p115tHIS HAND CLENCHED FIERCELY IN THE REFLEX OF EMOTION.Jim turned to the maid, who had watched his unconscious splintering of the glass with distended eyes."When did they go?" he asked.Mary answered hurriedly, disconcerted by the obvious distress of her master."It was some hours ago, sir. They went sort of unexpected-like, as it seemed to me, sir."Jim reasoned swiftly. Somehow, he sensed a frightful fraud underlying this mystery. But he knew the need of haste. By some malevolent chance, his wife had been led into this error of understanding—out of which she had written:"I do not want to be in your path, so am going away."Jim turned to the girl, who was still hovering doubtfully in the doorway."There's been a mistake somewhere, I guess." His voice was quiet, but in it throbbed a heart-beat of deepest feeling. "Tell the foreman, I want the boys to ride with me to-night."CHAPTER IXAs the cavalcade passed from the driveway into the high road, which ran east and west, Dan McGrew spoke quickly."We'll ride toward the town."Lou turned her horse obediently, according to his direction."But why?" she demanded, wonderingly. "We might meet—him.""That's a risk we must run," was the decisive answer. "When we are well out of sight of the house, we'll cut around through the fields, and get back into the road below. So, if they come after us, they'll start the pursuit in the wrong way."In this fashion, the matter was carried out. Half an hour later, the three were back on the high-road, riding in the direction opposite to that in which they had started. They went forward rapidly through the hot hours of theafternoon, but not too rapidly, in order that the horses might hold out for the long journey. Nell, from time to time, would have questioned her mother over this strange outing. She became a little petulant, fretful from balked curiosity. But the mother was not minded to explain as yet. It required all her powers of self-control to maintain a fair degree of composure in this time of trial. She knew that any attempt to make plausible explanations to the girl would overtax her strength, and cause collapse.Night drew down on the travelers. With its coming, the storm, which had been threatening in the sultry air, broke furiously. Within the minute, the three were drenched. Dan was disturbed by the discomfort thus inflicted on mother and child, as well as himself, but pressed on stubbornly, since no relief was possible. Presently, however, as he asked a question concerning roads and distances, Lou had an inspiration:"We can cut off eight or ten miles by not going through Salisbury, to which this roadruns. We can ford the river, and beyond it's open range to Hoytsville. Then we'll strike the high-road again."Dan questioned her closely, and was convinced by her replies."I've ridden it often with—with Jim," she said. There was a catch in her throat at utterance of the name. "I think it would be quite safe, even in the dark."Dan agreed as to the advisability of her plan. Presently, then, the three turned out of the road, and moved toward the river, which, Lou explained, ran through a little valley just beyond. The rain had ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The passing of the storm had cleared the air. The oppressive heat of the afternoon and evening was gone. Now, a chill breeze was blowing. It pierced the drenched garments of the three, so that they shivered with cold. Lou became alarmed lest Nell should suffer some ill consequence from this exposure. As they descended the slope that ran down to the river-bank, she spoke suddenly."Let's stop here for a little rest," she suggested; and her voice was so anxious that Dan hardly dared refuse. For that matter, he had had something of the sort in his own mind."It's imprudent," he answered; "but, if we must, why, we must, I suppose.""I don't think it's really imprudent," Lou maintained. "There are trees and bushes along the river-bank to hide us and the horses. Anyhow, we're out of sight from the road. Could you build a fire?""If I can find any wood dry enough to burn," was the rather doubtful response.They halted on the edge of a grove, which grew close to the river. Dan led the horses within the concealment of the trees, and tied them as best he could with his chilled fingers. He had difficulty in finding dry leaves and branches for the fire, but, in the end, succeeded in making a blaze. Soon, the three were grouped close around the flame, grateful for the heat, which relaxed their stiffened muscles, and sent up steaming vapors from their wet garments. After a little, Dan leftthe fire for a look at the river, which was to be forded at this point. He could see only very indistinctly, for scudding masses of black cloud hid moon and stars. As nearly as he could make out, the river was about fifty yards in width, its surface almost flush with the bank on which he stood. In the darkness of the night, the vaguely seen stream appeared somehow disquieting, as if in treacherous waiting Dan McGrew, looking on it, felt a shiver that was not from the cold. He turned away, with an impatient curse for his moment of weakness. Lou had said that the utmost depth of water in this shallow creek would not reach to the stirrups. Yet, despite self-contempt over his feelings, Dan experienced a depression of spirit for which he could in no wise account, as he returned to the fire.It was perhaps an hour after their arrival in the grove that the man's alert ears caught a thudding of hoofs upon the high-road from which they had turned aside. He listened and made sure that the riders—for there were several—were following the road toward Salisburyand Hoytsville, at full speed. Had they been going in the opposite direction, they could have been disregarded. But, under the circumstances, their presence seemed a sure indication that pursuit in the right direction had been begun. To escape them, it would be necessary to press forward with all haste, taking advantage of Lou's plan for a shorter distance.Even while his thoughts were formulating this decision, Dan had taken prompt measures of precaution against discovery. He had scattered the glowing embers with thrusts of his feet, and had stamped upon them, until they were completely extinguished."We must ride instantly," he said, in an authoritative voice to Lou, who acquiesced at once. For she, too, had heard the galloping through the night and had guessed its meaning.Dan hurried to unfasten and lead out the horses. When he was come to the place where he had tied them, he could distinguish in the faint light only the two larger mounts.Instantly, the apprehension that had been so formless crystallized in definite fear of a possibility, which, in the following moment, was proven fact. Dan cursed again over the clumsiness of his cold-stiffened fingers, which had caused such a mishap. More than ever, now, he detested the presence of the child with him and Lou, for it was likely to prove a serious encumbrance in their further flight. He called softly, but there came no nicker of response from the pony. He explained to Lou and Nell what had happened, and, at his request, the girl called, in hope that her pet would hear the summons and obey her voice, if not another's. But, again, there was no response. A search, Dan knew, would be useless, since the escaped pony might be already miles distant, on its way to the ranch."I'll take Nell on behind me," Dan announced roughly. "It's the only way."Within a minute, Lou and Dan were mounted. Then, Dan bent over, and swung the girl up to a seat behind him."Hold on tight," he commanded.The girl obeyed passively. What with the cold and the soaking and the loss of her pony, and this dreadful river which they were about to enter, and the strangeness of everything, the child was frightened and miserable. She was sobbing very softly, and the sound irritated Dan McGrew."You lead, Lou," he ordered, "since you know the way. You can see well enough?" he asked anxiously. "You're sure that you know the way?""Yes," was the confident reply. "But the water is higher than I've ever seen it. Why, it's up level with the bank, almost.""Is it safe, then?" Dan demanded."We must risk it, anyhow," Lou returned. "If we go by the road now, they'll be waiting for us ahead.""If the creek's as shallow as you said, I guess we can manage it, all right," was the man's decision. "There must have been a cloud-burst somewhere in the mountainswhere the stream rises. We got the tail end of the storm—and that was a plenty!" he added savagely. "Let's be off."Lou led the way as he had bidden her. She rode a furlong down the bank of the stream, to a point beyond the grove where she and her husband had entered the water for the crossing. As the horse stepped reluctantly down the shelving bank into the current, a qualm of dismay stirred in the woman. She could not doubt that the rush of the water as it came swirling about the horse's legs was much more violent than it had been on those other occasions when she had ridden through it. And, too, there was something strangely dispiriting in the combined effects of the black tide and the ominous gloom of the night beneath a heaven hidden by the masses of scurrying clouds. She looked back, as her horse advanced with laggard pace into the deepening water. She craved the comfort of companionship in this horrible time and place. Her eyes could make out only a silhouette that moved a little way behind her. She could notperceive any detail there in the darkness. But she knew that Dan McGrew rode close at hand, and with him, though invisible, rode her daughter, Nell—the one thing dear left to her in all the world. So, she went forward bravely enough, though her mood was as black as the blackness of the night that hung upon her in a smothering pall of weariness.The water deepened and flowed with more fierceness. It reached to the horse's belly. The steed snorted in affright. Then, it lost its footing, and sank until only its head, with the nostrils lifted high, was clear of the water. Lou cried out at the shock, as she found herself immersed in the coil of waters. But, even as she screamed, she threw herself out of the saddle, to relieve the mare of her weight, and swam, holding to the pommel of the saddle. Her horse fought its way forward, breasting the flood valiantly. At an oblique angle to the force of the current, the woman and her steed won slowly to the shore.... Her own cry and the splash of her body, as she threw herself from the saddle, had shut from themother's ears another shriek that had broken the silence of the night.Dan's mount, troubled by its increased burden, was more reluctant even than Lou's had been to advance through the lashing currents of the swollen river. It had held back, in spite of Dan's urging, so that it was at some distance in the rear, when, at last, it slipped, and scrambled wildly to regain its footing—only to fail and plunge beneath the surface, borne down by the weight it carried. It was in the second before the two riders were finally submerged that Nell voiced her terror in a shrill cry. The noise of it rang in Dan's ears, confusing him. But it was strangled in the second of its birth by the enveloping waters. As he struggled out of the saddle, holding his breath, Dan became aware that the girl was no longer on the horse. She was not clinging to him. She had gone from him out into the mystery of the black night and the hungry river. He realized that her cry had been that of despair, as the force of the current wrested the child from her hold on horse and man.Dan's head came above the surface, and he floated easily enough, supported by a hand on the swimming horse. Even his iron nerves were shaken by the calamity. There was no further sound out of the stillness of the night, save the rippling