THE DINNER AT REEVES'
With the rush of thechechakoshad come also the vanguard of big business—keen-eyed engineers and bespectacled metallurgists, accompanied by trusted agents of Wall Street, who upon advice of the engineers and the metallurgists paid out money right and left for options.
First over the pass in the spring came Reeves and Howson who struck into the hills and, passing up the rich "gold in the grass roots" claims, concentrated upon a creek of lesser promise. By the first of July, their findings upon this creek justified the report to their principals in the states that roused those officials of the newly organized Northern Dredge Company from their stupor of watchful waiting into a cauldron of volcanic activity.
Fowler, the little purchasing agent sat at his desk and for fourteen straight hours dictated telegrams, pausing only to refer to pages of neatly typed specifications, with the result that within twenty-four hours upon many railroads carloads of freight began to move toward a certain dock in Seattle atwhich was moored a tramp steamer waiting to receive her cargo. A sawmill from the Washington forests, steel rails and a dinky engine from Pittsburg, great dredges from Ohio, tools, iron, cement from widely separated States and the crowning item of all, a Mississippi River steamboat jerked bodily from the water and dismantled ready to be put together in a matter of hours at the mouth of the Yukon.
Late in August that same steamboat, her decks and two barges piled high with freight, nosed into the bank at Dawson and threw out her mooring lines, while down her plank swarmed the Northern Company's skilled artisans—swarmed also into the waiting arms of her husband, Reba Reeves, wife of the Northern Dredge Company's chief engineer and general manager of operation. Reeves led his wife to the little painted house that he had bought and furnished, and turned his attention to the problem of transporting his heavy outfit to the creek of his selection.
For a month thereafter he was on the works night and day, snatching his sleep where he could, now and then at home, but more often upon the pile of blankets and robes that he had thrown into a corner of the little slab office on the bank of the creek. Early in October, upon one of his flying visits, his wife reminded him that he had promised to send a man down to bank the house for the winter.
"Don't see how I can spare a man right now, little girl," he answered, "I'm hiring every man I can find that will handle a pick or a shovel, or drive a nail, or carry a board. I've still got three miles of flume to put in, and half a mile of railroad grade to finish—and the snow will hit us any time now."
"You can't work your old dredges in the winter, anyhow, why don't you wait till spring."
"When spring comes I want to be in shape to begin throwing out the gravel the minute the ground thaws, and I don't want to be bothered building flume and railroad."
"But, dearest, the floor is so cold. We can't live in this house in the winter unless it is banked. All the neighbors have their houses banked three or four feet high, and if the ground freezes we'll never get it done."
Reeves' brow puckered into a frown: "That's right," he admitted, "Tell you what I'll do, I'll come down Saturday afternoon and stay over Sunday and bank it myself. Maybe I can find someone to help me. There's an old tramp that lives in a cabin a piece back from the river. One of my foremen has hired him three or four times, but he's no good—won't work more than two or three days at a stretch—he's a drunkard, and can't stay away from booze. Maybe, though, if I stay right on the job with him till it's finished I can get a day's work out of him—anyway I'll try."
Of the books left by the Englishman, the onethat interested Brent most was a volume from which the title page had long since disappeared as had the lettering upon its back, if indeed any had ever existed. It contained what appeared to be semi-official reports upon the mineral possibilities of the almost unexplored territory lying between the Mackenzie and Back's Fish River, but more particularly upon the Coppermine River and its tributaries. To these reports was added a monograph which treated exhaustively of the expeditions of Hearne into the North in search of gold, and also of the illfated expedition of old Captain Knight. This book held a peculiar fascination for Brent, and he read and reread it, poring over its contents by the hour as he dreamed his foolish dreams of some day carrying on Hearne's explorations to ultimate success.
Upon the night following the visit of Camillo Bill, Brent sat beside his dirty table, with his stinking oil lamp drawn near, and his favorite book held close to catch the sullen light that filtered through its murky, smoke blackened chimney. This night the book held a new interest for him. All along he had cherished the hope that when Camillo Bill should turn back his claims, there would still be a goodly amount of gold left in the gravel. But Camillo Bill said that the claims had petered out—and Camillo Bill was square. All that was left for him to do then was to hit for the Coppermine, and not so much for himself, for he stood in honor bound to see that Camillo Bill lost nothing throughcashing those slips and markers upon his assurance that the claims were worth a million.
The book settled slowly to Brent's lap, he poured a drink, and idly turned its pages, as his drunken imagination pictured himself mushing at the head of a dog team through those unknown wastes, and at the end of the long trail finding gold, gold, gold. He turned to the inside of the front cover and stared idly at the name penned many years ago. The ink was faded and brown and the name almost illegible so that he had to turn it aslant to follow the faint tracery. "Murdo MacFarlane, Lashing Water," he read, "I wonder where Lashing Water is? And who was this Murdo MacFarlane? And where is he now? Did he find Hearne's lost gold? Or, did he—did he—?" A loud knock upon the door roused Brent from his dreamy speculation.
"Come in!" he called, and turned to see Reeves standing in the doorway.
"Hello," greeted the intruder, plunging straight into the object of his visit, "I'm up against it, and I wonder if you won't help me out." He paused, and Brent waited for him to proceed, "I'm Reeves, of the Northern Dredge Company, and I've got every available man in Dawson out there on the works trying to finish three miles of flume and a half mile of railroad before snow flies. I can't spare a man off the works, but I've got to bank my house, so I decided to stay home myself tomorrow and tackle it. If you'll help me, and if we get a goodearly start, I think we can finish the job by night. I wouldn't care a rap if it were not for my wife, she's from the South, and I'm afraid of those cold floors. What do you say, will you do it? I'll pay you well."
"Yes," answered Brent, and he noticed that the other's eyes had strayed in evident surprise to the pile of books upon the table among the dirty dishes.
"All right, that's fine! What time can I expect you?"
"Daylight," answered Brent, "Will you have a drink?" he indicated the bottle that stood beside the pile of books, but Reeves shook his head:
"No, thanks, I've got to tackle some work tonight that I've been putting off for weeks. See you in the morning."
