"His child!" Wayne Wayland turned upon his daughter's fiance with a
face of stern surprise. "Willis, tell her she is lying!"

"She's lying!" Marsh repeated, obediently; but they saw the truth in
his face.

Cherry spoke directly to Miss Wayland now. "I have supported this
little fellow and his mother for a year." She indicated the red-haired
youngster in Constantine's arms. "That is all I care to do. When you
people arrived, Mr. Marsh induced Chakawana to take the baby up-river
to a fishing-camp and stay there until you had gone. But Constantine
heard that he intended to marry you, and hearing also that he intended
leaving to-night, Constantine brought his sister back in the hope that
Mr. Marsh would do what is right. You see, he promised to marry
Chakawana long before he met you."

Mildred could have done murder at the expression she saw in Cherry's
face. This woman she had scorned had humbled her in earnest. With
flashing eyes she turned upon her father.

"Since you were so prompt in announcing my engagement, perhaps you can
deny it with equal promptness."

"Good God! What a scandal if this is true!" Wayne Wayland wiped his
forehead.

"Oh, it's true," said Cherry.

In the silence that followed the child struggled out of Constantine's
arms and stood beside his mother, the better to inspect these
strangers. His little face was grimy, his clothes, cut in the native
fashion, were poor and not very clean; yet he was more white than
Aleut, and no one seeing him could doubt his parentage. The seamen had
left their posts, and were watching with such absorption that they
failed to see a skiff with a single oarsman swing past the stern of
_The Grande Dame_ and make fast to the landing. Still unobserved, the
man mounted the companionway swiftly.

For once in his life Wayne Wayland was too confused for definite
speech. Willis Marsh stood helpless, his plump face slack-jowled and
beaded with sweat. He could not yet grasp the completeness of his
downfall, and waited anxiously for some further sign from Mildred. It
came at last in a look that scorched him, firing him to a last effort.

"Don't believe her!" he broke out. "She is lying to protect her own
lover!" He pointed to Chakawana. "That girl is the child's mother, but
its father is Boyd Emerson!"

"Boyd Emerson was never in Kalvik until last December," said Cherry.
"The child is three years old."

"It seems I am being discussed," said a voice behind them. Emerson
clove his way through the sailors, striding directly to Marsh. "What is
the meaning of this?"

Mildred Wayland laid a fluttering hand upon her breast. "I knew he
would come," she breathed.

Constantine broke his silence for the first time, addressing Mildred
directly.

"This baby b'long Mr. Marsh. He say he goin' marry Chakawana, but he
lie; he goin' marry you because you are rich girl." He turned to Marsh.
"What for you lie, eh?" He leaned forward with a frightful scowl. "I
tell you long time ago I kill you if you don' marry my sister."

"Now I understand!" exclaimed Boyd. "It was you who stabbed him that
night in the cannery."

"Yes! Chakawana tell him what the pries' say 'bout woman what don'
marry. My sister say she go to hell herself and don' care a damn, but
it ain't right for little baby to go to hell too."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Mr. Wayland.

"The Father say if white man take Indian woman and don' marry her, she
go to hell for thousan' year--mebbe two, three thousan' year. Anyhow,
she don' never see Jesus' House. That's bad thing!" The breed shook his
head seriously. "Chakawana she's good girl, and she go to church; I
give money to the pries' too, plenty money every time, but he says
that's no good--she's got to be marry or she'll burn for always with
little baby. By God! that's make her scare', because little baby ain't
do nothing to burn that way. Mr. Marsh he say it's all damn lie, and he
don't care if little baby do go to hell. You hear that? He don't care
for little baby."

Constantine's eyes were full of tears as he strove laboriously to voice
his religious teachings. He went on with growing agitation:

"Chakawana she's mighty scare' of that bad place, and she ask Mr. Marsh
again to marry her, but he beat her. That's when I try to kill him.
Mebbe Mr. Emerson ain't come so quick, Mr. Marsh go to hell himself."

Wayne Wayland turned upon Marsh.

"Why don't you say something?"

"I told you the brat isn't mine!" he cried. "If it isn't Emerson's,
it's Cherry Malotte's. They want money, but I won't be bled."

"You marry my sister?" asked Constantine.