murmur of the water as the horse swam onward. Dan was aware that he could do nothing toward the girl's rescue. Already, the hurrying current must have carried her far beyond his reach. It seemed clear enough that Nell must have lost consciousness at once after being swept down into the element. Otherwise, she must have cried out again—and there had come no second cry. Strong man as he was, Dan McGrew felt himself helpless in the grasp of circumstance. There was nothing that he could do to avert or to mitigate the tragedy. He could only go forward helplessly, leaving the unfortunate girl to her fate. The suddenness, as well as the dreadfulness of the catastrophe, sickened him. Later on, he might rejoice over this summary removal of one who must have proved an obstacle in his path. But, just now,his emotion was of dismay—a dismay strange to his experience. Beyond the natural horror aroused in him by the accident, Dan McGrew found himself almost in despair over what must come to pass when the mother should learn of her daughter's death. He knew well that Nell was the one treasure that remained in the mother's heart. The loss of this last possession would rend her being to its depths, and leave her utterly desolate. The first effect from knowledge of the tragedy would be that the mother would not go a step further, until after the river had been searched, and her daughter's body recovered. Such a delay would be fatal to the plotter's every hope.... At once, Dan McGrew forgot his horror, his despair. He began again his plotting—to the end that the mother should not learn the truth too soon.When, finally, his horse gained a footing, near the other bank of the river, Dan McGrew had matured a plan to suffice for the moment. Beyond that, he could not see his way. The future lay in the lap of the gods.On dry land again, Dan reined in the horse, which welcomed the respite gladly after its battling with the river. He listened, and soon heard Lou calling his name. From the sound of her voice, he knew that she was at some distance from him, further up the stream. He sent a cheery shout in answer to her hail. Then, he rode forward slowly and cautiously through the darkness, which was so deep that he could hardly see to pick a way among the bushes and trees that lined the bank of the creek. And Dan McGrew blessed fate for that darkness. Lou's voice came again, near at hand. Now, Dan could perceive the vague outline of her form against the background of the sky, as she sat her horse on the crest of the little knoll that rose from the river's brim."We're all right," he cried, and his voice was full of content. "But I don't think much of your easy ford, Lou. It was a nasty crossing." Then his voice rang sharply, imperiously: "But we must hurry on, if we are to gain anything for all our trouble.""And you're all right, then?" Lou asked. There was a note of vast relief in her voice. "You're all right, you—and Nell?"Dan McGrew's voice came with an emphasis of sincerity:"We're all right, Nell and I." Again his voice came insistently:"Ride on, Lou. We'll follow."Lou called out once again, and the music of her voice was very tender:"It will only be for a little longer, Nell. Mother's brave darling!"Dan's voice came roughly, to cover the lack of any response from the child."Hurry, Lou! Hurry! We'll follow."Wholly unsuspicious, Lou rode on her way amid the shadows of the night. She had no least instinct to warn her that now, at last, she had lost everything her life had held dear. There was still the torture that had come when she had learned the baseness of her husband. But she could not guess the last evil that was upon her. So, she rode swiftly through the night. Always, even when they came into theroad at Hoytsville, Dan rode a little in the rear. Lou looked back from time to time. She could see the outlines of man and horse. She could not see the form of her daughter; the bulk of the man hid even its shadow from her eyes. But the fact that she could not see caused no fear in her, and she rode swiftly, as contented as one may be when the sweetness of life has changed to abomination.It was not till they came to the outskirts of the little city, through which the main line of the railroad ran, that Lou learned the truth. It was under the lights of the streets that she turned, and looked, and saw Dan McGrew close behind her—and saw that there was none clinging at his back. She stared disbelievingly. Then, a ghastly fear leaped within her."Nell!" she cried.Her voice was strained and shrill, broken with dread. "Nell!" she repeated, in a tone muffled by terror. "Where is she?" She turned her horse sharply and reined it to Dan McGrew's side. Motionless, the two regardedeach other through seconds that were as ages.Finally, Dan McGrew spoke:"She was torn away when we were swept under," he said; and his voice was very compassionate. "I did what I could. There was no way to save her. She only cried out once. She must have gone down immediately."Lou sat rigid, gazing with eyes that widened and burned in flames under which the man before her cringed. And then, of a sudden, the fires of her gaze were quenched. It was as if a black flood rolled over her as well, and extinguished the very last sparks of her spirit. The lids slowly fluttered down to closing. Under the blue white of the arc-light, her face was that of a dead woman. The last blow of fate in that frightful day had overwhelmed her. She tottered in her saddle. Dan McGrew, watching fearfully this thing that had come to pass through his machinations, leaped, and stood, and caught the fainting woman as she fell.He remained motionless there for a fullminute, with the lifeless body in his arms. For once, he found himself perplexed, incompetent. But, abruptly, his thoughts cleared. Something of his usual self-confidence, so greatly shaken this night, came back to him. He smiled with a cruel, utterly selfish satisfaction."It's the best way out," he muttered to himself. "I'll get her into some quiet place. She'll need a lot of nursing before she gets over all this. I'm sorry for Lou, but it had to be; and it's all for the best."With that monstrous declaration concerning the evil that he had wrought, Dan McGrew strode forward toward the nearest house, carrying the unconscious woman in his arms.CHAPTER XJim and his men rode throughout the night in vain. Nowhere could they come on any trace of the fugitives. There was as yet no telephone installed in this newly settled region. But their search was thorough. There were inquiries at the railway stations in the various towns round about. At none of these had ought been seen of Dan McGrew and woman and child. Jim found himself baffled in his quest. He could not guess that the wife who had thus deserted him was lying in a stupor, from which she aroused only to rave over a lost husband and a dead child. He could not know that she had broken under the stress of sorrow, and was being ministered unto by a kindly woman to whom Dan McGrew had told many lies, in order to enlist her sympathetic aid. Even had his inquiries reached the very house in whichLou was sheltered, he would still have been deceived. For he sought a mother and her child: and here was no child.So, the hunt availed nothing. The three who fled had vanished utterly. There came not even a rumor as to their whereabouts. They were gone as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up.Nevertheless, Jim was not slow in learning something of the truth. He was told of Dan's visit at the ranch that fatal day, and of his wife's accompanying this visitor to the town. Those there were who had seen the two as they dismounted at Murphy's saloon, and looked in through the window. Jim, remembering his own experiences of that day in the back room of the saloon, was aroused to suspicion of the fact. He got from the bar-keeper details as to what had occurred. The fellow's reference, jestingly made, to the manner in which Jim and the woman, Jess, had embraced, gave him a sudden illumination concerning the plot of Dan McGrew by which his wife had been beguiled.Straightway, Jim hunted out Fingie Whalen's woman. She would have denied, but, in the face of the injured husband's rage, she was fairly terrified into confession. In the end, the woman wrote at Jim's dictation, even as she had written at the dictation of Dan McGrew. But, now, she wrote without any smirk of vicious satisfaction—with a face pallid and with fingers that trembled from fear of the fierce-visaged man who stood over her in stern and menacing domination. Fingie Whalen, all his bluster gone, looked on in timid consternation, cringing from the baleful threat in the eyes of the man mortally wronged.p140tSHE WOULD HAVE DENIED, BUT WAS FAIRLY TERRIFIED INTO CONFESSION.The painted woman was so moved by the anger of the man whom she had helped betray, that, for the first time in more years than she would have cared to tell, she revealed the name with which, back in a quiet New England village, she had been christened by simple, God-fearing parents.This was the note of confession, which thewoman wrote at Jim's command, duly dated, and witnessed by Fingie Whalen and the landlady of the house, who was summoned for the purpose. Jim realized that these formalities were extravagant, but, somehow, they seemed necessary to him just then, to put this evidence of the crime against his home and happiness beyond cavil of doubt.I, Anne Weston, confess to tricking Jim Maxwell and deceiving his wife at the instigation of Dan McGrew. McGrew hired Fingie Whalen and me to help him fool Mrs. Maxwell. I wrote the note signed "Jess." At the time when Mr. Maxwell was due to arrive in town, I was all ready, and as he came by fell from my horse as if I had fainted. He carried me into the saloon, and then Fingie gave him knock-out drops, and we fixed it up so that when McGrew came with Mrs. Maxwell and looked in at the window, it was as if we were loving together. But it was all a lie, worked out by Dan McGrew to make Mrs. Maxwell believe her husband was false to her.Anne Weston.Jim carried that paper in his pocket. It was the document with which he would prove to Lou how she had been deluded. But the days passed, and there came no opportunity to show her the sheet of paper on which Anne Weston had scrawled her confession. He used every means at his command, but he was powerless to gain any trace of the woman whom he had loved and lost through despicable treachery.It was on the fourth day after Lou had fled her home, that Jim Maxwell seated himself at the piano in the living-room. Hitherto, he had been so occupied in the vain effort to find his wife that he had been, in some measure, unappreciative of the misery that was upon him. Now, when he had exhausted every resource of activity, he suddenly felt the desolation of his home—the ruin of his life. With his instinct toward the musical expression of moods, he took his place before the instrument.Then, again, that glorious love-lyric came softly sonorous from the keys. The lilt of the melody rose and fell with a subtle vigor, instinct with the joy of life. The delicate tenderness of the music throbbed the story of a love complete and enduring. There was passion in the rhythm. It was a passion ennobled and purified by the intricate harmonies woven around and within it. It was a song of the spirit. It was overlaid with a splendor of sensuous sound. There was nothing gross—only the fullness of life.... Jim was playing with exquisite art that song of happiness which he had improvised on the day he received the news of Dan McGrew's coming.Now, after he had followed the melody to its end, the truth, which during the moments of his playing he had forgotten, crashed upon him in a discord so horrible that he could not touch the keys to voice