Seated once more in his chair with his book, Brent poured himself a drink, "From the South," he whispered, and raising the murky glass to his lips swallowed the liquor. His eyes closed and into his brain floated a picture, dim and indistinct, at first, but gradually taking definite form—a little town of wide, tree-shaded streets, a weather-stained brick courthouse standing in the centre of a grassed square, and facing it across the street a red brick schoolhouse. The schoolhouse doors swung open and out raced a little boy swinging his books on the end of a strap. He was a laughing, cleareyed little boy, and he wore buckled slippers and black velvet nickers, and a wide collar showeddazzling white against the black of the velvet jacket.
Other children followed, barefooted little boys whose hickory shirts, many sizes too large for the little bodies, bulged grotesquely about their "galluses," and little boys shod in stiff hot looking black shoes and stockings, and little girls with tight-braided pig-tails hanging down their backs, and short starched skirts, who watched with envious eyes as the velvet clad boy ran across to the "hitch-rail" that flanked the courthouse sidewalk, and mounted a stocky little "calico" Shetland pony, and rode down the tree-shaded street at a furious gallop. On the outskirts of the town the pony swerved of its own accord between two upstanding stone posts and into a broad avenue that swept in graceful curves between two rows of huge evergreens that led from the white turnpike to a big brick house, the roof of whose broad gallery was supported upon huge white pillars. Up the avenue raced the pony and up the dozen steps that led to the gallery, just at the moment that the huge bulk of a round-eyed colored "mammy" blocked the doorway of the hall.
"Hyah, yo' rascal, yo'!" cried the outraged negress flourishing her broom, "Git yo' circus hoss offen my clean gallery flo', fo' I bus' him wide open wif dis, broom! Lawd sakes, efen Miss Callie see yo' hyah, she gwine raise yo' ha'r fo' sho'! Yo' Ca'teh Brent, yo'git!" The broom swished viciously—and Brent opened his eyes with a jerk. The first fitful gusts of a norther were whipping aboutthe eaves of his cabin, and shivering slightly, he crawled into his bunk.
All the forenoon the two men worked side by side with pick and shovel and wheelbarrow, piling the earth high above the baseboards of Reeves' white painted house. Brent spoke little and he worked as, it seemed to him, he had never worked before. The muscles of his back and arms and fingers ached, and in his vitals was the gnawing desire for drink. But he had brought no liquor with him, and he fought down the desire and worked doggedly, filling the wheelbarrows as fast as Reeves could dump them. At noon Reeves surveyed the work with satisfaction: "We've got it!" he exclaimed, "We're a little more than half through, and none too soon." The wind had blown steadily from the north, carrying with it frequent flurries of snow. "We'll knock off now. Just step into the house."
Brent shook his head, "No, I'll slip over to the cabin. I'll be back by the time you're through dinner."
Reeves, who had divined the man's need, stepped closer, "Come in, won't you. I've got a little liquor that I brought from the outside. I think you'll like it."
Without a word Brent followed him into the kitchen where Reeves set out the bottle and a tumbler: "Just help yourself," he said, "I never use it," and passed into the next room. Eagerly Brent poured himself half a tumblerful and gulpedit down, and as he returned the glass to the table, he heard the voice of Reeves: "You don't mind if he eats with us do you? He's worked mighty hard, and—" the sentence was interrupted by a woman's voice:
"Why, certainly he will eat with us. See, the table's all set. I saw you coming so I brought the soup in. Hurry before it gets cold." At the man's words Brent's eyes had flashed a swift glance over his disreputable garments. His lips had tightened at the corners, and as he had waited for the expected protest, they had twisted into a cynical smile. But at the woman's reply, the smile died from his lips, and he took a furtive step toward the door, hesitated, and unconsciously his shoulders stiffened, and a spark flickered for a moment in his muddy eyes. Why not? It had been many a long day since he had sat at a table with a woman—that kind of a woman. Like a flash came Reeves' words of the night before. "She's from the South." If the man should really ask him to sit at his table, why not accept—and carry it through in his own way? The good liquor was taking hold. Brent swiftly dashed some more into the glass and downed it at a swallow. Then Reeves stepped into the room.
"You are to dine here," he announced, "we both of us need a good hot meal, and a good smoke, and my wife has your place all laid at the table."
"I thank you," answered Brent, "May I wash?" Reeves, who had expected an awkward proteststarted at the words, and indicated the basin at the sink. As Brent subjected his hands and face to a thorough scrubbing, and carefully removed the earth from beneath his finger nails, Reeves eyed him quizzically. Brent preceded his host into the dining room where Mrs. Reeves waited, standing beside her chair.
Reeves stepped forward: "My wife, Mr.——," his voice trailed purposely, but instead of mumbling a name, and acknowledging the introduction with an embarrassed bob of the head, Brent smiled:
"Let us leave it that way, please. Mrs. Reeves, allow me," and stepping swiftly to her chair he seated her with a courtly bow. He looked up to see Reeves staring in open-mouthed amazement. Again, he smiled, and stepped to his own place, not unmindful of the swift glance of surprise that passed between husband and wife. After that surprises came fast. Surprise at the ease and grace of manner with which he comported himself, gave place to surprise and admiration at his deft maneuvering of the conversation to things of the "outside"—to the literary and theatrical successes of a few years back, and to the dozen and one things that make dinner small talk. The Reeves' found themselves consumed with curiosity as to this man with the drunkard's eye, the unkempt beard, and the ragged clothing of a tramp, whose jests and quips kept them in constant laughter. All through the meal Mrs. Reeves studied him. There was something fine in the shape of the brow, in the thin, well formed nose, in the occasional flash of the muddy eyes that held her.
"You are from the South, aren't you?" she asked, during a pause in the conversation.
Brent smiled. "Yes, far from the South—very far."
"I am from the South, too, and I love it," continued the woman, her eyes upon the man's face. "From Plantersville, Tennessee—I've lived there all my life." At the words Brent started perceptibly, and the hand that held his coffee cup trembled violently so that part of the contents splashed onto his napkin. When he returned the cup to its saucer it rattled noisily.