"No!" snarled Willis Marsh. "You can all go to hell and take the child
with you--"

Without a single warning cry, the breed lunged swiftly; the others saw
something gleam in his hand. Emerson jumped for him, and the three men
went to the deck in a writhing tangle, sending the furniture spinning
before them. Mildred screamed, the sailors rushed forward, pushing her
aside and blotting out her view. The sudden violence of the assault had
frightened her nearly out of her senses. She fled to her father,
striving to hide her face against his breast, but something drew her
eyes back to the spot where the men were clinched. She heard Boyd
Emerson cry to the sailors:

"Get out of the way! I've got him!" Then saw him locked in the Indian's
arms. They had gained their feet now, and spun backward, bringing up
against the yacht's cabin with a crash of shivering glass. A knife,
wrenched from the breed's grasp, went whirling over the side into the
sea. Cherry Malotte ran forward, and at her voice the savage ceased his
struggles.

Wayne Wayland loosed his daughter's hold and thrust his way in among
the sailors, kneeling beside the man he had chosen for his son-in-law.
Emerson joined him, then rose quickly, crying:

"Is there a doctor among your party?"

"Doctor Berry! Send for Berry! He's gone ashore!" exclaimed Mr. Wayland.

"Quick! Somebody fetch Doctor Berry!" Boyd directed.

As the sailors drew apart, Mildred Wayland saw a sight that made her
grow deathly faint and close her eyes. Turning, she fled blindly into
the cabin. A few moments later Emerson found her stretched unconscious
at the head of the main stairs, with a hysterical French maid sobbing
over her.





CHAPTER XXVII

AND A DREAM COMES TRUE


For nearly an hour Boyd Emerson sat alone on the deck of _The Grande
Dame_, a prey to conflicting emotions, the while he waited for Mildred
to appear. There was no one to dispute his presence now, for the
tourists who had followed Doctor Berry from the shore in hushed
excitement avoided him, and the sailors made no effort to carry out
their earlier instructions; hence he was allowed opportunity to adjust
himself to the sudden change. It was not so much the unexpected
downfall of Willis Marsh, and the new light thus thrown upon his own
enterprise that upset him, as a puzzling alteration in his own purposes
and inclinations. He had come out to the yacht defiantly, to make good
his threat, and to force an understanding with Mildred Wayland, but now
that he was here and his way made easy he began to question his own
desires. Now that he thought about it, that note, instead of filling
him with dismay, had rather left him relieved. It was as if he had been
freed of a burden, and this caused him a vague uneasiness. Was it
because he was tired by the struggle for this girl, for whom he had
labored so faithfully? After three years of unflagging devotion, was he
truly relieved to have her dismiss him? Or was it that here, in this
primal country, stripped of all conventions, he saw her and himself in
a new light? He did not know.

The late twilight was fading when Mildred came from her state-room. She
found Boyd pacing the deck, a cigar between his teeth.

"Where are those people?" she inquired.

"They went ashore. Marsh doesn't care to press a charge against the
Indian."

"I hear he is not badly hurt, after all."

"That is true. But it was a close shave."

Mildred shuddered. "It was horrible!"

"I never dreamed that Constantine would do such a thing, but he is more
Russian than Aleut, and both he and his sister are completely under the
spell of the priest. They are intensely religious, and their idea of
damnation is very vivid."

"Have you seen father?"

"We had a short talk."

"Did you make up?"

"No! But I think he is beginning to understand things better--at least,
as far as Marsh is concerned. The rest is only a matter of time."

"What a frightful situation! Why did you ever let father announce my
engagement to that man?"

Emerson gazed at her in astonishment. "I? Pardon me--how could I help
it?"

"You might have avoided quarrelling with him. I think you are very
inconsiderate of me."

Boyd regarded the coal of his cigar with a slight gleam of amusement in
his eyes as she ran on:

"Even that woman took occasion to humiliate me in the worst possible
way."

"It strikes me that she did you a very great service. I have no doubt
it was quite as distasteful to her as to you."

"Absurd! It was her chance for revenge, and she rejoiced in making me
ridiculous."

"Then it is the first ignoble thing I ever knew her to do," said Boyd,
slowly. "She has helped me in a hundred ways. Without her assistance, I
could never have won through. That cannery site would still be grown up
to moss and trees, and I would still be a disheartened dreamer."

"It's very nice of you, of course, to appreciate what she has done. But
she can't help you any more. You surely don't intend to keep up your
acquaintance with her now." He made no reply, and, taking his silence
for agreement, she went on: "The trip home will be terribly dull for
me, I'm afraid. I think--yes, I shall have father ask you to go back
with us."