it—could only sit, moveless, listening to the din within his own soul in an ecstasy of despair.Often, again, in the years to come, Jim Maxwell played that same melody. Always, he was searching for the wife whom he had loved and lost. Men whose eyes were sharp notedhim here and there around the world, because he seemed so uninterested in everything, and because so often his left hand touched his breast.... In the pocket there, he carried, ready for Lou's reading, the confession signed by Anne Weston—the woman Jess.And, in the years as they passed, Jim Maxwell gained something of reputation for another thing. He traveled the world over; he had money enough. His foreman was competent. Even without his personal attendance, the revenues from the ranch increased year by year. He lived for only two things: to find Lou and prove to her his innocence—and to kill the man who had betrayed them. In his search, Jim Maxwell went everywhere. He was known in the capitals of Europe; he was known in the wild places of the earth. Men spoke of him, though they had little acquaintance with him. The reason they spoke of him was because on occasion—it might be in the parlor of some sailor's lodging-house in Vladivostok, or it might be in a drawing-room of the Savoy, this man wouldseat himself at the piano, and he would play. And, always, he played the self-same melody, a lilting air of love and tenderness, filled full of the joy of life. Always, too, the melody was embroidered over with an intricate web of harmonies, magnificent, yet somber. And, in the end, always, the player beat suddenly upon the keys a frenzy of discord.CHAPTER XI"Then you're quite sure, Jack? You don't mind my being a—nobody?" The girl's tone was half-playful, half-sad. There was a note of wistfulness in the musical cadences of her voice.The young man whom she had addressed answered with an emphasis that left no doubt as to his sincerity. His clear gray eyes were alight with love, as he looked into the dark, gypsy-like face of the girl at his side."Why, Nell, you're just everybody. You're everything worth while in this little old world of ours.""You do say the sweetest things, Jack!" The shadowy eyes that met tenderly the warm gaze of the lover were lighted with fond appreciation. Then, of a sudden, the red lips trembled into a mischievous smile, as she added: "I guess I wouldn't give a snap fora sweetheart who was tongue-tied when he talked about my charms."The two were seated in the main room of a small, roughly-built Alaskan cabin, which stood on the outskirts of a ramshackle village, created almost in a day by the gold lure's magic. The lovers had been left alone together on the eve of their wedding-day by the kindness of the girl's foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Ross. It was of these, who, in the tiny back room, were recalling the distant days of their own courtship, that Nell now spoke."They have been so good to me!" she said musingly. "I've told you that they were not really and truly my parents. I didn't tell you just how I came to be with them, because it was such a dreadful time to me. Even after all these years, I hate thinking of it.""Don't!" Jack Reeves urged. "What's past is past, and there's no earthly reason for you to worry yourself over it by telling me."The girl shook her head."I want to tell you, dear," she said simply. Then she fell silent for a little. The lover,watching the warm olive contour of the cheek against which the long black lashes swept as her eyes closed in meditation, rejoiced yet once again in the beauty and the daintiness of this maiden whom he had found and won for himself here amid the rigors of the Northland. He noted the slight drooping of the tenderly curving lips, and longed to kiss away their sadness. Presently Nell went on speaking, rather rapidly, as if anxious to be done with an unpleasant task, and in a tone that told of restrained emotion:"It was twelve years ago that Papa and Mamma Ross found me. You know Papa Ross is a born pioneer, and Mamma has grown to be just like him. For years they have been moving with the frontiers. That time they were camping by a river down below. There had been a heavy storm, and the river ran high. They heard a cry from somewhere out in the night on the water. They ran to the bank and looked. But it was dark, and they couldn't see anything or hear another sound.Rover was with them—a splendid big Newfoundland." The girl's voice softened. "Rover died two years ago, just before we came up here. I loved him so!""I think I can guess," Jack ventured, as the girl paused. "It was Rover who saved you—for, of course, it was you out there in the river."The girl nodded somberly."Yes," came her answer, very gently uttered; "I was out there in the river, drowning. The current swept me along with it. There was a point of the shore just below where Papa Ross had camped. I was carried into the eddies there. Somehow, Rover caught a glimpse of my face, or, maybe, just his instinct guided him. Anyhow, as Papa Ross has told me, Rover sprang into the river, and, when Papa Ross had followed around the inlet toward the point, he found the dog trying to drag me out of the water, up on the bank. Papa Ross carried me to the camp, and there he and Mamma worked over me for a longtime. It was a close call, Papa Ross says, but finally they got me to breathing again.... And that's about all.""And so," Jack questioned in some surprise, "you don't know any more than that?—where you came from, or anything?"Once again Nell shook her head."No, nothing more than that. Papa Ross always thought that I must have struck my head somehow, there in the water. Anyhow, I was confused when I came to. I couldn't seem to remember anything exactly—except my name, Nell. Sometimes I have shadowy memories, but they melt away before I can get anything definite. So, you see, I'm just a nobody, Jack, as I told you—just a mystery that came out of the night and the river.""Everybody to me," the lover declared again; "everything to me." And now, at last, he took the lithe, slender form of the girl into his arms, and kissed the sorrowfully drooping lips to smiles again.But, after a little, when there came a lull in the caresses and murmured endearments, JackReeves spoke a question that was puzzling him:"But I should think it would have been easy enough to trace you? If inquiries had been made, surely you might have learned where you came from, and who you were, and all that?"But, once again, Nell shook her head, and this time very emphatically."Papa Ross did what he could, but it came to nothing. When we got to a town, he tried to find out about any girl's being lost like that. Nobody knew of any such case. There was no report of any child's having been drowned. He did what he could—I'm sure of that. Anyhow, as long as you don't care, Jack, I don't suppose I need to. But, somehow—" Nell's voice broke, and she sat silent, absorbed in melancholy reverie. Always, this mystery was a painful thing to her. Even now, when her happiness was full, on the eve of her marriage to the man she loved, she was grieved by the fact that she must come to her husband as a waif, a creature whose origin was unknown,a nameless bit of flotsam, dragged from the river by a dog. Then, in another moment, the depression of her mood was forgotten as she drew away from Jack's embrace, for she heard Papa Ross stamping heavily about the back room of the cabin—in kindly warning that he was about to intrude upon the lovers.The next morning broke clear, and when at last the slowly clambering sun rose to traverse its short circle between the horizons, its slanting beams seemed full of warmth and good cheer, though the mercury stood at twenty degrees below zero. There was not a breath of wind, and the chill air, pure with a purity unknown to lower latitudes, was like the wine of life. The breath of it in the lungs set the blood a-tingle with joyousness. And the purity of the air had for its background the visible purity of the snow-mantle that lay over everything. Beneath the sun, the white expanse shimmered in prismatic brilliance. Afar, the mountains loomed in purple masses—thegreen of conifers seen through the vista of many miles.And the day, in its spirit of vigorous life and wholesome gayety, was suited to the mood of the tiny temporary town, which sprawled here in the wilderness. For the place was en fête. The hardy men who had thus ventured into the wilds of the North welcomed the diversion of this romance among them, which was to culminate to-day in the wedding of Jack Reeves and Nell Ross at the Dyea Hotel. Public sentiment had insisted that the nuptials should be celebrated at the hotel. The hotel, truth to tell, was neither commodious nor imposing. But it was a boarded structure, the only one in the village, and it was by far the largest, small though it was. And the citizens were determined that they should be permitted to assemble in force on this auspicious day, when the glamour of love was to soften in some degree the austerity of the arctic land. So, betimes, the men of the community gathered at the hotel to await the marriage ceremony. A scant half-dozen women,courageous followers of the men they loved, were there as well. Some had been at pains to bring heaps of evergreen boughs, and with these the main room of the hotel—at once lobby, bar and office—was decorated. Caribou Bill brought a great bank of moss, for which he had dug through six feet of snow. To it was attached a piece of flaming-red paper, in which tea had originally been packed, and this paper had been laboriously cut by Caribou Bill into the shape of two hearts, lovingly joined as one. The symbol of wedded happiness was established by its smirking inventor on the central shelf above the bar, where it commanded the enthusiastic admiration of the populace.It was noon to the second when Nell Ross and Jack Reeves stood in the center of the main room of the hotel before the one who was to make them man and wife. He, too, was at heart a pioneer, and he was, as well, an earnest worker for the saving of souls. His own preference, with a roving commission, had brought him to this remote place.He found a singular pleasure in the fact that his ministrations were required for the uniting of this winsome maiden and this virile, clean young man. It was as if the ceremony typified in some fashion the purity and vigor of life here within the frozen North.... It was noon to the second! The time-keeper was Harry, the Dog-Man, who carried a Waterbury watch, on the accuracy of which he would cheerfully have staked his hopes of eternal happiness. Because of the exactness of his time-piece, which none cared to deny, he had usurped the office of master of ceremonies. When he saw the two hands of the watch blent as one upon the hour of twelve, he raised his arm, and Nell and Jack moved forward within the little lane walled by the crowd, to stand before the clergyman, who regarded them with a benevolent smile, in which, unknown to himself, was something almost of envy in the presence of their youth and happiness and love.So, the minister spoke the words that made this pair husband and wife.There was a noise of snapping dogs outside. A man came into the hotel, stamping the snow from the high-buckled overshoes worn over his boots of felt. Behind him came a woman muffled in furs. She looked on the scene with a certain feminine interest, for she realized at once that a wedding was in progress; but without any personal concern. Indeed, she was rather displeased, being weary from a long journey over the snows, because she saw that she must wait for attention until the ceremony should be concluded. The man with her shook the hood of the parka from his head, and stood regarding with cynical amusement the two who had