The woman half rose from her chair: "Carter Brent!" she cried. And Reeves, staring at his wife in astonishment, saw that tears glistened in her eyes.
The next moment Brent had pulled himself together: "You win," he smiled, regarding her curiously, "But, you will pardon me I'm sure. I've been away a long time, and I'm afraid——"
"Oh, you wouldn't recognize me. I was only sixteen or seventeen when you left Plantersville. You had been away at college, and you came home for a month. I'm Reba Moorhouse——"
"Indeed I do remember you," laughed Brent, "Why you did me the honor to dance with me at Colonel Pinkney's ball. But, tell me, how are yourmother and father and Fred and Emily? I suppose Doctor Moorhouse still shoots his squirrels square in the eye, eh!"
"Mother died two years ago, and dad has almost given up his practice," she smiled, "So he'll have more time to shoot squirrels. Fred is in college, and Emily married Charlie Harrow, and they bought the old Melcher place out on the pike."
Brent hesitated a moment: "And—and—my father—have you seen him lately?"
"Yes, indeed! General Brent and Dad are still the greatest of cronies. He hasn't changed a bit since I can first remember him. Old Uncle Jake still drives him to the bank at nine o'clock each morning, he still eats his dinners at the Planter's Hotel, and then makes his rounds of the lumber yard, and the coal yard, and the tobacco warehouse, or else Uncle Jake drives him out to inspect some of his farms, and back home at four o'clock. No, to all appearances, the General hasn't changed—but, dad says there is a change in the last two or three years. He—he—would give everything he owns just to hear from—you."
Brent was silent for a moment: "But, he must not hear—yet. I'll make another strike, one of these days—and then——-"
"Did you make a strike?" asked Reeves.
Brent nodded. "Yes, I was on the very peak of the first stampede. Did you, by chance, ever hear of Ace-In-The-Hole?"
Reeves smiled: "Yes—notorious gambler, wasn't he? Were you here when he was? Made a big strike, somewhere, and then gambled away ten or twenty million, didn't he, and then—I never did hear what became of him."
Brent smiled: "Yes, he made a strike. Then, I suppose, he was just what you said—a notorious gambler—his losses were grossly exaggerated, they were not over two millions at the outside."
"A mere trifle," laughed Reeves, "What ever became of him."
"Just at this moment he is seated at a dining table, talking with a generous host, and a most charming hostess——"
"AreyouAce-In-The-Hole?"
"So designated upon the Yukon," smiled Brent.
Mrs. Reeves leaned suddenly forward: "Oh, why don't you—why don't you brace up? Let liquor alone, and——"
Brent interrupted her with a wave of the hand: "Theoretically a very good suggestion," he smiled, "But, practically—it won't work. Personally, I do not think I drink enough to hurt me any—but we will waive that point—if I do, it is my own fault." He was about to add that he was as good a man as he ever was, but something saved him that sophistry, and when he looked into the face of his hostess his muddy eyes twinkled humorously. "At least," he said, "I have succeeded in eliminating one fault—I have not gambled in quite some time."
"And you never will gamble again?"
Brent laughed: "I didn't say that. However I see very little chance of doing so in the immediate future."
"Promise me that you never will?" she asked, "You might, at least, promise me that, if you won't give up the other."
"What assurance would you have that I would keep my promise?" parried the man.
Quick as a flash came the reply, "The word of a Brent!"
Unconsciously the man's shoulders straightened: He hesitated a moment while he regarded the woman gravely: "Yes," he said, "I will promise you that, if it will please you, 'Upon the word of a Brent.'" He turned abruptly to Reeves, "We had better be getting at that job again, or we won't finish it before dark," he said, and with a bow to Mrs. Reeves, "You will excuse us, I know." The woman nodded and as her husband was about to follow Brent from the room she detained him.
"Who is he?" asked Reeves, as the door closed behind him.
"Who is he!" exclaimed his wife, "Why he's Carter Brent! The very last of the Brents! Anyone in the South can tell you what that means. They're the bluest of the blue bloods. His father, the old General, owns the bank, and about everything else that's worth owning in Plantersville, and half the county besides! And oh, it's a shame!A shame! We've got to do something! You've got to do something! He's a mining engineer, too. I recognized him before he told me, and when I mentioned Plantersville, did you see his hand tremble? I was sure then. Oh, can't you give him a position?"
Reeves considered: "Why, yes, I could use a good mining engineer. But—he's too far gone. He couldn't stay away from the booze. I don't think there's any use trying."
"There is, I tell you! The blood is there—and when the blood is there it isnevertoo late! Didn't you notice the air with which he gave me his promise not to gamble 'Upon the word of a Brent.' He would die before he would break that promise—you see."
"But—he wouldn't promise to let liquor alone. The gambling—in his circumstances is more or less a joke."
"But, when he gets on his feet again it won't be a joke!" she insisted. "You mark my words, he is going to make good. I canfeelit. And that is why I got him to promise not to gamble. If you can make him promise to let liquor alone you can depend on it he will let it alone. You'll try—won't you dear?"
"Yes, little girl, I'll try," smiled Reeves, kissing his young wife, "But I'll tell you beforehand, you are a good deal more sanguine of success than I am." And he passed out and joined Brent who was busily loading a wheelbarrow.
JOE PETE
Several times during the afternoon as they worked side by side, Reeves endeavored to engage Brent in conversation, but the latter's replies were short to the verge of curtness, and Reeves gave it up and devoted his energy to the task in hand. The fitful snow flurries of the forenoon settled into a steady fall of wind-driven flakes that cut the air in long horizontal slants and lay an ever-thickening white blanket upon the frozen surface of the ground. Darkness fell early, and the job was finished by lantern light. When the last barrow of earth had been placed, the two made a tour of inspection which ended at the kitchen door.
"Snug and tight for the winter!" exclaimed Reeves, "And just in time!"
"Yes," answered Brent, "Winter is here."
The door opened and the face of Mrs. Reeves was framed for a moment in the yellow lamp light: "Supper is ready!" she called, cheerily.
"Come in," invited Reeves, heartily, "We'll put that supper where it will do the most good, and then we'll——"
Brent interrupted him: "Thank you, I'll go home."