"But I am right in the midst of the run. I can't leave the business."

"Oh, business! Do you care more for business than for me? I don't think
you realize how terribly hard for me all this has been--I'm still
frightened. I shall die of nervousness without some one to talk to."

"It's quite impossible! I--don't want to go back now."

"Indeed? And no doubt it was impossible for you to come out here last
night for the same reason."

"It was. The fish struck in, and I could not leave."

"It was that woman who kept you!" cried Mildred. "It is because of her
that you refuse to leave this country!"

"Please don't," he said, quietly. "I have never thought of her in that
way--"

"Then come away from this wretched place. I detest the whole
country--the fisheries, the people, everything. This isn't your proper
sphere. Why come away, now, at once, and begin something new, something
worth while?"

"Do you realize the hopes, the heartaches, the vital effort I have put
into this enterprise?" he questioned.

But she only said:

"I don't like it. It isn't a nice business. Let father take the plant
over. If you need money, I have plenty--"

"Wait!" he interrupted, sharply. "Sit down, I want to talk to you." He
drew the wrap closer about her shoulders and led her to a deck-chair.
The change in him was becoming more apparent. He knew now that he had
never felt the same since his first meeting with Mildred upon the
arrival of _The Grande Dame_. Even then she had repelled him by her
lack of sympathy. She had shown no understanding of his efforts, and
now she revealed as complete a failure to grasp his code of honor. It
never occurred to her that any loyalty of man to man could offset her
simple will. She did not see that his desertion of George would be
nothing short of treachery.

It seemed to him all at once that they had little in common. She was
wrapped completely in the web of her own desires; she would make her
prejudices a law for him. Above all, she could not respond to the
exultation of his success. She had no conception of the pride of
accomplishment that is the wine of every true man's life. He had waged
a bitter fight that had sapped his very soul, he had made and won the
struggle that a man makes once in a lifetime, and now, just when he had
proved himself strong and fair in the sight of his fellows, she asked
him to forego it all. Engrossed in her own egoism, she required of him
a greater sacrifice than any he had made. Now that he had shown his
strength, she wanted to load him down with golden fetters--to make him
a dependent. Was it because she feared another girl? She had tried to
help him, he knew--in her way--and the thought of it touched him. That
was like the Mildred he had always known--to act fearlessly, heedless
of what her father might do or say. Somehow he had never felt more
convinced of the sincerity of her love, but he found himself thinking
of it as of something of the past. After all, what she had done had
been little, considering her power. She had given carelessly, out of
her abundance, while Cherry--He saw it all now, and a sudden sense of
loyalty and devotion to the girl who had really shared his struggles
swept over him in a warm tide. It was most unlike his distant worship
of Mildred. She had been his dream, but the other was bone of his bone
and flesh of his flesh.

For a long time the two sat talking while these thoughts took gradual
form in the young man's mind, and although the deck was deserted, Miss
Wayland had no need now to curb her once headstrong wooer.

He could not put into words the change that was working in him; but she
saw it, and, grasping its meaning at last, she began to battle like a
mother for her child. His awakening had been slow, and hers was even
slower; but once she found her power over him waning, her sense of loss
grew and grew as he failed to answer to her half-spoken appeal.

Womanlike, she capitulated at last. What matter if he stayed here where
his hopes were centred? This life in the North had claimed him, and she
would wait until he came for her. But still he did not respond, and it
was not long until she had persuaded herself that his battle with the
wilderness had put red blood into his veins, and his conduct had been
no worse than that of other men. Finally she tried to voice these
thoughts, but she only led him to a stiff denial of the charges she
wished to forgive. As she saw him slipping further away from her, she
summoned all her arts to rekindle the flame which had burned so
steadily; and when these failed, she surrendered every prejudice. It
was his love she wanted. All else was secondary. At last she knew
herself. She could have cried at the sudden realization that he had not
kissed her since their parting in Chicago; and when she saw he had no
will to do so, the memory of his last embrace arose to torture her. She
was almost glad when a launch bringing her father came from the shore,
and the old man joined them.

The two men bore themselves with unbending formality, unable as yet to
forget their mutual wrongs. The interruption gave Boyd the opportunity
he had not been brave enough to make, and he bade them both good-bye,
for the tide was at its flood, and the hour of their departure was at
hand.

There was a meaningless exchange of words, and a handshake in the glare
from the cabin lights that showed Mildred's pallid lips and frightened
eyes. Then Emerson went over the side, and the darkness swallowed him
up.

