p268tWITHOUT AN INSTANT PAUSE, HE WAS OFF, PLOWING HIS WAY THROUGH THE SNOW.A hail came to Jack's ears. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw, a little to the right of the trail, a ghostly silhouette, even as he had pictured it—the trapper, with his dogs, waiting patiently on the snow where the spruce shadows fell.CHAPTER XXNell, standing before the cabin-door, peered for the hundredth time that night across the valley. Her eyes seemed to catch in the far distance a hint of movement, a flickering shadow out there in the dim light of snow beneath starlight. It was gone in the same instant. It must have been a trickery of vision. No! there it was again—a shadow that moved, a tiniest speck, but real. Nell's hands went to her bosom convulsively. It could be none other than Mr. Maxwell—her father—coming there. Did he come alone? She stood with straining eyes in a torment of doubt. Soon she was able to make out that only one figure ran with the moving sled. It was as if the heart died in her. Then, in the next moment, she thought that she could distinguish vaguely the outlines of another form on the sled. She was a-tremblewith hope. The sled rushed toward her up the slope, the wearied dogs mending their pace in the frantic delight of home-coming. It was certainty now. Nell could see the man on the sled. He waved a hand to her. A cry of rapture burst from her lips. Within the minute, she was clasped to her husband's breast—all sorrows forgot.Presently, when the first excitement of the reunion was over, and the three were together in the cheery warmth of the cabin, Jack told his story very briefly, whereat Nell paled and trembled as she realized how near to death this night had been the man she loved. But, when the fugitive finished the story with his arrival at the point where Jim Maxwell waited, Nell suddenly rose and went to the older man and threw herself on his breast and kissed him.p278tWHEN THE FIRST EXCITEMENT OF THE REUNION WAS OVER, JACK TOLD HIS STORY."Father, if it hadn't been for you—!"Jack regarded the scene in amazement, not untinged by disapproval. Gratitude was all very well, but it need not express itself too extravagantly. Then he almost forgot theembrace in wonder over the word—"father!""Eh?" he questioned confusedly. "You've adopted him? That is, he's adopted you?""Oh!" Nell exclaimed, drawing away from her father to regard him with consternation. "Didn't you tell him?"Jim Maxwell smiled very tenderly."No, I didn't tell him. I thought maybe you'd like to do that yourself, dear."Nell kissed her father again, with such enthusiasm that Jack's disapproval returned with increased bitterness."You're a darling, Father," she declared happily. In the reaction from her suffering, she was bubbling over with girlish gayety. "I'd just love to tell him. It will be such fun to see his eyes pop out."It was fun—and something deeper and sweeter. Jack, for his part, welcomed the fact of this new relationship with the man so curiously and intimately brought into his life. He rejoiced for his own sake, and he rejoiced more for Nell's; since now she need no longer mourn over being a nameless waif,though the mystery of her life was only partly explained.The hands of the two met in a warm clasp, and their eyes met no less warmly in a firm, honest gaze of mutual liking and respect."I reckon I've done a pretty good day's work," Jim said, with a whimsical smile to mask his emotion. "I've got a daughter and a son, too—both in one day. And I didn't have anybody before—not for twelve years." There was a pathetic intensity in his voice, which touched the two hearers to a new appreciation of this man's great loneliness. Then Jim Maxwell shrugged his shoulders, as if he would cast off the mood of emotion. He spoke rapidly now, with incisive directness."You must get across the Border as fast as you can. I'll tell you some short cuts." He had driven his dogs often to Malamute, and knew the ways by which the fugitives might gain advantage over their pursuers. "You've had an hour here, and it would be risky to wait any longer before starting out. They may be after you any minute."p279tHE HAD OFTEN DRIVEN HIS DOGS TO MALAMUTE."They may think I've been burned up in the fire," Jack suggested.Jim shook his head in dissent."No. Those logs would take a good bit of burning. Somebody would give the alarm, and they'd tumble out to see the fire, and they'd see that window you'd smashed through.""And I had to wade through some loose snow," Jack added. "They'd find my tracks fast enough.""Tracks leading this way! I tell you, there's no time to be lost. You know the trails to Malamute. Make it as quick as you can. From there, strike across the Border."He was interrupted by Nell, who exclaimed impulsively:"But, Father, what about you? I can't bear the thought of leaving you now, when I've just found you after all these years."Jim Maxwell smiled down on his daughter with deep fondness."When you're in Canada, write to me here—toKalmak, telling me where you will be, and I'll join you very soon."He turned to Jack and gave explicit directions as to how the route to Malamute might be shortened profitably. When he was sure that the young man had understood, he turned again to Nell."I'm not quite so poor as I look, little girl," he said, smiling. "When I join you I'll have a wedding-present ready for you—for you, and for the boy here." His glance went affectionately to Jack, who returned it with like affection.Preparations for the departure of the two were speedily