"Oh, come, now!" insisted the other. "Mrs. Reeves is expecting you. She will be really disappointed if you run off that way."
"Disappointed—hell!" cried Brent, so fiercely that Reeves stared at him in surprise. "Do you think for a minute that it was easy for me to sit at a table—the table of a southern lady—in these rags? Would you care to try it—to try and play the rôle of a gentleman behind a six weeks' growth of beard, and with your hair uncut for six months? It would have been an ordeal at any table, but to find out suddenly—at a moment when you were straining every nerve in your body to carry it through, that your hostess was one you had known—in other days—and who had known you—I tell you man it was hell! What I've got to have is not food, but whiskey—enough whiskey to make me drunk—very drunk. And the hell I've gone through is not a circumstance to the hell I've got to face when that same whiskey begins to die out—lying there in the bunk staring wide-eyed into the thick dark—seeing things that aren't there—hearing voices that were, and are forever stilled, and voices that never were—the voices of the damned—taunting, reviling, mocking your very soul, asking you what you have done with your millions? And where do you go from here? And your hands shaking so that you can't draw the cork from the bottle todrown the damned voices and still them till you have to wake up again, hoping when you do it will be daylight—it's easier in daylight. I tell you man that'shell! It isn't the hell that comes after he dies a man fears—it's the hell that comes in the dark. A hell born of whiskey, and only whiskey will quench the fires of it—and more whiskey—and more——"
Reeves grasped his hand in a mighty grip: "I think I understand, old man—a little," he said. "I'll make excuse to Mrs. Reeves."
"Tell her the truth if you want to," growled Brent, turning away, "We'll never meet again."
"You've forgotten something," called Reeves as he extended a hand which held a crisp bill.
Brent examined it. It was a twenty. "What is this—wages or charity?" he asked.
"Wages—and you've earned every cent of it."
"Shoveling dirt, or play acting?" There was a sneer in the man's voice, which Reeves was quick to resent.
"Shoveling dirt," he replied, shortly.
"Men shovel dirt in this camp now for eight or ten."
"I think I am quite capable of judging what a man's services are worth to me," answered Reeves, "Good bye." He turned to the door, and Brent crumpled the bill into his pocket and disappeared in the whirling snow.
Arriving at his cabin he carefully deposited twoquarts of liquor upon the table, lighted his smoky lamp, and built a roaring fire in the stove. Seating himself in a chair, he carefully removed the cork from the bottle and took a long, long drink. He realized suddenly that the unwonted physical exercise had made him very tired and hungry. The greater part of a link of bologna sausage lay upon the table, a remnant of a previous meal. He took the sausage in his hand and devoured it, pausing now and then to drink from the bottle. When the last fragment had been consumed he settled himself in his chair and, with the bottle at his elbow, stared for a long time at the log wall. "Winter is here," he muttered, at length, "And I've got to hit the trail." He took a drink, and carefully replaced the bottle upon the table, and again for a long time he stared at the logs. A knock on the door startled him.
"Come in," he called. He felt better now. The liquor was taking hold.
Reeves stamped the snow noisily from his feet and closed the door behind him. Brent rose and motioned for the man to draw the other chair closer to the stove. He turned up the murky lamp a trifle, then turned it down again because it smoked.
Reeves seated himself, and fumbling in his pocket, produced two cigars, one of which he tendered to Brent. "I came, partly on my own account, and partly at the earnest solicitation of my wife." He smiled, "I hardly know how to begin."
"If it's a sermon, begin about three words from the end; but if it is a drinking bout, begin at the beginning, but you will have to pardon me for beginning in the middle, for I have already consumed half a quart." He indicated the bottle and Reeves noted that his lips were smiling, and that there was a sparkle in the muddy eyes.
"Not guilty on either count," he laughed, "I neither preach nor drink. What brings me here is a mere matter of business."
"Business? Sure you haven't got your dates mixed. I have temporarily withdrawn from the business world."
Reeves was relieved to see that the fierce mood of a few hours before had given place to good humour. "No, it is regarding the termination of this temporary withdrawal that I want to see you. I understand you're a mining engineer."
"Colorado School of Mines—five good jobs within two years in Montana—later, placer miner, 'notorious gambler,' and—" he included himself and the interior of the cabin in an expressive gesture.
"Do you want another good job?"
"What kind of a job?"
"An engineering job. How would you like to be my assistant in the operation of this dredging proposition?"
Brent shook his head: "It wouldn't work."
"Why not?"
Brent smiled: "Too close to Dawson. I like the hooch too well. And, aside from that, you don't need me. You will be laying off men now. Not hiring them."
"Laying off laborers, yes. But there is plenty of work along that creek this winter for the right man—for me, and for you, if you will assume it."
Again Brent shook his head: "There is another reason," he objected, "I have got to make another strike—and a good one. I have an obligation to meet—an obligation that in all probability will involve more money than any salary I could earn."
"Small chance of a rich strike, now. The whole country is staked."
"Around here, yes. But not where I'm going."
"Where is that?"
"Over beyond the Mackenzie. In the Coppermine River country."
"Beyond the Mackenzie!" cried Reeves, "Man are you crazy!"
"No, not crazy, only, at the moment, comfortably drunk. But that has nothing whatever to do with my journey to the Coppermine. I will be cold sober when I hit the trail."
"And when will that be? How do you expect to finance the trip?"
"Ah, there's the rub," grinned Brent, "I have not the least idea in the world of how I am going to finance it. When that detail is arranged, I shall hit the trail within twenty-four hours."
Reeves was thinking rapidly. He did not believe that there was any gold beyond the Mackenzie. To the best of his knowledge there was nothing beyond the Mackenzie. Nothing—no towns—no booze! If Brent would be willing to go into a country for six months or a year in which booze was not obtainable—"There's no booze over there," he said aloud, "How much would you have to take with you?"
"Not a damned drop!"
"What!"