clasped hands before the clergyman. So he waited while the words were uttered that made the pair one. The ceremony ended, the husband kissed the bride; the minister in turn bent and touched his lips to hers, with a curious stirring of half-forgotten emotions.Then the crowd surged forward, eager for its prerogative of a kiss. And, as she turned,Nell saw the man who had just entered, standing there with that smile of cynical amusement upon his handsome face. The eyes of the two met and battled. There came to her a strange feeling of dread. In this, the supreme moment of her life, wherein all had been happiness, there stirred a feeling of doubt, of evil anticipation.The man, staring into the face of this beautiful girl upon whose nuptials he had stumbled by chance, experienced a thrill of emotion which he could not understand. Some secret monition moved him to an alarm. He felt an unreasonable disturbance in the presence of this girl.... Dan McGrew had no suspicion that he had blundered thus on the child who, years before, had been swept away from him in the darkness of the river's flood-tide.... Nor did the woman, who stood behind him so wearily, waiting for the end of this tiresome ceremony, guess that the gentle girl, blushing there under the storm of kisses claimed by the crowd, was, in fact, the daughterfor whose death she had mourned through so many years.... Nell did not see the woman at all.p141t"THEY'VE STRUCK IT RICH ON FORGOTTEN CREEK!"Of a sudden there came an interruption:A man leaped through the doorway. He waved his hands and staggered as one drunken. His voice rose in a raucous shriek:"They've struck it rich on Forgotten Creek!"There was a moment of intense stillness. These men had fled from civilization in pursuit of the will-o'-the-wisp of gold. Now sounded the clarion call:"They've struck it rich on Forgotten Creek!"p166tTHESE MEN HAD FLED FROM CIVILIZATION IN PURSUIT OF THE WILL-'O-THE WISP OF GOLD.For long seconds the stillness endured. Then, abruptly, there came a huge cachinnation. It was the mellow, roaring laughter of Bert Black, the only negro in this Aladdin village so close up under the Pole. The company looked at the man expectantly, and he answered the interrogation in their eyes:"We-all is just shohly goin' to have a stampede!"Then, again, the silence held for a little, while each and every man of them saw the vision of the straggled crowd trailing the waste places, lured on by the will-o'-the-wisp of gold.CHAPTER XIIThe Fates, in weaving the intricate web of human lives, smile grimly oftentimes over the curious intermingling of the threads. Often, too, the incomplete design might well move them to a cruel mirth, but that they see beyond the seeming tangle of events to the perfecting of their pattern at the last. So, perhaps, they are content of their task, though we mortals, with short-sighted eyes, seeing dimly, look on the happenings of our lives as the blessed or the baneful work of chance. Thus, now, the Fates had brought here, beneath the flickering of the Northern Lights, all the actors in the drama of the years agone, when the happiness of a home had been shattered by a villain's ruthless passion. Their presence within a short radius of miles had every appearance of purest chance. Nevertheless,the Fates had brought them within reach of one another, that thus the seeming snarl in the threads of these lives might be shown as in fact untangled and woven into a design just and harmonious and beautiful.Dan McGrew moved sociably among the men of the village, as they celebrated the wedding with many jovial libations. He was hail-fellow-well-met with each and all, for it had come to be a matter of professional necessity with him to attain a fair measure of popularity whithersoever he went. He had deteriorated much with the passage of the years. He had sunk to be a common gambler, and on occasion had not scrupled at worse methods in pursuit of ill-gotten gains. To-day his keen eyes were speedily drawn to one of the men, who was especially lavish in hospitality."Who is he?" Dan asked of the bar-tender. "Seems flush, all right.""That's Sam Ward," was the answer. "He's got a hole somewhere up in the hills, which nobody don't know nothin' about—'ceptit's cussed rich. Sam blows a pokeful o' dust ev'ry time he hits town."Dan eyed the fortunate prospector greedily, and his predatory instinct brought him to a quick decision. He went to Lou, who was sitting, drearily enough, alone at a table in a corner of the room. He spoke to her softly, that none might overhear, though of this there was little danger amid the noise of rollicking gayety."There's a chap here I mean to chum up with a bit," Dangerous Dan explained. "I'll introduce him, and you must be nice enough to him to make him talk."The woman nodded assent. For it had come to such a pass. Often, she had stooped to play decoy for the man in his schemes against his fellows.Dan McGrew had persistently lied to this woman. By his arts he had ruined her life. But Lou had still no inkling of the truth. One great fact was impressed upon her as time passed: This man loved her—and he was loyal to her. Since she had lost everythingdear, it seemed her duty to give the worthless remnant of her life to the one who thus esteemed it something precious.When Lou returned to consciousness, after the fever and delirium that seized her the dreadful night of the flight from home, her first question was concerning the drowned child.The man at the bedside met her imploring gaze steadfastly, and spoke his falsehoods so convincingly that she had never a doubt. The river had been searched with every care, he declared. The body had not been found. The bereaved mother had been denied the last pitiful solace of grief—a place of burial wherein to mourn over the lost.After the final deprivation, Lou was apathetic. The light had gone out of her life. She was numb with misery. Her most distinct emotion was a sort of passive gratitude toward the man who had so frightfully wronged her. It was in obedience to the promptings of this feeling that Lou meeklyaccepted his every suggestion. She did so with the more readiness because these suggestions were so skillfully contrived as to seem the epitome of unselfishness.Thus, for example, there was the matter of divorce. Dan learned that the kindly woman into whose house he had brought Lou suffered from nostalgia. She had come out into the West with an eager, improvident husband, who had died and left her with this tiny home, on which the mortgage of a few hundreds rested as a burden beyond her strength to remove. She was sick with longing to go back among the home-folk. Dan's sympathetic voice and candid, honest eyes won confidence from the lonely old woman. And, too, she quickly grew fond of the invalid in her house. Therefore, she had no hesitation in acceding to the proposal made to her by Dan McGrew: that she should travel to the East with Lou, as nurse and companion. The money offered to her by Dan McGrew for these services was enough to ease her declining years. Moreover, there was the added inducement that, inthis manner, she would be able to return to the place for which she longed.Lou made no objection to the arrangement. She liked the old woman, and the instinct of flight was still upon her.... She was only grateful to the man who was at such pains in her behalf.In due time, the three were duly established in the East. Dangerous Dan, in the course of his daily visits to Lou from a lodging he had taken close at hand, guided her thoughts so craftily that, with no suspicion of having been influenced, the heart-broken woman decided that she should get a divorce. Dan had chosen a location in a State where desertion was a sufficient cause. Lou brought suit, and the issue was expedited in the courts. She believed that thus she gave to her husband an opportunity to marry the woman with whom he had become infatuated, and thus, too, an opportunity to restore in some degree his self-respect.... She could not guess that, owing to the treachery of the man on whose advice she relied, her husband had no knowledgewhatsoever of these proceedings. The newspapers, with their formal advertisements to the defendant in the action instituted in the courts, were never posted to the address of the ranch-owner.... Dan McGrew saw to that.Eventually, there came a decreenisi. In due time, the divorce was made absolute. Throughout this interval of delay, the man demonstrated the firmness of his purpose by the patience with which he waited for the attainment of his ends.It was not until a year after her flight from home that Lou became the wife of Dangerous Dan McGrew.... Why should she not give herself to him who had so befriended her?The late dawn of the morning after the wedding came on clear, with a soft wind blowing from the south. Under its gentleness, the sun was able to thaw the surface of the snow. Then the wind swung to the north. Within an hour, the crust on the snow, as the Arctic air blew over it, was strong enough to support a horse. And Dan McGrew and many another took advantage of the fact. There were a few meagerly fed horses in the town, remnants from the discontinued Lodestar Mine, which had failed to pay a profit, after elaborate installation of equipment. They knew that at the first change of the weather their mounts would become worse than useless. In the meantime, however, there was a luxury in this form of travel that appealed. And there were hangers-on in the town, too poor for a grub-stake, who for a pittance would run on foot with the train, and afterward take back the horses to the village, when a softer snow should make them a hindrance rather than a help.Nell used the voice of wifely authority:"Why, the idea! Of course I shall go too!" She was all eagerness. For years she had lived with those who were informed with the spirit of the frontiers. Her husband, thus far in his battling with the Northland, had been successful. He had found claims of value. Some of them he had sold; some ofthem he had worked. From most of them he had won a deserved profit. So, when the news of the strike on Forgotten Creek came—even though it was his wedding-day—Jack Reeves was all agog with anxiety to be off to this region whither fortune beckoned.... And Nell would not be left behind. She would follow her husband where fate led. She would not be denied.Thus it came about that the bridal pair were among the crowd that surged in the village street before the Dyea Hotel on the morning after their wedding. Jack had a team of dogs, the best within hundreds of miles. They were strong enough to make play of hauling the long sled, laden with provisions, on which Nell was seated with ease, well-wrapped in furs, and sheltered beneath a drapery of white—the skin of a polar bear, which Jack had brought back with him as a trophy of experiences beneath the Arctic night.There were in the throng men who had nodogs. They carried on their backs the small allowance of bacon, beans, flour, tea, coffee, sugar, tobacco. The adventurers were of all sorts. Some went well supplied. Others joined in the stampede recklessly. They might starve, or freeze, out there in the mountains. But they were caught and drawn on by the lust for riches. Somewhere out there in the cold and the distance gold was lying. In the sands of the creeks, in the ledges of the mountains, were the golden flakes, the riches for which each and every one craved....
p115t
HIS HAND CLENCHED FIERCELY IN THE REFLEX OF EMOTION.
Jim turned to the maid, who had watched his unconscious splintering of the glass with distended eyes.
"When did they go?" he asked.
Mary answered hurriedly, disconcerted by the obvious distress of her master.
"It was some hours ago, sir. They went sort of unexpected-like, as it seemed to me, sir."