made. The farewells were uttered; father and daughter kissed tenderly; the men shook hands heartily. Then the dogs, in fine fettle after ample food and rest, leaped forward with joyous energy. The night was clear enough to see the way distinctly; there was no danger of mistaking the trail. On and on they flew over the frozen surface of the snow, following the valleys that trended to the east. Warmly clad and habituatedto icy airs, the two did not suffer any discomfort from the bitter cold of the wind created by their rapid motion through the night. On the contrary, it set their blood tingling with the joy of life. Both were gloriously happy. The starlight was as noon-day since they had come out of the valley of the shadow.Thus they went forward swiftly, Nell stretched at ease, Jack riding and running by turns. In the twilight of dawn, they came on a native family comfortably encamped, and here they halted for an hour, that the dogs might be fed and rested, and that they, too, might eat and rest. They basked contentedly in the cheery heat from the flames, and at last took leave of their stolid hosts almost reluctantly. Then, once again, they went skimming over the waste, as the pale-yellow sun crept languidly above the horizon. The slanting beams set all the scene a-shimmer with prismatic radiance from the snow crystals. Hitherto, the two had been content with silence, happy in the knowledge that theywere together and that the speeding miles put peril far behind. Now, however, with the quickening life of day, the placid mood came to an end. They became lively, garrulous, demonstrative. Nell insisted that Jack should rehearse for her anew every detail of his escape from the jail. The husband, in turn, demanded a full account of how father and daughter had become known to each other. Both were curious to know the story of Jim Maxwell's life. They could not forbear many speculations as to the nature of the events that had driven this man, whom Jack liked and esteemed, and whom Nell had already grown to love, to isolate himself thus in the desolate North. But they could only guess, since the father had told nothing of himself, except the single fact of his relationship to Nell.They made Malamute in mid-afternoon. Jack halted the dogs in front of the chief structure in the place, which, though nominally only a saloon, was in fact the hotel and trading post."Don't get out, Nell," Jack directed. "I'll have to get directions here for the next stage in the journey. Maybe we'll have to stay for the night, and maybe we won't. I'll be back in a minute." With that he hurried off and entered the saloon.As the door swung open to admit the newcomer, the few men straggling along the bar, or lounging at the tables, looked up in mild curiosity to see who this might be. Only one showed any especial interest in the stranger. This single exception was a man who sat by a table placed against the wall at right angles to the bar. He had been lazily busy over a game of solitaire, while the woman seated across the table from him looked on listlessly. At Jack's entrance, he had looked up with languid attention. On the instant, he was transformed. All the indifference of his expression vanished. His face showed first an unbounded amazement, then rage. Finally, another emotion—hardly fear, but a furtive anxiety closely akin to fear. He watched covertly as the escaped prisoner went up to thebar, where, after ordering a drink, he began questioning the bartender concerning the most direct route to the Border.Having secured the information he required, Jack went back to Nell, who sat waiting on the sled, snug within her furs.p296tJACK WENT BACK TO NELL, WHO SAT ON THE SLED, SNUG WITHIN HER FURS."We'd better stay here for the night," he explained, "and make an early start in the morning."Nell got down from the sled obediently and accompanied her husband into the saloon, where arrangements for their entertainment were speedily concluded. It was only after the two had gone upstairs to the room assigned them that the man, who had held his head bent low over the spread-out cards of the solitaire game during their presence, looked up and beckoned to a tall, rough-featured individual standing alone at one end of the bar. This was the sheriff of Malamute. As he came near, Dan McGrew spoke, and his voice rasped."Did you recognize that chap with the girl?""Never laid eyes on him before," the official averred. "What about it?""When I was down at Kalmak the other day," Dangerous Dan answered impressively, "they arrested that fellow for murder. He's broken jail."The sheriff grinned contentedly."Then right here's where he breaks in again. I'll see to that. You're sure there's no mistake?""No mistake!" was the terse assurance. "I'll swear to his identity if necessary. But probably there'll be somebody after him pretty soon, as they'd figure he'd take this way for the Border.""I thought you were going in the morning," the sheriff objected. "I'll have to have you for a witness, if nobody else turns up.""Oh, I'll stay, all right!" Dan laughed.And the Fates must have laughed with him, and at him, in mockery; for, in this last malignant act, Dangerous Dan McGrew worked evil against himself and none other.... Lou,looking on apathetically, wondered why Dan should be so eager to deliver over a fugitive from justice. He was not usually so intolerant of crime!CHAPTER XXIJim Maxwell, left alone in his cabin, had company a-plenty in thronging thoughts. His mood, on the whole, was nearer to one