Brent rose suddenly to his feet and stood before Reeves. "I have been fooling myself," he said, in a low tense voice, "Do you know what my shibboleth has been? What I have been telling myself and telling others—and expecting them to believe? I began to say it, and honestly enough, when I first started to get soft, and I kept it up stubbornly when the softness turned to flabbiness, and I maintained it doggedly when the flabbiness gave way to pouchiness: 'I am as good a man as I ever was!' That's the damned lie I've been telling myself! I nearly told it at your table, and before your wife, but thank God I was spared that humiliation. Just between friends, I'll tell the truth—I'm a damned worthless, hooch-guzzling good-for-naught! And the hell of it is, I haven't got the guts to quit!" He seized the bottle from the table and drank three or four swallows in rapid succession, "See that—what did I tell you?" He glared at Reeves as if challenging a denial. "But, I've got one chance."
He straightened up and pointed toward the eastward. "Over beyond the Mackenzie there is no hooch. If I can get away from it for six months I can beat it. If I can get my nerve back—get myhealthback, By God, Iwillbeat it! If there's enough of a Brent left in me, for that girl, your wife, to recognize through this disguise of rags and hair and dirt, there's enough of a Brent, sir, to put up one hell of a fight against booze!"
Reeves found himself upon his feet slapping the other on the back. "You've said it man! You've said it! I will arrange for the financing."
"You! How?"
"On your own terms."
Brent was silent for a moment: "Take your pick," he said, "Grub-stake me, or loan me two thousand dollars. If I live I'll pay you back—with interest. If I don't—you lose."
Reeves regarded him steadily: "I lose, only in case you die—you promise me that—on the word of a Brent? And I don't mean the two thousand—you understand what I mean, I think."
Brent nodded, slowly: "I understand. And I promise—on the word of a Brent. But," he hastened to add, "I am not promising that I will not drink any more hooch—now or any other time—I have here a quart and a half of liquor. In all probability between now and tomorrow morning I shall get very drunk."
"You said you would leave within twenty-four hours," reminded Reeves.
"And so I will."
"How do you want the money?"
"How do I want it? I'll tell you. I want it in dust, and I want it inside of an hour. Can you get it?"
"Yes," answered Reeves, and drawing on cap and mittens, pushed out into the storm.
Hardly had the door closed behind him, than it opened again and Brent also disappeared in the storm.
In a little shack upon the river bank, an Indian grunted sleepily in answer to an insistent banging upon his door: "Hey, Joe Pete, come out here! I want you!"
A candle flared dully, and presently the door opened, and a huge Indian stood in the doorway rubbing his eyes with his fist.
"Come with me," ordered Brent, "To the cabin."
Silently the Indian slipped into his outer clothing and followed, and without a word of explanation, Brent led the way to his cabin. For a half hour they sat in silence, during which Brent several times drank from his bottle. Presently Reeves entered and laid a pouch upon the table. He looked questioningly at the Indian who returned the scrutiny with a look of stolid indifference.
"Joe Pete, this is Mr. Reeves. Reeves, that Injun is Joe Pete, the best damned Injun in Alaska, or anywhere else. Used to pack over the Chilkoot, until he made so much money he thought he'd tryhis hand at the gold—now he's broke. Joe Pete is going with me. He and I understand each other perfectly." He picked up the sack and handed it to the Indian: "Two thousand dolla—pil chikimin. Go to police, find out trail to Mackenzie—Fort Norman. How many miles? How many days? Buy grub for two. Buy good dogs and sled. Buy two outfits clothes—plenty tabac. Keep rest ofpil chikiminsafe until two days on trail, then give it to me. We hit the trail at eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
Without a word the Indian took the sack and slipped silently out the door, while Reeves stared in astonishment:
"You've got a lot of confidence in that Indian!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't trust one of them out of my sight with a dollar bill!"
"You don't know Joe Pete," grinned Brent. "I've got more confidence in him than I have in myself. The hooch joints will be two days behind me before I get my hands on that dust."
"And now, what?" asked Reeves.
"Be here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning and witness the start," grinned Brent, "In the meantime, I am going to make the most of the fleeting hours." He reached for the bottle, and Reeves held up a warning hand:
"You won't be in any shape to hit the trail in the morning, if you go too heavy on that."
Brent laughed: "Again, I may say, you don't know Joe Pete."
At seven o'clock in the morning Reeves hurried to Brent's cabin. The snow about the door lay a foot deep, trackless and unbroken. Reeves' heart gave a bound of apprehension. There was no dog team nor sled in evidence, nor was there any sign that the Indian had returned. A dull light glowed through the heavily frosted pane and without waiting to knock Reeves pushed open the door and entered.
Brent greeted him with drunken enthusiasm: "H'l'o, Reeves, ol' top! Glad to she you. S'down an' have a good ol' drink! Wait'll I shave. Hell of a job to shave." He stood before the mirror weaving back and forth, with a razor in one hand and a shaving brush in the other, and a glass half full of whiskey upon the washstand before him, into which he gravely from time to time dipped the shaving brush, and rubbing it vigorously upon the soap, endeavored to lather the inch-long growth of beard that covered his face. Despite his apprehension as to what had become of the paragon, Joe Pete, Reeves was forced to laugh. He laughed and laughed, until Brent turned around and regarded him gravely: "Wash matter? Wash joke? Wait a minuit lesh have a li'l drink." He reached for the bottle, that sat nearly empty upon the table, and guzzled a swallow of the liquor. "Damn near all gone. Have to get nosher one when Joe Pete comes."
"When Joe Pete comes!" cried Reeves, "You'll never see Joe Pete again! He's skipped out!"
"Skipped out? Washa mean skipped out?"
"I mean that it's a quarter past seven and he hasn't showed up and you told him you would start at eight."
Brent laid his razor upon the table: "Quar' pasht seven? Quar pasht seven isn't eight 'clock. You don' know Joe Pete."
"But, man, you're not ready. There's nothing packed. And you're as drunk as a lord!"
"Sure, I'm drunk's a lord—drunker'n two lords—lords ain't so damn' drunk. If I don't get packed by eight 'clock I'll have to go wishout packin'. You don' know Joe Pete."