Jim reasoned swiftly. Somehow, he sensed a frightful fraud underlying this mystery. But he knew the need of haste. By some malevolent chance, his wife had been led into this error of understanding—out of which she had written:
"I do not want to be in your path, so am going away."
Jim turned to the girl, who was still hovering doubtfully in the doorway.
"There's been a mistake somewhere, I guess." His voice was quiet, but in it throbbed a heart-beat of deepest feeling. "Tell the foreman, I want the boys to ride with me to-night."
As the cavalcade passed from the driveway into the high road, which ran east and west, Dan McGrew spoke quickly.
"We'll ride toward the town."
Lou turned her horse obediently, according to his direction.
"But why?" she demanded, wonderingly. "We might meet—him."
"That's a risk we must run," was the decisive answer. "When we are well out of sight of the house, we'll cut around through the fields, and get back into the road below. So, if they come after us, they'll start the pursuit in the wrong way."
In this fashion, the matter was carried out. Half an hour later, the three were back on the high-road, riding in the direction opposite to that in which they had started. They went forward rapidly through the hot hours of theafternoon, but not too rapidly, in order that the horses might hold out for the long journey. Nell, from time to time, would have questioned her mother over this strange outing. She became a little petulant, fretful from balked curiosity. But the mother was not minded to explain as yet. It required all her powers of self-control to maintain a fair degree of composure in this time of trial. She knew that any attempt to make plausible explanations to the girl would overtax her strength, and cause collapse.
Night drew down on the travelers. With its coming, the storm, which had been threatening in the sultry air, broke furiously. Within the minute, the three were drenched. Dan was disturbed by the discomfort thus inflicted on mother and child, as well as himself, but pressed on stubbornly, since no relief was possible. Presently, however, as he asked a question concerning roads and distances, Lou had an inspiration:
"We can cut off eight or ten miles by not going through Salisbury, to which this roadruns. We can ford the river, and beyond it's open range to Hoytsville. Then we'll strike the high-road again."
Dan questioned her closely, and was convinced by her replies.
"I've ridden it often with—with Jim," she said. There was a catch in her throat at utterance of the name. "I think it would be quite safe, even in the dark."
Dan agreed as to the advisability of her plan. Presently, then, the three turned out of the road, and moved toward the river, which, Lou explained, ran through a little valley just beyond. The rain had ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The passing of the storm had cleared the air. The oppressive heat of the afternoon and evening was gone. Now, a chill breeze was blowing. It pierced the drenched garments of the three, so that they shivered with cold. Lou became alarmed lest Nell should suffer some ill consequence from this exposure. As they descended the slope that ran down to the river-bank, she spoke suddenly.
"Let's stop here for a little rest," she suggested; and her voice was so anxious that Dan hardly dared refuse. For that matter, he had had something of the sort in his own mind.
"It's imprudent," he answered; "but, if we must, why, we must, I suppose."
"I don't think it's really imprudent," Lou maintained. "There are trees and bushes along the river-bank to hide us and the horses. Anyhow, we're out of sight from the road. Could you build a fire?"
"If I can find any wood dry enough to burn," was the rather doubtful response.
They halted on the edge of a grove, which grew close to the river. Dan led the horses within the concealment of the trees, and tied them as best he could with his chilled fingers. He had difficulty in finding dry leaves and branches for the fire, but, in the end, succeeded in making a blaze. Soon, the three were grouped close around the flame, grateful for the heat, which relaxed their stiffened muscles, and sent up steaming vapors from their wet garments. After a little, Dan leftthe fire for a look at the river, which was to be forded at this point. He could see only very indistinctly, for scudding masses of black cloud hid moon and stars. As nearly as he could make out, the river was about fifty yards in width, its surface almost flush with the bank on which he stood. In the darkness of the night, the vaguely seen stream appeared somehow disquieting, as if in treacherous waiting Dan McGrew, looking on it, felt a shiver that was not from the cold. He turned away, with an impatient curse for his moment of weakness. Lou had said that the utmost depth of water in this shallow creek would not reach to the stirrups. Yet, despite self-contempt over his feelings, Dan experienced a depression of spirit for which he could in no wise account, as he returned to the fire.
It was perhaps an hour after their arrival in the grove that the man's alert ears caught a thudding of hoofs upon the high-road from which they had turned aside. He listened and made sure that the riders—for there were several—were following the road toward Salisburyand Hoytsville, at full speed. Had they been going in the opposite direction, they could have been disregarded. But, under the circumstances, their presence seemed a sure indication that pursuit in the right direction had been begun. To escape them, it would be necessary to press forward with all haste, taking advantage of Lou's plan for a shorter distance.
Even while his thoughts were formulating this decision, Dan had taken prompt measures of precaution against discovery. He had scattered the glowing embers with thrusts of his feet, and had stamped upon them, until they were completely extinguished.
"We must ride instantly," he said, in an authoritative voice to Lou, who acquiesced at once. For she, too, had heard the galloping through the night and had guessed its meaning.
Dan hurried to unfasten and lead out the horses. When he was come to the place where he had tied them, he could distinguish in the faint light only the two larger mounts.Instantly, the apprehension that had been so formless crystallized in definite fear of a possibility, which, in the following moment, was proven fact. Dan cursed again over the clumsiness of his cold-stiffened fingers, which had caused such a mishap. More than ever, now, he detested the presence of the child with him and Lou, for it was likely to prove a serious encumbrance in their further flight. He called softly, but there came no nicker of response from the pony. He explained to Lou and Nell what had happened, and, at his request, the girl called, in hope that her pet would hear the summons and obey her voice, if not another's. But, again, there was no response. A search, Dan knew, would be useless, since the escaped pony might be already miles distant, on its way to the ranch.
"I'll take Nell on behind me," Dan announced roughly. "It's the only way."
Within a minute, Lou and Dan were mounted. Then, Dan bent over, and swung the girl up to a seat behind him.
"Hold on tight," he commanded.
The girl obeyed passively. What with the cold and the soaking and the loss of her pony, and this dreadful river which they were about to enter, and the strangeness of everything, the child was frightened and miserable. She was sobbing very softly, and the sound irritated Dan McGrew.
"You lead, Lou," he ordered, "since you know the way. You can see well enough?" he asked anxiously. "You're sure that you know the way?"
"Yes," was the confident reply. "But the water is higher than I've ever seen it. Why, it's up level with the bank, almost."
"Is it safe, then?" Dan demanded.
"We must risk it, anyhow," Lou returned. "If we go by the road now, they'll be waiting for us ahead."
"If the creek's as shallow as you said, I guess we can manage it, all right," was the man's decision. "There must have been a cloud-burst somewhere in the mountainswhere the stream rises. We got the tail end of the storm—and that was a plenty!" he added savagely. "Let's be off."
Lou led the way as he had bidden her. She rode a furlong down the bank of the stream, to a point beyond the grove where she and her husband had entered the water for the crossing. As the horse stepped reluctantly down the shelving bank into the current, a qualm of dismay stirred in the woman. She could not doubt that the rush of the water as it came swirling about the horse's legs was much more violent than it had been on those other occasions when she had ridden through it. And, too, there was something strangely dispiriting in the combined effects of the black tide and the ominous gloom of the night beneath a heaven hidden by the masses of scurrying clouds. She looked back, as her horse advanced with laggard pace into the deepening water. She craved the comfort of companionship in this horrible time and place. Her eyes could make out only a silhouette that moved a little way behind her. She could notperceive any detail there in the darkness. But she knew that Dan McGrew rode close at hand, and with him, though invisible, rode her daughter, Nell—the one thing dear left to her in all the world. So, she went forward bravely enough, though her mood was as black as the blackness of the night that hung upon her in a smothering pall of weariness.
The water deepened and flowed with more fierceness. It reached to the horse's belly. The steed snorted in affright. Then, it lost its footing, and sank until only its head, with the nostrils lifted high, was clear of the water. Lou cried out at the shock, as she found herself immersed in the coil of waters. But, even as she screamed, she threw herself out of the saddle, to relieve the mare of her weight, and swam, holding to the pommel of the saddle. Her horse fought its way forward, breasting the flood valiantly. At an oblique angle to the force of the current, the woman and her steed won slowly to the shore.... Her own cry and the splash of her body, as she threw herself from the saddle, had shut from themother's ears another shriek that had broken the silence of the night.
Dan's mount, troubled by its increased burden, was more reluctant even than Lou's had been to advance through the lashing currents of the swollen river. It had held back, in spite of Dan's urging, so that it was at some distance in the rear, when, at last, it slipped, and scrambled wildly to regain its footing—only to fail and plunge beneath the surface, borne down by the weight it carried. It was in the second before the two riders were finally submerged that Nell voiced her terror in a shrill cry. The noise of it rang in Dan's ears, confusing him. But it was strangled in the second of its birth by the enveloping waters. As he struggled out of the saddle, holding his breath, Dan became aware that the girl was no longer on the horse. She was not clinging to him. She had gone from him out into the mystery of the black night and the hungry river. He realized that her cry had been that of despair, as the force of the current wrested the child from her hold on horse and man.Dan's head came above the surface, and he floated easily enough, supported by a hand on the swimming horse. Even his iron nerves were shaken by the calamity. There was no further sound out of the stillness of the night, save the rippling murmur of the water as the horse swam onward. Dan was aware that he could do nothing toward the girl's rescue. Already, the hurrying current must have carried her far beyond his reach. It seemed clear enough that Nell must have lost consciousness at once after being swept down into the element. Otherwise, she must have cried out again—and there had come no second cry. Strong man as he was, Dan McGrew felt himself helpless in the grasp of circumstance. There was nothing that he could do to avert or to mitigate the tragedy. He could only go forward helplessly, leaving the unfortunate girl to her fate. The suddenness, as well as the dreadfulness of the catastrophe, sickened him. Later on, he might rejoice over this summary removal of one who must have proved an obstacle in his path. But, just now,his emotion was of dismay—a dismay strange to his experience. Beyond the natural horror aroused in him by the accident, Dan McGrew found himself almost in despair over what must come to pass when the mother should learn of her daughter's death. He knew well that Nell was the one treasure that remained in the mother's heart. The loss of this last possession would rend her being to its depths, and leave her utterly desolate. The first effect from knowledge of the tragedy would be that the mother would not go a step further, until after the river had been searched, and her daughter's body recovered. Such a delay would be fatal to the plotter's every hope.... At once, Dan McGrew forgot his horror, his despair. He began again his plotting—to the end that the mother should not learn the truth too soon.