of happiness than any he had known before in the years since the wrecking of his home. The discovery of his daughter had filled him with pure delight. Had she been other than she was, this recovery of her would still have filled him with gladness. To find her so lovely and so winsome in her personality moved him to proud exaltation. He looked forward to companionship with her in the years to come, and thanked Providence for this assuagement of past loneliness and sorrow. He was grateful, too, for the fact that she had entrusted her life's happiness to one who seemed worthy, so far as any man might be, of such a treasure. Since he hadno son of his own, Jim Maxwell rejoiced over this gift of his daughter's bringing to him.Nevertheless, it was in this connection that the otherwise happy father found ground for anxiety, and that anxiety pressed upon him heavily. His understanding of the circumstances, which was wider than that of the young persons involved, made him appreciate the evil consequence that must ensue from the present situation. Either Jack would escape across the Border, or he would not. In the latter contingency, there would be immediate peril of his life on being brought back to Kalmak; for Jim had been told, what Nell had not, of the probable lynching by men impatient of the law's delay. But, with the fugitive's escape safely accomplished, there would remain always a stigma on the young man's reputation. Throughout his life, he would go in constant danger of being pointed out as a jail-breaker and murderer. Jim Maxwell would not tolerate such a fate for one near and dear to him, and dearest to his daughter. He made a last round of his traps, bringingthem in and storing them in the cabin preparatory to his departure. And in his progress over the miles, his thoughts were grappling always with the problems by which he was confronted. It was not until nightfall, as he sat smoking cozily in the warm comfort of the cabin, which had been blest by his daughter's presence, that he at last reached a decision. He had little fear of a lynching in case of Jack's recapture; for he meant to take a hand himself in coming events, and he believed that the sheriff at Kalmak, though he knew the official to be of a spineless sort, would make a stand against the mob with his backing. So he dismissed any immediate concern over the retaking of the escaped prisoner. There remained, however, the matter of the stigma. He would not let his son-in-law, Nell's husband, whom she loved, be thus branded by the world. There was only one means of prevention. The young man's innocence must be proved. With the evidence against him such as it was, that innocence could be established in a single way, and innone other—by proving the identity of Sam Ward's actual slayer. Since this was so, Jim Maxwell decided that he himself must bend every energy to tracing out the truth concerning the crime of which Jack Reeves stood accused. Before he slept that night, he resolved that with the dawn he would start for Kalmak, there to begin his work.In the morning, then, Jim Maxwell set forth on his quest. On arrival at Kalmak, he halted his dogs before the Grand Hotel, where he judged, from a slight acquaintance with the sheriff, that he would find the official in the bar-room. In this he was proven right; for, on entering the saloon, the first person his gaze encountered was the sheriff himself, who stood at the end of the bar facing the door, with an expression of profound melancholy upon his horse-like face. Jim, with only a nod to the others, went straight to the sheriff, whom he greeted with an assumption of deference, since he was well aware of the fellow's pet vanity."And what's new?" he asked innocently,after he had given an order to the bar-tender.The sheriff could hardly pause to drain his glass, so eager was he to pour out his woes to one who had not yet heard them. There was nothing in the narrative that increased the stock of information already possessed by the questioner. It was not until Jim Maxwell had pursued a cross-examination for some time that there came a revelation of importance. This, when it did come, crashed on him like a thunderbolt."Have there been any other strangers in the place lately?" he demanded, desirous of any clew to the possible murderer."Nary one," the sheriff responded dismally. "It's been dull as ditch-water all winter hereabouts. Hain't anybody come in for a month—leastways, only Dan McGrew, and he ain't a stranger exactly—not by a long shot!"Dan McGrew! The name screamed in Jim Maxwell's brain. Dan McGrew, here—within reach of his two hands!He stood motionless, unhearing, unseeing. Beneath the concealing beard, his cheeks werebloodless. His thoughts were chaos. The despair of the years seemed crystallized in this new anguish over the fact that the enemy had been here, almost within his grasp, and he had not known. He seemed to realize as never before the monstrousness of the crime committed against him. Hate more savage than he had known hitherto filled his heart with its black flood. It seemed the final crushing blow of fate, that the wrecker of his home should have come so nearly within his power and then have escaped unscathed. For, somehow, he sensed details given by the sheriff concerning Dan McGrew's going from Kalmak, though he heard not a word of the babbling voice.Presently, Jim Maxwell aroused from this trance of rage. He found himself weak and shaken, and his tone was husky as he ordered more drinks for himself and for the