At a quarter of eight there was a commotion before the door, and the huge Indian entered the room, dressed for the trail. He stood still, gave one comprehensive look around the room, and silently fell to work. He examined rapidly everything in the cabin, throwing several articles into a pile. Brent's tooth brush, comb, shaving outfit, and mirror he made into a pack which he carried to the sled, returning a moment later with a brand new outfit of clothing. He placed it upon the chair and motioned Brent to get into it. But Brent stood and stared at it owlishly. Whereupon, without a word, the Indian seized him and with one or two jerks stripped him to the skin and proceeded to dress him as one would dress a baby. Brent protested weakly, but all to no purpose. Reeves helped and soon Brent was clothed for the winter trail evento moose hide parka. He grinned foolishly, and drank the remaining liquor from the bottle. "Whad' I tell you?" he asked solemnly of Reeves. "You don't know Joe Pete."
The Indian consulted a huge silver watch, and returning it to his pocket, sat upon the edge of the bunk, and stared at the wall. Brent puttered futilely about the room, and addressed the Indian. "We got to get a bottle of hooch. I got to have jus' one more drink. Jus' one more drink, an' then to hell wish it."
The Indian paid not the slightest heed, but continued to stare at the wall. A few minutes later he again consulted his watch, and rising, grasped Brent about the middle and carried him, struggling and protesting out the door and lashed him securely to the sled.
Reeves watched the proceeding in amazement, and almost before he realized what was happening, the Indian had taken his place beside the dogs. He cracked his whip, shouted an unintelligible command, and the team started. Upon the top of the load, Brent wagged a feeble farewell to Reeves: "Sho long, ol' man—she you later—I got to go now. You don' know Joe Pete."
The outfit headed down the trail to the river. Reeves, standing beside the door of the deserted cabin, glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He turned, closed the door and started for home chuckling. The chuckle became a laugh, and hesmote his thigh and roared, until some laborers going to work stopped to look at him. Then he composed himself and went home to tell his wife.
ON THE TRAIL
At noon Joe Pete swung the outfit into the lee of a thicket, built a fire, and brewed tea. Brent woke up and the Indian loosened thebabicheline that had secured him, coiled the rope carefully, and without a word, went on with his preparation of the meal. Brent staggered and stumbled about in the snow in an effort to restore circulation to his numbed arms and legs. His head ached fiercely, and when he could in a measure control his movements, he staggered to the fire. Joe Pete tendered him a cup of steaming tea. Brent smelled of the liquid with disgust: "To hell with tea!" he growled thickly, "I want hooch. I've got to have it—just one drink."
Joe Pete drank a swallow of tea, and munched unconcernedly at a piece of pilot bread.
"Give me a drink of hooch! Didn't you hear me? I need it," demanded Brent.
"Hooch no good. Tea good. Ain' got no hooch—not wan drink."
"No hooch!" cried Brent, "I tell you I've got tohave it! I thought I could get away with it, this trailing without hooch—but, I can't. How far have we come?"
"Bout 'leven mile."
"Well, just as soon as you finish eating you turn that dog team around. We're going back." Brent was consumed by a torturing thirst. He drank the tea in great gulps and extended his cup for more. He drank a second and a third cup, and the Indian offered him some bread. Brent shook his head:
"I can't eat. I'm sick. Hurry up and finish, and hit the back-trail as fast as those dogs can travel."
Joe Pete finished his meal, washed the cups, and returned the cooking outfit to its appointed place on the load.
"You goin' ride?" he asked.
"No, I'll walk. Got to walk a while or I'll freeze."
The Indian produced from the pack a pair of snowshoes and helped Brent to fasten them on. Then he swung the dogs onto the trail and continued on his course.
"Here you!" cried Brent, "Pull those dogs around! We're going back to Dawson."
Joe Pete halted the dogs and walked back to where Brent stood beside the doused fire: "Mebbe-so we goin' back Dawson," he said, "But, firs' we goin' Fo't Norman. You tak hol' tail-rope, an' mush."
A great surge of anger swept Brent. His eyes,red-rimmed and swollen from liquor, and watery from the glare of the new fallen snow, fairly blazed. He took a step forward and raised his arm as though to strike the Indian: "What do you mean? Damn you! Who is running this outfit? I've changed my mind. I'm not going to Fort Norman."
Joe Pete did not even step back from the up-lifted arm. "You ain' changemymin' none. You droonk. I ain' hear you talk. Bye-m-bye, you git sober, Joe Pete hear you talk. You grab tail-rope now or I tie you oop agin."
Suddenly Brent realized that he was absolutely in this man's power. For the first time in his life he felt utterly helpless. The rage gave place to a nameless fear: "How far is it to Fort Norman?" he asked, in an unsteady voice.
"'Bout fi' hondre mile."
"Five hundred miles! I can't stand the trip, I tell you. I'm in no condition to stand it. I'll die!"
The Indian shrugged—a shrug that conveyed to Brent more plainly than words that Joe Pete conceded the point, and that if it so happened, his demise would be merely an incident upon the trail to Fort Norman. Brent realized the futility of argument. As well argue with one of the eternal peaks that flung skyward in the distance. For he, at least, knew Joe Pete. In the enthusiasm of his great plan for self redemption he had provided against this very contingency. He had deliberately chosen as his companion and guide the one man in all the Northwho, come what may, would deviate no hair's breadth from his first instructions. And now, he stood there in the snow and cursed himself for a fool. The Indian pointed to the tail-rope, and muttering curses, Brent reached down and picked it up, and the outfit started.
So far they had fairly good going. The course lay up Indian River, beyond the head reaches of which they would cross the Bonnet Plume pass, and upon the east slope of the divide, pick up one of the branches of the Gravel and follow that river to the Mackenzie. Joe Pete traveled ahead, breaking trail for the dogs, and before they had gone a mile Brent was puffing and blowing in his effort to keep up. His grip tightened on the tail-rope. The dogs were fairly pulling him along. At each step it was becoming more and more difficult to lift his feet. He stumbled and fell, dragged for a moment, and let go. He lay with his face in the snow. He did not try to rise. The snow felt good to his throbbing temples. He hoped the Indian would not miss him for a long, long time. Better lie here and freeze than endure the hell of that long snow trail. Then Joe Pete was lifting him from the snow and carrying him to the sled. He struggled feebly, and futilely he cursed, but the effort redoubled the ache in his head, and a terrible nausea seized him, from which he emerged weak and unprotesting while the Indian bound him upon the load.