The girl clutched at her father's arm, standing as if frozen while the
creak of rowlocks grew fainter and fainter and died away. Then she
turned.

"You see--he came!" she said.

The old man saw the agony that blanched her cheeks, and answered,
gently:

"Yes, daughter!" He struggled with himself, "And if you wish it, he may
come again."

"But he won't come again. That is what makes it so hard; he will never
come back."

She turned away, but not quickly enough to keep him from seeing that
her eyes were wet. Wayne Wayland beheld what he would have given half
his mighty fortune to prevent. He cried out angrily, but she
anticipated his thought.

"No, no, you must never injure him again, for he was right and we were
wrong. You see I--couldn't understand."

He left her staring into the night, and walked heavily below.

Emerson felt a great sense of relief and deliverance as he leaned
against his oars. His heart sang to the murmur of the waters overside;
for the first time in many months he felt young and free. How blind he
had been and how narrow had been his escape from a life that could lead
to but one result! The girl was sweet and good and wonderful in many
ways, but--three years had altered him more than he had realized. He
had begun to understand himself that very afternoon, when Cherry had
told him her own unhappy secret. The shock of her disclosure had roused
him from his dream, and once he began to see himself as he really was
the rest had come quickly. He had been doubtful even when he went out
to the yacht, but what happened there had destroyed the last trace of
uncertainty. He knew that for him there was but one woman in all the
world. It was no easy battle he had fought with himself. He had been
reared to respect the conventions, and he knew that Cherry's life had
not been all he could wish. But he fronted the issue squarely, and
tried to throttle his inbred prejudice. Although he had felt the truth
of Fraser's arguments and of Cherry's own words, he had still refused
to yield until his love for the girl swept over him in all its power;
then he made his choice.

The one thing he found most difficult to accept was her conduct with
Hilliard. Those other charges against the girl were vague and shadowy,
but this was concrete, and he was familiar with every miserable detail
of it. It took all his courage to face it, but he swore savagely that
if the conditions had been reversed, Cherry would not have faltered for
an instant. Moreover, what she had done had been done for love of him;
it was worse than vile to hesitate. Her past was her own, and all he
could rightfully claim was her future. He shut his teeth and laid his
course resolutely for her landing, striving to leave behind this one
hideous memory, centring his mind upon the girl herself and shutting
out her past. It was the bitterest fight he had ever waged; but when he
reached the shore and tied his skiff, he was exalted by the knowledge
that he had triumphed, that this painful episode was locked away with
all the others.

Now that he had conquered, he was filled with a consuming eagerness. As
he stole up through the shadows he heard her playing, and when he drew
nearer he recognized the notes of that song that had banished his own
black desolation on the night of their first meeting. He paused outside
the open window and saw by the shaded lamplight that she was playing
from memory, her fingers wandering over the keyboard without conscious
effort. Then she took up the words, with all the throbbing tenderness
that lives in a deep, contralto voice:

    "Last night I was dreaming of thee, love--was dreaming;
        I dreamed thou didst promise--"


Cherry paused as if entranced, for she thought she heard another voice
join with hers; then she bowed her head and sobbed in utter
wretchedness, knowing it for nothing more than her own fancy. Too many
times, as in other twilights past, she had heard that mellow voice
blend with hers, only to find that her ears had played her false and
she was alone with a memory that would never die.

Of all the days of her life this was the saddest, this hour the
loneliest, and the tears she had withheld so bravely as long as there
was work to do came now in unbidden profusion.

To face those people on the yacht had been an act of pure devotion to
Boyd, for her every instinct had rebelled against it; yet she had known
that some desperate stroke in his defence must be delivered instantly.
Otherwise the ruin of all his hopes would follow. She had hit upon the
device of using Constantine and Chakawana largely by chance, for not
until the previous day had she learned the truth. She had not dared to
hope for such unqualified success, nor had she foreseen the tragic
outcome. She had simply carried her plan through to its natural
conclusion. Now that her work was done, she gave way completely and
wept like a little girl. He was out there now with his love. They would
never waste a thought upon that other girl who had made their happiness
possible. The thought was almost more than she could bear. Never again
could she have Boyd to herself, never enjoy his careless friendship as
of old; even that was over, now that he knew the truth.