gratified sheriff. He gulped the raw liquor hurriedly, and welcomed the sting of it. He regained his usual stern composure soon, and, immediately then, his thoughts took a new turn. Heresumed the prosecution of his inquiries with increased eagerness. It may have been that the association of ideas drove him on. Dan McGrew was to him the epitome of crime. The presence of Dan McGrew in the neighborhood struck him as of possible significance. He was without a shred of evidence, in the matter of Sam Ward's death, against the man he hated. Yet, he felt a strange conviction that here was the clew for which he had been searching.... The sheriff was highly pleased by the manifest interest of this trapper, who, in their previous meetings, had shown no trace of geniality."You say this Dan McGrew—" Jim stumbled a little over the name—"was here when this Reeves chap came in?""Blew in that very self-same day, jest a little while before the murderer got here.""I suppose he hadn't heard of the murder until he got here?" Jim suggested.The sheriff shook his head."We didn't any of us know a thing about Sam Ward having been killed, until the youngfeller drove up and told that cussed yarn about seein' the murder through his glasses. The nerve of him! And he'd got away with it, too, if it hadn't been for Dan McGrew puttin' it into my head to search his pack."The listener started perceptibly at this information."Oh, it was Dan McGrew who first directed suspicion against this young man, was it?"The sheriff was deeply chagrined by his inadvertent revelation of the truth. He attempted to hedge."Why, not exactly. Maybe he was the first to speak right out plain, but I'd been thinkin' jest that same thing."Jim did not care to press the point. He had no wish to wound the sheriff's sensibilities, at least while further information might be extracted from the man. But he regarded this news concerning the part Dan McGrew had played in the affair as of vital importance. While the sheriff maundered on, he rapidly reviewed the details of the case, so far as he knew them.The murderer, according to Jack's account, must have seen the approach of the bridal pair. The fact was, indeed, proven by his hasty flight from the scene of the crime. Thereafter, he might have watched, and probably had watched, the arrival of the sled, and he doubtless had been aware that the newcomers camped on the creek for the night. Already, in previous study of the questions involved, Jim had arrived at these conclusions, which established a plausible explanation for the presence of the knife-handle in Jack's pack. Certainly, it could have been no difficult feat for the assassin to secrete this evidence during the night encampment. As certainly, there could have been no other opportunity. Nor could there be any doubt as to the motive for the action. It had been for the purpose of fixing guilt upon the innocent, that the guilty might go free.Now, in addition to these conclusions already established, there appeared another and salient fact.The person who first suggested the searchingof the pack wherein the knife-handle lay concealed had been Dan McGrew. The inference was undeniable. It was made stronger still by the correlated fact that Dan McGrew had arrived at Kalmak only shortly before the coming of the alleged murderer. By further questioning, Jim drew from the loquacious sheriff additional data. Dangerous Dan had arrived on foot. He had talked of having been in the stampede; but he had given no precise account of his movements, nor had he explained the reason for his coming to Kalmak, over which the sheriff had puzzled. The day following his arrival, he had set out for Malamute with a hired outfit.A rapid survey of all these circumstances brought Jim Maxwell to the conviction that Dangerous Dan McGrew had added murder to his other crimes. The evidence was by no means conclusive, but it was sufficient to any one reasoning from the facts. Jim, sure of Jack's innocence, regarded the guilt of Dan McGrew as actually established. There remained the necessity of final proof, whichwould brand the murderer as such before the world and clear the innocent from unjust suspicion.It was reasonable to suppose that the slayer of Sam Ward had taken to himself, in payment for his crime, anything of value on the dead man's body. Thus there was a possibility, even a probability, that Dangerous Dan McGrew now carried with him some tangible evidence that would serve to convict him. This evidence must be secured. In no other way could the innocence of Jack Reeves be proclaimed to the world. And Dangerous Dan had gone to Malamute. Jim smiled slowly, staring fixedly, as if his gaze reached out across the miles. The sheriff, though hardly a coward, shrank a little from some strange quality in that look.Jim Maxwell, in truth, was wondering as to his exact purpose in going to Malamute. Was it to save Jack Reeves, or was it to kill Dangerous Dan McGrew? Both, perhaps.He put a last question to the sheriff, who was puzzled by it—not the less so by reasonof a certain hesitation in the questioner's voice as he spoke."There wasn't any—any woman with this—Dan McGrew?""Nope! He's been here three or four times for a game with the boys. He's square, Dan is. An' I hain't never seen him look at nary one of the gals."Jim Maxwell turned away abruptly from the sheriff, without a word in parting. The careless words screeched in his brain, mocking devils of derision:"He's square, Dan is."Jim Maxwell set his face homeward, and urged the