When, finally, his horse gained a footing, near the other bank of the river, Dan McGrew had matured a plan to suffice for the moment. Beyond that, he could not see his way. The future lay in the lap of the gods.
On dry land again, Dan reined in the horse, which welcomed the respite gladly after its battling with the river. He listened, and soon heard Lou calling his name. From the sound of her voice, he knew that she was at some distance from him, further up the stream. He sent a cheery shout in answer to her hail. Then, he rode forward slowly and cautiously through the darkness, which was so deep that he could hardly see to pick a way among the bushes and trees that lined the bank of the creek. And Dan McGrew blessed fate for that darkness. Lou's voice came again, near at hand. Now, Dan could perceive the vague outline of her form against the background of the sky, as she sat her horse on the crest of the little knoll that rose from the river's brim.
"We're all right," he cried, and his voice was full of content. "But I don't think much of your easy ford, Lou. It was a nasty crossing." Then his voice rang sharply, imperiously: "But we must hurry on, if we are to gain anything for all our trouble."
"And you're all right, then?" Lou asked. There was a note of vast relief in her voice. "You're all right, you—and Nell?"
Dan McGrew's voice came with an emphasis of sincerity:
"We're all right, Nell and I." Again his voice came insistently:
"Ride on, Lou. We'll follow."
Lou called out once again, and the music of her voice was very tender:
"It will only be for a little longer, Nell. Mother's brave darling!"
Dan's voice came roughly, to cover the lack of any response from the child.
"Hurry, Lou! Hurry! We'll follow."
Wholly unsuspicious, Lou rode on her way amid the shadows of the night. She had no least instinct to warn her that now, at last, she had lost everything her life had held dear. There was still the torture that had come when she had learned the baseness of her husband. But she could not guess the last evil that was upon her. So, she rode swiftly through the night. Always, even when they came into theroad at Hoytsville, Dan rode a little in the rear. Lou looked back from time to time. She could see the outlines of man and horse. She could not see the form of her daughter; the bulk of the man hid even its shadow from her eyes. But the fact that she could not see caused no fear in her, and she rode swiftly, as contented as one may be when the sweetness of life has changed to abomination.
It was not till they came to the outskirts of the little city, through which the main line of the railroad ran, that Lou learned the truth. It was under the lights of the streets that she turned, and looked, and saw Dan McGrew close behind her—and saw that there was none clinging at his back. She stared disbelievingly. Then, a ghastly fear leaped within her.
"Nell!" she cried.
Her voice was strained and shrill, broken with dread. "Nell!" she repeated, in a tone muffled by terror. "Where is she?" She turned her horse sharply and reined it to Dan McGrew's side. Motionless, the two regardedeach other through seconds that were as ages.
Finally, Dan McGrew spoke:
"She was torn away when we were swept under," he said; and his voice was very compassionate. "I did what I could. There was no way to save her. She only cried out once. She must have gone down immediately."
Lou sat rigid, gazing with eyes that widened and burned in flames under which the man before her cringed. And then, of a sudden, the fires of her gaze were quenched. It was as if a black flood rolled over her as well, and extinguished the very last sparks of her spirit. The lids slowly fluttered down to closing. Under the blue white of the arc-light, her face was that of a dead woman. The last blow of fate in that frightful day had overwhelmed her. She tottered in her saddle. Dan McGrew, watching fearfully this thing that had come to pass through his machinations, leaped, and stood, and caught the fainting woman as she fell.
He remained motionless there for a fullminute, with the lifeless body in his arms. For once, he found himself perplexed, incompetent. But, abruptly, his thoughts cleared. Something of his usual self-confidence, so greatly shaken this night, came back to him. He smiled with a cruel, utterly selfish satisfaction.
"It's the best way out," he muttered to himself. "I'll get her into some quiet place. She'll need a lot of nursing before she gets over all this. I'm sorry for Lou, but it had to be; and it's all for the best."
With that monstrous declaration concerning the evil that he had wrought, Dan McGrew strode forward toward the nearest house, carrying the unconscious woman in his arms.
Jim and his men rode throughout the night in vain. Nowhere could they come on any trace of the fugitives. There was as yet no telephone installed in this newly settled region. But their search was thorough. There were inquiries at the railway stations in the various towns round about. At none of these had ought been seen of Dan McGrew and woman and child. Jim found himself baffled in his quest. He could not guess that the wife who had thus deserted him was lying in a stupor, from which she aroused only to rave over a lost husband and a dead child. He could not know that she had broken under the stress of sorrow, and was being ministered unto by a kindly woman to whom Dan McGrew had told many lies, in order to enlist her sympathetic aid. Even had his inquiries reached the very house in whichLou was sheltered, he would still have been deceived. For he sought a mother and her child: and here was no child.
So, the hunt availed nothing. The three who fled had vanished utterly. There came not even a rumor as to their whereabouts. They were gone as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up.
Nevertheless, Jim was not slow in learning something of the truth. He was told of Dan's visit at the ranch that fatal day, and of his wife's accompanying this visitor to the town. Those there were who had seen the two as they dismounted at Murphy's saloon, and looked in through the window. Jim, remembering his own experiences of that day in the back room of the saloon, was aroused to suspicion of the fact. He got from the bar-keeper details as to what had occurred. The fellow's reference, jestingly made, to the manner in which Jim and the woman, Jess, had embraced, gave him a sudden illumination concerning the plot of Dan McGrew by which his wife had been beguiled.
Straightway, Jim hunted out Fingie Whalen's woman. She would have denied, but, in the face of the injured husband's rage, she was fairly terrified into confession. In the end, the woman wrote at Jim's dictation, even as she had written at the dictation of Dan McGrew. But, now, she wrote without any smirk of vicious satisfaction—with a face pallid and with fingers that trembled from fear of the fierce-visaged man who stood over her in stern and menacing domination. Fingie Whalen, all his bluster gone, looked on in timid consternation, cringing from the baleful threat in the eyes of the man mortally wronged.
p140t
SHE WOULD HAVE DENIED, BUT WAS FAIRLY TERRIFIED INTO CONFESSION.
The painted woman was so moved by the anger of the man whom she had helped betray, that, for the first time in more years than she would have cared to tell, she revealed the name with which, back in a quiet New England village, she had been christened by simple, God-fearing parents.
This was the note of confession, which thewoman wrote at Jim's command, duly dated, and witnessed by Fingie Whalen and the landlady of the house, who was summoned for the purpose. Jim realized that these formalities were extravagant, but, somehow, they seemed necessary to him just then, to put this evidence of the crime against his home and happiness beyond cavil of doubt.
I, Anne Weston, confess to tricking Jim Maxwell and deceiving his wife at the instigation of Dan McGrew. McGrew hired Fingie Whalen and me to help him fool Mrs. Maxwell. I wrote the note signed "Jess." At the time when Mr. Maxwell was due to arrive in town, I was all ready, and as he came by fell from my horse as if I had fainted. He carried me into the saloon, and then Fingie gave him knock-out drops, and we fixed it up so that when McGrew came with Mrs. Maxwell and looked in at the window, it was as if we were loving together. But it was all a lie, worked out by Dan McGrew to make Mrs. Maxwell believe her husband was false to her.Anne Weston.
I, Anne Weston, confess to tricking Jim Maxwell and deceiving his wife at the instigation of Dan McGrew. McGrew hired Fingie Whalen and me to help him fool Mrs. Maxwell. I wrote the note signed "Jess." At the time when Mr. Maxwell was due to arrive in town, I was all ready, and as he came by fell from my horse as if I had fainted. He carried me into the saloon, and then Fingie gave him knock-out drops, and we fixed it up so that when McGrew came with Mrs. Maxwell and looked in at the window, it was as if we were loving together. But it was all a lie, worked out by Dan McGrew to make Mrs. Maxwell believe her husband was false to her.
Anne Weston.
Jim carried that paper in his pocket. It was the document with which he would prove to Lou how she had been deluded. But the days passed, and there came no opportunity to show her the sheet of paper on which Anne Weston had scrawled her confession. He used every means at his command, but he was powerless to gain any trace of the woman whom he had loved and lost through despicable treachery.
It was on the fourth day after Lou had fled her home, that Jim Maxwell seated himself at the piano in the living-room. Hitherto, he had been so occupied in the vain effort to find his wife that he had been, in some measure, unappreciative of the misery that was upon him. Now, when he had exhausted every resource of activity, he suddenly felt the desolation of his home—the ruin of his life. With his instinct toward the musical expression of moods, he took his place before the instrument.
Then, again, that glorious love-lyric came softly sonorous from the keys. The lilt of the melody rose and fell with a subtle vigor, instinct with the joy of life. The delicate tenderness of the music throbbed the story of a love complete and enduring. There was passion in the rhythm. It was a passion ennobled and purified by the intricate harmonies woven around and within it. It was a song of the spirit. It was overlaid with a splendor of sensuous sound. There was nothing gross—only the fullness of life.... Jim was playing with exquisite art that song of happiness which he had improvised on the day he received the news of Dan McGrew's coming.