The first and only kiss he had ever given her burned fresh upon her
lips. She recalled that evening they had spent alone in this very room,
when he had seemed to waver and her hopes had risen at the dawning of a
new light in his eyes. At the memory she cried aloud, as if her heart
would break:

"Boyd! Boyd!"

He entered noiselessly and took her in his arms.

"Yes, dear!" he murmured. But she rose with a startled exclamation, and
wrenched herself from his embrace. The piano gave forth a discordant
crash. Shrinking back as from an apparition, she stared into his
flushed and smiling face; then breathed:

"You! Why are you--here!"

"Because I love you!"

She closed her eyes and swayed as if under the spell of wonderful
music; he saw the throbbing pulse at her throat. Then she flung out her
hands, crying, piteously:

"Go away, please, before I find it is only another dream."

She raised her lids to find him still standing there then felt him with
fluttering fingers.

"Our dreams have come true," he said, gently, and strove to imprison
her hand.

"No, no!" Her voice broke wildly. "You don't mean it. You--you haven't
come to stay."

"I have come to stay if you will let me, dear."

She broke from his grasp and moved quickly away.

"Why are you here? I left you out there with--her. I made your way
clear. Why have you come back? What more can I do? Dear God! What more
can I do?" She was panting as if desperately frightened.

"There is but one thing more you can do to make me happy. You can be my
wife."

"But I don't understand!" She shook her head hopelessly. "You are
jesting with me. You love Miss Wayland."

"No. Miss Wayland leaves to-night, and I shall never see her again."

"Then you won't marry her?"

"No."

A dull color rose to Cherry Malotte's cheeks; she swallowed as if her
throat were very dry, and said, slowly:

"Then she refused you in spite of everything, and you have come to me
because of what I told you this afternoon. You are doing this out of
pity--or is it because you are angry with her? No, no, Boyd! I won't
have it. I don't want your pity--I don't want what she cast off."

"It has taken me a long time to find myself, Cherry, for I have been
blinded by a vision," he answered. "I have been dreaming, and I never
saw clearly till to-day. I came away of my own free will; and I came
straight to you because it is you I love and shall always love."

The girl suddenly began to beat her hands together.

"You--forget what I--have been!" she cried, in a voice that tore her
lover's heartstrings. "You can't want to--marry me?"

"To-night," he said, simply, and held out his arms to her. "I love you
and I want you. That is all I know or care about."

He found her upon his breast, sobbing and shaking as if she had sought
shelter there from some great peril. He buried his face in the soft
masses of her hair, whispering fondly to her till her emotion spent
itself. She turned her face shyly up at length and pressed her lips to
his. Then, holding herself away from him, she said, with a
half-doubtful yet radiant look:

"It is not too late yet. I will give you one final chance to save
yourself."

He shook his head.

"Then I have done my duty!" She snuggled closer to him. "And you have
no regrets?"

"Only one. I am sorry that I can't give you more than my name. I may
have to go out into the world and begin all over if Mr. Wayland carries
out his threat. I may be the poorest of the poor."

"That will be my opportunity to show how well I love you. You can be no
poorer than I in this world's goods."

"You at least have your copper-mine."

"I have no mine," said the girl. "Not even the smallest interest in
one."

"But--I don't understand."

She dropped her eyes. "Mr. Hilliard is a hard man to deal with. I had
to give him all my share in the claims."

"I suppose you mean you sold out to him."

"No! When I found you could not raise the money, I gave him my share in
the mine. With that as a consideration, he made you the loan. You are
not angry, are you?"

"Angry!" Emerson's tone conveyed a supreme gladness. "You don't
know--how happy you have made me."

"Hark!" She laid a finger upon his lips. Through the breathless night
there came the faint rumble of a ship's chains.

"_The Grande Dame!_" he cried. "She sails at the flood tide."

They stood together in the open doorway of the little house and watched
the yacht's lights as they described a great curve through the
darkness, then slowly faded into nothingness down the bay. Cherry drew
herself closer to Boyd.

"What a wonderful Providence guides us, after all," she said. "That
girl had everything in the world, and I was poor--so poor--until this
hour. God grant she may some day be as rich as I!"

Out on _The Grande Dame_ the girl who had everything in the world
maintained a lonely vigil at the rail, straining with tragic eyes until
the sombre shadows that marked the shores of the land she feared had
shrunk to a faint, low-lying streak on the horizon. Then she turned and
went below, numbed by the knowledge that she was very poor and very
wretched, and had never understood.

THE END










End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Silver Horde, by Rex Beach

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