dogs to their best speed, for he had much to do and time pressed. He reached the cabin with the first shadows of dusk, and, after attending to the dogs, busied himself in collecting important papers, which must be carried with him, since he could hazard no guess as to when he might return to the cabin, if ever. His skins were to be left behind, though their total value was a considerable sum. He had put out his line of traps forthe solace afforded by occupation, rather than for profit from the pelts. He would leave them with no regret over the loss involved. He cared little for money at any time—now, not at all. The only consideration was that he must travel fast and light.With the dawn Jim Maxwell was off. At the last, he experienced a pang of regret over leaving this humble dwelling, where, though he had companioned so long with misery, he had, nevertheless, found soothing from the serenity and the silence, and where, in the end, he had found a daughter and a daughter's love. But this regret at parting from the familiar place was, after all, a trivial thing compared with the desire to hasten from it to the accomplishment of the work that awaited. He was obsessed by the purpose to avenge his own wrongs and those of his children, as he had already come to term Nell and Jack in his thoughts. The object of that vengeance was Dan McGrew. In these hours of pursuit after the man who had injured him and his so foully, his mood was all of fierce hatred.The tenderness that had stirred and wakened in his heart with the recognition of his daughter now slept again. A fury of rage filled him. This nearness to his enemy inflamed every passionate memory of wrong. Usually considerate of every creature, he was now merciless, and sent the dogs forward at top speed, cursing them when they lagged.As the day advanced, heavy gray clouds covered the whole face of the heavens. The light wind which had been blowing from the east, veered to the north soon after mid-day, and quickened. It quickened more and more. Presently it was blowing a gale. And it came icy cold from the floes within the Circle. Jim, under the numbing touch, was compelled to go afoot oftener, in order to make the sluggish blood bestir itself. Yet his action was almost automatic, the result of habit formed in like experiences. He was hardly conscious of the changed conditions. Though his flesh felt the ice-lash of the air and fought against it, the brain inhibited sensation. His thought was all of the task that awaited. The chillof the body was nothing to him. He knew only the hot wrath that throbbed in his blood. He gave no heed, even when the powdery snow came in almost level flight. It was solely the slackening pace of the dogs that had power to arouse him. Sorely reluctant, he gave them a breathing spell, and fed them. He desired no food for himself. He was sustained by the spirit of vengeance which was flaming within him. He was not afraid of the cold, which grew momently more deadly; nor of the snow, though it fell so thickly that, when the journey was resumed, the dogs attained hardly half their former speed. The flakes flew in masses so dense that it was difficult to tell whether the darkness were of its own making or the night were come. He could still distinguish the peaks by which he set his course, and, since he went to his destination, nothing else mattered at all—except that the dogs dawdled. He cursed them again. His voice went out to them by turns raucously savage and imploring.The dogs ran floundering through the snow,which deepened dangerously fast. Ever afterward, Jim Maxwell believed that, somehow, the power of righteousness had gone with him, triumphing in his behalf over the elements that would have barred his way. It seemed, indeed, that only a miracle could have carried him safely through the cold and storm. He had expected, by unsparing driving of the dogs, to reach Malamute well before dark. He himself now had no sense of time, only as it meant delay in coming face to face with Dan McGrew. As a matter of fact, it was ten o'clock at night when his eyes picked out faint yellow gleams twinkling through the snow-wrack, which he knew to be the lighted windows of the Malamute saloon. The dogs understood that they were come to the journey's end. They strained at the breast-straps in a last desperate burst of speed, and then, unbidden, halted before the door of the saloon and dropped on their bellies, panting and slavering. Jim Maxwell with difficulty stirred his cold-stiffened muscles and clambered down from the sled. He stood dazedfor a full minute, as if not yet fully conscious that he had reached the end of the way, that the hour of vengeance had at last struck.Then, suddenly, Jim Maxwell straightened himself and squared his shoulders. He walked to the door of the saloon and opened it with a steady hand and stepped within, shaking the snow from his parka as he went. He halted just inside and stood quietly. At his entrance, silence had fallen on the noisy room and the eyes of all were turned on him.p297tHE HALTED JUST INSIDE AND STOOD QUIETLY.CHAPTER XXIIFor a time Jim Maxwell stood there without movement, blinking confusedly, while his body drank in the steaming warmth. The men in the room regarded the newcomer with frank stares of curiosity. He was unknown to any of them. They guessed him to be a miner just in from the creeks, dog-tired from his fight with the storm. Without being told, one of the hangers-on of the saloon hurried out to care for the dogs, since their