Now, after he had followed the melody to its end, the truth, which during the moments of his playing he had forgotten, crashed upon him in a discord so horrible that he could not touch the keys to voice it—could only sit, moveless, listening to the din within his own soul in an ecstasy of despair.
Often, again, in the years to come, Jim Maxwell played that same melody. Always, he was searching for the wife whom he had loved and lost. Men whose eyes were sharp notedhim here and there around the world, because he seemed so uninterested in everything, and because so often his left hand touched his breast.... In the pocket there, he carried, ready for Lou's reading, the confession signed by Anne Weston—the woman Jess.
And, in the years as they passed, Jim Maxwell gained something of reputation for another thing. He traveled the world over; he had money enough. His foreman was competent. Even without his personal attendance, the revenues from the ranch increased year by year. He lived for only two things: to find Lou and prove to her his innocence—and to kill the man who had betrayed them. In his search, Jim Maxwell went everywhere. He was known in the capitals of Europe; he was known in the wild places of the earth. Men spoke of him, though they had little acquaintance with him. The reason they spoke of him was because on occasion—it might be in the parlor of some sailor's lodging-house in Vladivostok, or it might be in a drawing-room of the Savoy, this man wouldseat himself at the piano, and he would play. And, always, he played the self-same melody, a lilting air of love and tenderness, filled full of the joy of life. Always, too, the melody was embroidered over with an intricate web of harmonies, magnificent, yet somber. And, in the end, always, the player beat suddenly upon the keys a frenzy of discord.
"Then you're quite sure, Jack? You don't mind my being a—nobody?" The girl's tone was half-playful, half-sad. There was a note of wistfulness in the musical cadences of her voice.
The young man whom she had addressed answered with an emphasis that left no doubt as to his sincerity. His clear gray eyes were alight with love, as he looked into the dark, gypsy-like face of the girl at his side.
"Why, Nell, you're just everybody. You're everything worth while in this little old world of ours."
"You do say the sweetest things, Jack!" The shadowy eyes that met tenderly the warm gaze of the lover were lighted with fond appreciation. Then, of a sudden, the red lips trembled into a mischievous smile, as she added: "I guess I wouldn't give a snap fora sweetheart who was tongue-tied when he talked about my charms."
The two were seated in the main room of a small, roughly-built Alaskan cabin, which stood on the outskirts of a ramshackle village, created almost in a day by the gold lure's magic. The lovers had been left alone together on the eve of their wedding-day by the kindness of the girl's foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Ross. It was of these, who, in the tiny back room, were recalling the distant days of their own courtship, that Nell now spoke.
"They have been so good to me!" she said musingly. "I've told you that they were not really and truly my parents. I didn't tell you just how I came to be with them, because it was such a dreadful time to me. Even after all these years, I hate thinking of it."
"Don't!" Jack Reeves urged. "What's past is past, and there's no earthly reason for you to worry yourself over it by telling me."
The girl shook her head.
"I want to tell you, dear," she said simply. Then she fell silent for a little. The lover,watching the warm olive contour of the cheek against which the long black lashes swept as her eyes closed in meditation, rejoiced yet once again in the beauty and the daintiness of this maiden whom he had found and won for himself here amid the rigors of the Northland. He noted the slight drooping of the tenderly curving lips, and longed to kiss away their sadness. Presently Nell went on speaking, rather rapidly, as if anxious to be done with an unpleasant task, and in a tone that told of restrained emotion:
"It was twelve years ago that Papa and Mamma Ross found me. You know Papa Ross is a born pioneer, and Mamma has grown to be just like him. For years they have been moving with the frontiers. That time they were camping by a river down below. There had been a heavy storm, and the river ran high. They heard a cry from somewhere out in the night on the water. They ran to the bank and looked. But it was dark, and they couldn't see anything or hear another sound.Rover was with them—a splendid big Newfoundland." The girl's voice softened. "Rover died two years ago, just before we came up here. I loved him so!"
"I think I can guess," Jack ventured, as the girl paused. "It was Rover who saved you—for, of course, it was you out there in the river."
The girl nodded somberly.
"Yes," came her answer, very gently uttered; "I was out there in the river, drowning. The current swept me along with it. There was a point of the shore just below where Papa Ross had camped. I was carried into the eddies there. Somehow, Rover caught a glimpse of my face, or, maybe, just his instinct guided him. Anyhow, as Papa Ross has told me, Rover sprang into the river, and, when Papa Ross had followed around the inlet toward the point, he found the dog trying to drag me out of the water, up on the bank. Papa Ross carried me to the camp, and there he and Mamma worked over me for a longtime. It was a close call, Papa Ross says, but finally they got me to breathing again.... And that's about all."
"And so," Jack questioned in some surprise, "you don't know any more than that?—where you came from, or anything?"
Once again Nell shook her head.
"No, nothing more than that. Papa Ross always thought that I must have struck my head somehow, there in the water. Anyhow, I was confused when I came to. I couldn't seem to remember anything exactly—except my name, Nell. Sometimes I have shadowy memories, but they melt away before I can get anything definite. So, you see, I'm just a nobody, Jack, as I told you—just a mystery that came out of the night and the river."
"Everybody to me," the lover declared again; "everything to me." And now, at last, he took the lithe, slender form of the girl into his arms, and kissed the sorrowfully drooping lips to smiles again.
But, after a little, when there came a lull in the caresses and murmured endearments, JackReeves spoke a question that was puzzling him:
"But I should think it would have been easy enough to trace you? If inquiries had been made, surely you might have learned where you came from, and who you were, and all that?"
But, once again, Nell shook her head, and this time very emphatically.
"Papa Ross did what he could, but it came to nothing. When we got to a town, he tried to find out about any girl's being lost like that. Nobody knew of any such case. There was no report of any child's having been drowned. He did what he could—I'm sure of that. Anyhow, as long as you don't care, Jack, I don't suppose I need to. But, somehow—" Nell's voice broke, and she sat silent, absorbed in melancholy reverie. Always, this mystery was a painful thing to her. Even now, when her happiness was full, on the eve of her marriage to the man she loved, she was grieved by the fact that she must come to her husband as a waif, a creature whose origin was unknown,a nameless bit of flotsam, dragged from the river by a dog. Then, in another moment, the depression of her mood was forgotten as she drew away from Jack's embrace, for she heard Papa Ross stamping heavily about the back room of the cabin—in kindly warning that he was about to intrude upon the lovers.
The next morning broke clear, and when at last the slowly clambering sun rose to traverse its short circle between the horizons, its slanting beams seemed full of warmth and good cheer, though the mercury stood at twenty degrees below zero. There was not a breath of wind, and the chill air, pure with a purity unknown to lower latitudes, was like the wine of life. The breath of it in the lungs set the blood a-tingle with joyousness. And the purity of the air had for its background the visible purity of the snow-mantle that lay over everything. Beneath the sun, the white expanse shimmered in prismatic brilliance. Afar, the mountains loomed in purple masses—thegreen of conifers seen through the vista of many miles.
And the day, in its spirit of vigorous life and wholesome gayety, was suited to the mood of the tiny temporary town, which sprawled here in the wilderness. For the place was en fête. The hardy men who had thus ventured into the wilds of the North welcomed the diversion of this romance among them, which was to culminate to-day in the wedding of Jack Reeves and Nell Ross at the Dyea Hotel. Public sentiment had insisted that the nuptials should be celebrated at the hotel. The hotel, truth to tell, was neither commodious nor imposing. But it was a boarded structure, the only one in the village, and it was by far the largest, small though it was. And the citizens were determined that they should be permitted to assemble in force on this auspicious day, when the glamour of love was to soften in some degree the austerity of the arctic land. So, betimes, the men of the community gathered at the hotel to await the marriage ceremony. A scant half-dozen women,courageous followers of the men they loved, were there as well. Some had been at pains to bring heaps of evergreen boughs, and with these the main room of the hotel—at once lobby, bar and office—was decorated. Caribou Bill brought a great bank of moss, for which he had dug through six feet of snow. To it was attached a piece of flaming-red paper, in which tea had originally been packed, and this paper had been laboriously cut by Caribou Bill into the shape of two hearts, lovingly joined as one. The symbol of wedded happiness was established by its smirking inventor on the central shelf above the bar, where it commanded the enthusiastic admiration of the populace.
It was noon to the second when Nell Ross and Jack Reeves stood in the center of the main room of the hotel before the one who was to make them man and wife. He, too, was at heart a pioneer, and he was, as well, an earnest worker for the saving of souls. His own preference, with a roving commission, had brought him to this remote place.He found a singular pleasure in the fact that his ministrations were required for the uniting of this winsome maiden and this virile, clean young man. It was as if the ceremony typified in some fashion the purity and vigor of life here within the frozen North.... It was noon to the second! The time-keeper was Harry, the Dog-Man, who carried a Waterbury watch, on the accuracy of which he would cheerfully have staked his hopes of eternal happiness. Because of the exactness of his time-piece, which none cared to deny, he had usurped the office of master of ceremonies. When he saw the two hands of the watch blent as one upon the hour of twelve, he raised his arm, and Nell and Jack moved forward within the little lane walled by the crowd, to stand before the clergyman, who regarded them with a benevolent smile, in which, unknown to himself, was something almost of envy in the presence of their youth and happiness and love.
So, the minister spoke the words that made this pair husband and wife.