At dark they camped. Brent sitting humped upbeside the fire while Joe Pete set up the little tent and cooked supper. Brent drank scalding tea in gulps. Again he begged in vain for hooch—and was offered pilot bread and moose meat. He tried a piece of meat but his tortured stomach rejected it, whereupon Joe Pete brewed stronger tea, black, and bitter as gall, and with that Brent drenched his stomach and assuaged after a fashion his gnawing thirst. Wrapped in blankets he crept beneath his rabbit robe—but not to sleep. The Indian had built up the fire and thrown the tent open to its heat. For an hour Brent tossed about, bathed in cold sweat. Things crawled upon the walls of the tent, mingling with the shadows of the dancing firelight. He closed his eyes, and buried his head in his blankets, but the things were there too—twisting, writhing things, fantastic and horrible in color, and form, and unutterably loathsome in substance. And beyond the walls of the tent—out in the night—were the voices—the voices that taunted and tormented. He threw back his robe, and crawled to the fireside, where he sat wrapped in blankets. He threw on more wood from the pile the Indian had placed ready to hand, so that the circle of the firelight broadened, and showers of red sparks shot upward to mingle with the yellow stars.
But, it was of no use. The crawling, loathsome shapes writhed and twisted from the very flames—laughed and danced in the lap and the lick of thered flames of fire. Brent cowered against his treetrunk and stared, his red-rimmed eyes stretched wide with horror, while his blood seemed to freeze, and his heart turned to water within him. From the fire, from beyond the fire, and from the blackness of the forest behind him crept athing—shapeless, and formless, it was, of a substance vicious and slimy. It was of no color, but an unwholesome luminosity radiated from its changing outlines—an all encompassing ever approaching thing of horror, it drew gradually nearer and nearer, engulfing him—smothering him. He could reach out now and touch it with his hands. His fingers sank deep in its slime and—with a wild shriek, Brent leaped from his blankets, and ran barefooted into the forest. Joe Pete found him a few minutes later, lying in the snow with a rapidly swelling blue lump on his forehead where he had crashed against a tree in his headlong flight. He picked him up and carried him to the tent where he wrapped him in his blankets and thrust him under the robe with a compress of snow on his head.
In the morning, Brent, babbling for whiskey, drank tea. And at the noon camp he drank much strong tea and ate a little pilot bread and a small piece of moose meat. He walked about five miles in the afternoon before he was again tied on the sled, and that night he helped Joe Pete set up the tent. For supper he drank a quart of strong bitter tea, and ate more bread and meat, and that night,after tossing restlessly till midnight, he fell asleep. The shapes came, and the voices, but they seemed less loathsome than the night before. They took definite concrete shapes, shapes of things Brent knew, but of impossible color. Cerese lizards and little pink snakes skipped lightly across the walls of the tent, and bunches of luminous angleworms writhed harmlessly in the dark corners. The skipping and writhing annoyed, disgusted, but inspired no terror, so Brent slept.
The third day he ate some breakfast, and did two stretches on snowshoes during the day that totaled sixteen or eighteen miles, and that night he devoured a hearty meal and slept the sleep of the weary.
The fourth day he did not resort to the sled at all. Nor all during the day did he once ask for a drink of hooch. Day after day they mushed eastward, and higher and higher they climbed toward the main divide of the mountains. As they progressed the way became rougher and steeper, the two alternated between breaking trail and work at the gee-pole. With the passing of the days the craving for liquor grew less and less insistent. Only in the early morning was the gnawing desire strong upon him, and to assuage this desire he drank great quantities of strong tea. The outward manifestation of this desire was an intense irritability, that caused him to burst into unreasoning rage at a frozen guy rope or a misplaced mitten, and notingthis, Joe Pete was careful to see that breakfast was ready before he awakened Brent.
On the tenth day they topped the Bonnet Plume pass and began the long descent of the eastern slope. That night a furious blizzard roared down upon them from out of the North, and for two days they lay snowbound, venturing from the tent only upon short excursions for firewood. Upon the first of these days Brent shaved, a process that, by reason of a heavy beard of two months' growth, and a none too sharp razor, consumed nearly two hours. When the ordeal was over he regarded himself for a long time in the little mirror, scowling at the red, beefy cheeks, and at the little broken veins that showed blue-red at the end of his nose. He noted with approval that his eyes had cleared of the bilious yellow look, and that the network of tiny red veins were no longer visible upon the eyeballs. With approval, too, he prodded and pinched the hardening muscles in his legs and arms.
When the storm passed they pushed on, making heavy going in the loose snow. The rejuvenation of Brent was rapid now. Each evening found him less tired and in better heart, and each morning found him ready and eager for the trail.
"To hell with the hooch," he said, one evening, as he and the Indian sat upon their robes in the door of the tent and watched the red flames lick at the firewood, "I wouldn't take a drink now if I had a barrel of it!"
"Mebbe-so not now, but in de morning you tak' de beeg drink—you bet," opined the Indian solemnly.
"The hell I would!" flared Brent, and then he laughed. "There is no way of proving it, but if there were, I'd like to bet you this sack of dust against your other shirt that I wouldn't." He waited for a reply, but Joe Pete merely shrugged, and smoked on in silence.
Down on the Gravel River, with the Mackenzie only three or four days away, the outfit rounded a bend one evening and came suddenly upon a camp. Brent, who was in the lead, paused abruptly and stared at the fire that flickered cheerfully among the tree trunks a short distance back from the river. "We'll swing in just below them," he called back to Joe Pete, "It's time to camp anyway."
As they headed in toward the bank they were greeted by a rabble of barking, snarling dogs, which dispersed howling and yelping as a man stepped into their midst laying right and left about him with a long-lashed whip. The man was Johnnie Claw, and Brent noted that in the gathering darkness he had not recognized him.
"Goin' to camp?" asked Claw.