owner seemed almost helpless. Very soon, in fact, a suspicion grew in the minds of the observers that something more than the cold had affected this stranger."Full of hooch!" was the verdict.Presently, Jim's vision cleared. He cast one piercing glance about the room. He saw Dangerous Dan McGrew sitting at a table along the wall, a little way to his left. Hehad schooled himself for the sight. There was no betrayal of the emotion that shook his soul at first sight of the man who had robbed him of wife and child and happiness. He even noted with a savage satisfaction something constrained in the pose of his enemy, who sat half-turned toward him, a card suspended in mid-air. Dan McGrew had seen him—that was certain. And it was certain, too, that Dan McGrew would not make the opening move. Jim Maxwell was content. His foe hesitated—and hesitation is weakness. He had no doubt as to his own strength. He believed it adequate for every demand upon it.He vaunted himself too soon. His eyes passed beyond the man he hated to the one who sat on the opposite side of the table. A darkness fell upon his spirit. He gazed steadily enough, for he had no power even to shift the direction of his eyes. There was no outward sign of the convulsion in his soul. He remained looking steadfastly at the woman who had been his wife, at the woman whom hehad loved and lost. None of the onlookers dreamed that the sight of her meant anything to this stranger. It was natural that he should consider her attentively—she was a handsome woman, in a place where women were rare.Jim Maxwell's heart died within him. He had tried so often throughout the years to believe that the wife, who had been tricked into deserting him, had at least never been beguiled into aught unfitting her womanhood. Now, he saw before him the damning proof that she had given herself to vileness, to Dangerous Dan McGrew, whom presently he would kill....But the sight of her dear face! Notwithstanding all the horror, to see her once again in the flesh before his eyes was a rapture exquisite, yet torturing. Her face was the loved symbol of all his happiness. It was, as well, the symbol of all hideousness, which had swallowed up happiness. As he beheld her thus, ravening emotion devoured his strength. Suddenly he felt his knees sag. His eyelids fell of their own weight, so that sight of herwas shut out. The shock of darkness, after the glory of her face, startled him to realization of his surroundings and steadied him. He asserted his will once again. He straightened and shuffled toward the bar. But he did not open his eyes until he had fairly turned his back on the pair at the table by the wall. Those observing him sniggered and mumbled again of hooch, when he lurched against the bar, and clung to it for support as a drunken man might.... Jim Maxwell was drunken—drunken with grief and hate and love.After a little he recovered some measure of composure. He drew from his pocket a buckskin bag, and poured some gold-pieces on the bar."Drinks for the house!" he commanded.The bartender busied himself in dispensing this hospitality to the crowd, which surged forward thirstily at the welcome summons. The Rag-time Kid, a wan-faced youth with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip, who performed noisily on the piano which stood against one wall, left his instrument and cameforward hastily. Jim saw that drinks were served to Dangerous Dan McGrew and the woman opposite him, as well as the few others that were seated at the tables. He nodded curtly when the company raised their glasses toward him before drinking. His manner, however, was so singular and so remote that none ventured to address him directly. They eyed him askance. They speculated among themselves concerning who the man might be; for now, in some mysterious fashion, they had come to perceive that this was not one of the ordinary miners from the creeks, with the mud of the bottoms still matted in his beard. But they could make no definite surmise to account for him. In some vague way, they felt the portentousness of his presence among them. It was as if he stood enveloped in an atmosphere of tragedy. They looked at him furtively, confused, wondering, half-fearful, at his aspect. They no longer deemed him merely a drunken man. But what he was, they could by no means understand. They drank again, for his money still lay on the bar.They raised their glasses toward him. But the mystery of his coming remained unsolved, and it grew more burdensome as minutes passed, pressing heavily upon their spirits. Jim Maxwell drank with the others the first time and the second. He might, perhaps, have drained a third glass, but, while he delayed, his eyes chanced to fall on the piano, for the wan-faced youth with the cigarette dangling from his lower lip, was still enjoying his respite and was making merry at the bar. It had been a long time since Jim had touched the keys, but now, in the travail of his soul, it seemed to him that in music he might find surcease for the warring emotions within his breast. He went toward the piano, striding firmly. When he was come to it, he threw off parka and cap and seated himself and laid his hands noiselessly on the keys in a touch gentle and fond as a caress.As the first soft chord sounded, the pallid youth at the bar started as if struck. He wheeled, and thereafter gazed unfalteringly toward the man at the piano.It had been long since Jim Maxwell had played. At the outset, his hands moved slowly, almost hesitatingly, for