There was a noise of snapping dogs outside. A man came into the hotel, stamping the snow from the high-buckled overshoes worn over his boots of felt. Behind him came a woman muffled in furs. She looked on the scene with a certain feminine interest, for she realized at once that a wedding was in progress; but without any personal concern. Indeed, she was rather displeased, being weary from a long journey over the snows, because she saw that she must wait for attention until the ceremony should be concluded. The man with her shook the hood of the parka from his head, and stood regarding with cynical amusement the two who had clasped hands before the clergyman. So he waited while the words were uttered that made the pair one. The ceremony ended, the husband kissed the bride; the minister in turn bent and touched his lips to hers, with a curious stirring of half-forgotten emotions.
Then the crowd surged forward, eager for its prerogative of a kiss. And, as she turned,Nell saw the man who had just entered, standing there with that smile of cynical amusement upon his handsome face. The eyes of the two met and battled. There came to her a strange feeling of dread. In this, the supreme moment of her life, wherein all had been happiness, there stirred a feeling of doubt, of evil anticipation.
The man, staring into the face of this beautiful girl upon whose nuptials he had stumbled by chance, experienced a thrill of emotion which he could not understand. Some secret monition moved him to an alarm. He felt an unreasonable disturbance in the presence of this girl.... Dan McGrew had no suspicion that he had blundered thus on the child who, years before, had been swept away from him in the darkness of the river's flood-tide.... Nor did the woman, who stood behind him so wearily, waiting for the end of this tiresome ceremony, guess that the gentle girl, blushing there under the storm of kisses claimed by the crowd, was, in fact, the daughterfor whose death she had mourned through so many years.... Nell did not see the woman at all.
p141t
"THEY'VE STRUCK IT RICH ON FORGOTTEN CREEK!"
Of a sudden there came an interruption:
A man leaped through the doorway. He waved his hands and staggered as one drunken. His voice rose in a raucous shriek:
"They've struck it rich on Forgotten Creek!"
There was a moment of intense stillness. These men had fled from civilization in pursuit of the will-o'-the-wisp of gold. Now sounded the clarion call:
"They've struck it rich on Forgotten Creek!"
p166t
THESE MEN HAD FLED FROM CIVILIZATION IN PURSUIT OF THE WILL-'O-THE WISP OF GOLD.
For long seconds the stillness endured. Then, abruptly, there came a huge cachinnation. It was the mellow, roaring laughter of Bert Black, the only negro in this Aladdin village so close up under the Pole. The company looked at the man expectantly, and he answered the interrogation in their eyes:
"We-all is just shohly goin' to have a stampede!"
Then, again, the silence held for a little, while each and every man of them saw the vision of the straggled crowd trailing the waste places, lured on by the will-o'-the-wisp of gold.
The Fates, in weaving the intricate web of human lives, smile grimly oftentimes over the curious intermingling of the threads. Often, too, the incomplete design might well move them to a cruel mirth, but that they see beyond the seeming tangle of events to the perfecting of their pattern at the last. So, perhaps, they are content of their task, though we mortals, with short-sighted eyes, seeing dimly, look on the happenings of our lives as the blessed or the baneful work of chance. Thus, now, the Fates had brought here, beneath the flickering of the Northern Lights, all the actors in the drama of the years agone, when the happiness of a home had been shattered by a villain's ruthless passion. Their presence within a short radius of miles had every appearance of purest chance. Nevertheless,the Fates had brought them within reach of one another, that thus the seeming snarl in the threads of these lives might be shown as in fact untangled and woven into a design just and harmonious and beautiful.
Dan McGrew moved sociably among the men of the village, as they celebrated the wedding with many jovial libations. He was hail-fellow-well-met with each and all, for it had come to be a matter of professional necessity with him to attain a fair measure of popularity whithersoever he went. He had deteriorated much with the passage of the years. He had sunk to be a common gambler, and on occasion had not scrupled at worse methods in pursuit of ill-gotten gains. To-day his keen eyes were speedily drawn to one of the men, who was especially lavish in hospitality.
"Who is he?" Dan asked of the bar-tender. "Seems flush, all right."
"That's Sam Ward," was the answer. "He's got a hole somewhere up in the hills, which nobody don't know nothin' about—'ceptit's cussed rich. Sam blows a pokeful o' dust ev'ry time he hits town."
Dan eyed the fortunate prospector greedily, and his predatory instinct brought him to a quick decision. He went to Lou, who was sitting, drearily enough, alone at a table in a corner of the room. He spoke to her softly, that none might overhear, though of this there was little danger amid the noise of rollicking gayety.
"There's a chap here I mean to chum up with a bit," Dangerous Dan explained. "I'll introduce him, and you must be nice enough to him to make him talk."
The woman nodded assent. For it had come to such a pass. Often, she had stooped to play decoy for the man in his schemes against his fellows.
Dan McGrew had persistently lied to this woman. By his arts he had ruined her life. But Lou had still no inkling of the truth. One great fact was impressed upon her as time passed: This man loved her—and he was loyal to her. Since she had lost everythingdear, it seemed her duty to give the worthless remnant of her life to the one who thus esteemed it something precious.
When Lou returned to consciousness, after the fever and delirium that seized her the dreadful night of the flight from home, her first question was concerning the drowned child.
The man at the bedside met her imploring gaze steadfastly, and spoke his falsehoods so convincingly that she had never a doubt. The river had been searched with every care, he declared. The body had not been found. The bereaved mother had been denied the last pitiful solace of grief—a place of burial wherein to mourn over the lost.
After the final deprivation, Lou was apathetic. The light had gone out of her life. She was numb with misery. Her most distinct emotion was a sort of passive gratitude toward the man who had so frightfully wronged her. It was in obedience to the promptings of this feeling that Lou meeklyaccepted his every suggestion. She did so with the more readiness because these suggestions were so skillfully contrived as to seem the epitome of unselfishness.
Thus, for example, there was the matter of divorce. Dan learned that the kindly woman into whose house he had brought Lou suffered from nostalgia. She had come out into the West with an eager, improvident husband, who had died and left her with this tiny home, on which the mortgage of a few hundreds rested as a burden beyond her strength to remove. She was sick with longing to go back among the home-folk. Dan's sympathetic voice and candid, honest eyes won confidence from the lonely old woman. And, too, she quickly grew fond of the invalid in her house. Therefore, she had no hesitation in acceding to the proposal made to her by Dan McGrew: that she should travel to the East with Lou, as nurse and companion. The money offered to her by Dan McGrew for these services was enough to ease her declining years. Moreover, there was the added inducement that, inthis manner, she would be able to return to the place for which she longed.
Lou made no objection to the arrangement. She liked the old woman, and the instinct of flight was still upon her.... She was only grateful to the man who was at such pains in her behalf.
In due time, the three were duly established in the East. Dangerous Dan, in the course of his daily visits to Lou from a lodging he had taken close at hand, guided her thoughts so craftily that, with no suspicion of having been influenced, the heart-broken woman decided that she should get a divorce. Dan had chosen a location in a State where desertion was a sufficient cause. Lou brought suit, and the issue was expedited in the courts. She believed that thus she gave to her husband an opportunity to marry the woman with whom he had become infatuated, and thus, too, an opportunity to restore in some degree his self-respect.... She could not guess that, owing to the treachery of the man on whose advice she relied, her husband had no knowledgewhatsoever of these proceedings. The newspapers, with their formal advertisements to the defendant in the action instituted in the courts, were never posted to the address of the ranch-owner.... Dan McGrew saw to that.
Eventually, there came a decreenisi. In due time, the divorce was made absolute. Throughout this interval of delay, the man demonstrated the firmness of his purpose by the patience with which he waited for the attainment of his ends.
It was not until a year after her flight from home that Lou became the wife of Dangerous Dan McGrew.... Why should she not give herself to him who had so befriended her?
The late dawn of the morning after the wedding came on clear, with a soft wind blowing from the south. Under its gentleness, the sun was able to thaw the surface of the snow. Then the wind swung to the north. Within an hour, the crust on the snow, as the Arctic air blew over it, was strong enough to support a horse. And Dan McGrew and many another took advantage of the fact. There were a few meagerly fed horses in the town, remnants from the discontinued Lodestar Mine, which had failed to pay a profit, after elaborate installation of equipment. They knew that at the first change of the weather their mounts would become worse than useless. In the meantime, however, there was a luxury in this form of travel that appealed. And there were hangers-on in the town, too poor for a grub-stake, who for a pittance would run on foot with the train, and afterward take back the horses to the village, when a softer snow should make them a hindrance rather than a help.
Nell used the voice of wifely authority:
"Why, the idea! Of course I shall go too!" She was all eagerness. For years she had lived with those who were informed with the spirit of the frontiers. Her husband, thus far in his battling with the Northland, had been successful. He had found claims of value. Some of them he had sold; some ofthem he had worked. From most of them he had won a deserved profit. So, when the news of the strike on Forgotten Creek came—even though it was his wedding-day—Jack Reeves was all agog with anxiety to be off to this region whither fortune beckoned.... And Nell would not be left behind. She would follow her husband where fate led. She would not be denied.
Thus it came about that the bridal pair were among the crowd that surged in the village street before the Dyea Hotel on the morning after their wedding. Jack had a team of dogs, the best within hundreds of miles. They were strong enough to make play of hauling the long sled, laden with provisions, on which Nell was seated with ease, well-wrapped in furs, and sheltered beneath a drapery of white—the skin of a polar bear, which Jack had brought back with him as a trophy of experiences beneath the Arctic night.
There were in the throng men who had nodogs. They carried on their backs the small allowance of bacon, beans, flour, tea, coffee, sugar, tobacco. The adventurers were of all sorts. Some went well supplied. Others joined in the stampede recklessly. They might starve, or freeze, out there in the mountains. But they were caught and drawn on by the lust for riches. Somewhere out there in the cold and the distance gold was lying. In the sands of the creeks, in the ledges of the mountains, were the golden flakes, the riches for which each and every one craved....