Brent answered in the affirmative, and headed his dogs up the bank toward a level spot some twenty or thirty yards below the fire.
Claw followed and stood beside the sled as theyunharnessed the dogs: "Where you headin'?" he asked.
"Mackenzie River."
"Well, you ain't got fer to go. Trappin'?"
Brent shook his head: "No. Prospecting."
"Where'd you come from?"
"Dawson."
"Dawson!" exclaimed Claw, and Brent, who had purposely kept his face turned away, was conscious that the man was regarding him closely. Claw began to speak rapidly, "This Dawson, it's way over t'other side the mountains, ain't it? I heard how they'd made a strike over there—a big strike."
Brent nodded: "Yes," he answered. "Ever been there?"
"Me? No. Me an' the woman lives over on the Nahanni. I trap."
Brent laughed: "What's the matter, Claw? I'm not connected with the police. You don't need to lie to me. What have you got, a load of hooch for the Injuns?"
The man stepped close and stared for a moment into Brent's face. Then, suddenly, he stepped back: "Well, damn my soul, if it ain't you!"
He was staring at Brent in undisguised astonishment: "But, what in hell's happened to you? A month ago you was——"
"A bum," interrupted Brent, "Going to hell by the hooch route—and not much farther to go. ButI'm not now, and inside of six months I will be as good a man as I ever was."
"You used to claim you always was as good a man as you ever was," grinned Claw. "Well, you was hittin' it a little too hard. I'm glad you quit. You an' me never hit it off like, what you might say, brothers. You was always handin' me a jolt, one way an' another. But, I never laid it up agin you. I allus said you played yer cards on top of the table—an' if you ever done anything to a man you done it to his face—an' that's more'n a hell of a lot of 'em does. There's the old woman hollerin' fer supper. I'll come over after you've et, an' we'll smoke a pipe 'er two." Claw disappeared and Brent and Joe Pete ate their supper in silence. Now and again during the meal Brent smiled to himself as he caught the eyes of the Indian regarding him sombrely.
After supper Claw returned and seated himself by the fire: "What you doin' over on this side," he asked, "You hain't honest to God prospectin' be you?"
"Sure I am. Everything is staked over there, and I've got to make another strike."
"They ain't no gold on this side," opined Claw.
"Who says so?"
"Me. An' I'd ort to know if anyone does. I've be'n around here goin' on twenty year, an' I spend as much time on this side as I do on t'other." Brent remembered he had heard of Claw's long journeysto the eastward—men said he went clear to the coast of the Arctic where he carried on nefarious barter with the whalers, trading Indian and Eskimo women for hooch, which he in turn traded to the Indians.
"Maybe you haven't spent much time hunting for gold," hazarded Brent.
"I'd tell a party I hain't! What's the use of huntin' fer gold where they hain't none? Over on this side a man c'n do better at somethin' else." He paused and leered knowingly at Brent.
"For instance?"
Claw laughed: "I hain't afraid to tell you what I do over here. They hain't but damn few I would tell, but I know you won't squeal. You hain't a-goin' to run to the Mounted an' spill all you know—some would—but not you. I'm peddling hooch—that's what I'm doin'. Got two sled-loads along that I brung through from Dawson. I thin it out with water an' it'll last till I git to the coast—clean over on Coronation Gulf, an' then I lay in a fresh batch from the whalers an' hit back fer Dawson. It used to be I could hit straight north from here an' connect up with the whalers near the mouth of the Mackenzie—but the Mounted got onto me, an' I had to quit. Well, it's about time to roll in." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of liquor, "Glad you quit hooch," he grinned, "But, I don't s'pose you'd mind takin' a little drink with a friend—way out here it can't hurt you none, whereyou can't git no more." He removed the cork and tendered the bottle. But Brent shook his head: "No thanks, Claw," he said, "I'm off of it. And besides, I haven't got but a few real friends—and you are not one of them."
"Oh, all right, all right," laughed Claw as he tilted the bottle and allowed part of the contents to gurgle audibly down his throat, "Of course I know you don't like me none whatever, but I like you all right. No harm in offerin' a man a drink, is they?"
"None whatever," answered Brent, "And no harm in refusing one when you don't want it."
Claw laughed again: "Not none whatever—when you don't want it." And turning on his heel, he returned to his own tent, chuckling, for he had noted the flash that momentarily lighted Brent's eyes at the sight of the liquor and the sound of it gurgling down his throat.
Early in the morning Brent awoke to see Claw standing beside his fire while Joe Pete prepared breakfast. He joined the two and Claw thrust out his hand: "Well, yer breakfast's ready an' you'll be pullin' out soon. We've pulled a'ready—the old woman's mushin' ahead. So long—shake, to show they's no hard feelin's—or, better yet, have a drink." He drew the bottle from his pocket and thrust it toward Brent so abruptly that some of the liquor spilled upon Brent's bare hand. The odor of it reached his nostrils, and for a second Brent closed his eyes.
"Tea ready," said Joe Pete, gruffly.
"Damn it! Don't I know it?" snapped Brent, then his hand reached out for the bottle. "Guess one won't hurt any," he said, and raising the bottle to his lips, drank deeply.
"Sure it won't," agreed Claw, "I know'd you wasn't afraid of it. Take it, or let it alone, whichever you want to—show'd that las' night."
Instantly the liquor enveloped Brent in its warm glow. The grip of it felt good in his belly, and a feeling of vast well-being pervaded his brain. Claw turned to go.
"What do you get for a quart of that liquor over here," asked Brent.
"Two ounces," answered Claw, "An' they ain't nothin' in it at that, after packin' it over them mountains. I git two ounces fer it after it's be'n weakened—but I'll let you have it, fer two the way it is."
"I'll take a quart," said Brent, and a moment later he paid Claw two ounces "guess weight" out of the buckskin pouch, in return for a bottle that Claw produced from another pocket. And as Brent turned into the tent, Claw slipped back into the timber and joined his squaw who was breaking trail at a right angle to the river over a low divide. And as he mushed on in the trail of his sleds, Claw turned and leered evilly upon the little camp beside the frozen river.