the muscles were still a little numb from the cold of outdoors. But they grew elastic quickly, and a great series of clanging harmonies echoed through the squalid room. The others looked now with the wan-faced youth, whose cigarette had fallen unheeded. There came the dainty scamper of cadenzas, a crashing chord, and silence. The youth, who played himself, though not like this, understood that the stranger had made ready. He waited, tremulous with eagerness; for he loved his art, although he debased it. He muttered to himself:"God! how that man can play!"Jim Maxwell's fingers sought the keys again, weaving strange harmonies. And through them ran a thread of melody. The listeners could not understand, though the spell of it held them. Only, they knew somehow that the one who played was a man, full of a man's passions—the primitive passions of love and hate. There was a harshness in the dissonances that told of bitter sorrows; there was a charm in the thread of melody that was all truth and tenderness.p314tJIM MAXWELL'S FINGERS SOUGHT THE KEYS AGAIN, WEAVING STRANGE HARMONIES.Those who heard saw visions, each according to his kind. In this improvisation, Jim interpreted his thronging emotions. The coldness and the desolation of the North were made audible. Through sound itself, he made these dwellers in the lonely places realize again the silence of solitary wastes. The music cried out in sudden anguished longing, then broke in discords, like shrieks for vengeance. Some of the listeners stirred uneasily, uncomprehendingly, yet thrilled—for the soul is more intelligent than the brain. The Rag-time Kid shivered.Dan McGrew, the cards of his solo-game unheeded on the table before him, watched the man at the piano with steady gaze. His face was expressionless. He had recognized Jim Maxwell at first sight, and he knew that the time of reckoning was at hand. He was dismayed, for he had come in the course ofyears to believe that they two would never meet. Now that they were met, he was ready for whatever might befall. But he dared do nothing to precipitate the crisis. He must wait to be accused or attacked. If he could have followed his desire, he would have shot down the man he had wronged—would have shot him in the back, remorselessly, in cold blood. That he could not do. The code of the frontier forbids such murder. At such an act, these men about him would show no mercy beyond the short shrift of a rope. He could only await the issue with what patience he might, cursing inaudibly, so poised that he could draw at a second's warning.Lou had not recognized Jim Maxwell on his entrance. She had given only a glance at this bearded stranger. She was infinitely weary of life. She hated this vulgar place, reeking with rank tobacco-smoke and the fumes of liquors. She felt, even through an apathy that had become habitual with her, shame from the leering glances of these men, who took her for the gambler's light-o'-love.She felt herself degraded more and more at her manner of life and by the associations thrust upon her. She knew the evil spirit of the man she had married, which daily and hourly she was compelled to tolerate. The life was become almost unendurable. Yet, she continued the sordid existence, partly because she lacked the courage to break away from him, partly because she could condone the wickedness of Dan McGrew to some extent in appreciation of his loyalty to her. She could not doubt the reality of his love for her. That his love was utterly selfish, she knew. But he gave her all that he could. The woman's instinct toward martyrdom made her feel it a duty not to desert him. Now, after the coming of the stranger, she felt, rather than saw, the change in Dan McGrew, and she wondered over it dully. Not for a moment did she suspect that her husband's emotion was connected with the advent of the bearded man, toward whom she glanced so idly.... Love, often, is not so shrewd as hate.Her eyes followed Jim Maxwell as he wentto the piano. She was still listless, wholly unsuspecting that aught impended. Even the first softly sounded notes did not arouse her. It was not until her ears caught the delicate thread of melody that her heart heard it, and answered, and she knew that this was the man she loved. Her hands clutched at her bosom in a spasmodic gesture. She swayed in her chair for a moment, then relaxed limply, and sat huddled in the corner between the table and the wall, her face ghastly beneath the rouge. But, lifeless as she seemed, she was listening through every atom of her being. In the varying phases of the music, she lived again the blisses and the torments. And, too, it was borne in upon her that, as she had suffered in the years since their parting, even so had he, who thus wove in sound the fabric of their lives. Yet, she could not believe that this man still loved her, though the music that grew under his fingers was like the talking together of their souls. A great wonder dawned in her, a greater fear, still greater hope. Could it be that the scales had fallen from hiseyes, that he had freed himself from a degrading passion, that he had returned to his allegiance, that he loved her—her! Her body shook as with a palsy from the riot in her heart.Abruptly, the music ceased. Then, in another instant, there came a series of noble chords, sonorous and serene. Followed the tripping dance of arpeggios, which deftly hinted of a melody to come. The Rag-time Kid quivered in ecstatic anticipation of something splendid, nor was he disappointed.There sounded a lilting melody, a-throb with the joy of life. The notes rang with the calls of passion; they trembled into the sighings of exquisite tenderness. There was rapture in the magnificent harmonies that marched with this melody. It was like a song of two hearts glorious in the fulfillment of their love, with all the universe chanting praise of their happiness. It was the lyric of love triumphant.The man at the piano raised his arms high, and brought his hands down on the keys in agreat swoop. The flames in the smoking-oil lamps leaped and quivered at the devil's din of the discord. The nerves of those that heard leaped and quivered. The player got up from the stool. His eyes swept the staring faces, and he smiled—a smile like a curse."You don't know who I am, boys," he said. His voice, resonant, yet softly modulated, was very gentle—dangerously gentle the listeners might have thought, had they known him well.Dan McGrew knew him well. He understood that the crisis was upon him. He shifted very slightly in his chair, that he might have greater freedom of movement when the need came. He darted a single glance at his wife, and saw her sitting erect again, gazing at the player with dilated eyes in which showed the hunger of a soul. Dan McGrew cursed beneath his breath, and did not look again. Instead, he held his whole attention on the man who had spoken, and who now spoke once more:"I haven't anything to say to you, except that"—the voice deepened and roughenedsavagely—"one of you is a hound of hell! His name is—Dan McGrew!"Two shots rang out, which almost blent as one—almost, not quite. The crowd scattered and dropped to the floor. The lights went out.p315tTWO SHOTS RANG OUT, WHICH ALMOST BLENT AS ONE.CHAPTER XXIIIWord had been sent to the sheriff of Kalmak of Jack Reeves' capture at Malamute, and he at once set forth to bring his prisoner back. He arrived hardly an hour in advance of Jim Maxwell. He took formal possession of the accused, and forthwith made it clear that he was not minded to run any risk of a second escape."That young feller ain't in no way safe in a jail," he explained to his brother official. "There's no tellin' what didoes he'd be up to—he's that ornery. I'll jest take him along with me to the saloon over night, an' I'll set up with him, an' nuss him like he was a baby."Despite all arguments to the contrary, the sheriff had his way, and started to the saloon-hotel, where the distracted bride had already established herself. The officer and his captivewere hardly a rod from the door, when the shots rang out, and, almost in the same second, the lights were extinguished. The sheriff uttered an excited exclamation, and hurried forward with his prisoner. They were just within the door, when the bartender, who had so discreetly shot out the lights, produced new chimneys and leisurely set the oil lamps going again.As his eyes fell on the form stretched out upon the floor near the piano, Jack Reeves uttered a cry of alarm, and sprang forward. Kneeling, he caught Jim Maxwell's hand in his. He could not speak in the first shock of emotion, for he believed that the man was dead, who lay there so still and white, with closed eyes, and the blood trickling from a wound in his head.Nell, in an adjoining room, had been shaken with fear at the noise of firing. But, in the stillness that followed, she heard a cry of distress in her husband's voice. She forgot fear then, and rushed into the saloon and to his side. The sight of her father therestruck her dumb and motionless with horror. Thus it came about that she and her husband were passive spectators of the great heart-drama that now developed.There was another in the group. It was Lou. Before the shots were fired, she had sprung to her feet, and forward, as if to forbid the deadly work. She had been too late. But she had plunged on, heedless of the weapons, reckless of her own life. The instinct of love had guided her through the sudden blackness. So, when the lights burned again, she was there on her knees, crooning heart-broken words to the ears that did not hear. She had no thought whatsoever of that other form which lay stark, crumpled on the floor by the table she had left. She supported Jim in her arms, with a passion of tenderness and mourning; for she, too, believed him dead, and it seemed to her that all the misery that had gone before were as nothing to this anguish over finding him, only to lose him forever. Then, of a sudden, Lou gave a gasp of pure rapture—for Jim Maxwell had opened his eyes, and laystaring placidly at the smoke-begrimed ceiling. She bent and kissed the bearded face, then raised a countenance that was transfigured. It was years younger in that illumination of joy.
p268t
WITHOUT AN INSTANT PAUSE, HE WAS OFF, PLOWING HIS WAY THROUGH THE SNOW.
A hail came to Jack's ears. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw, a little to the right of the trail, a ghostly silhouette, even as he had pictured it—the trapper, with his dogs, waiting patiently on the snow where the spruce shadows fell.
Nell, standing before the cabin-door, peered for the hundredth time that night across the valley. Her eyes seemed to catch in the far distance a hint of movement, a flickering shadow out there in the dim light of snow beneath starlight. It was gone in the same instant. It must have been a trickery of vision. No! there it was again—a shadow that moved, a tiniest speck, but real. Nell's hands went to her bosom convulsively. It could be none other than Mr. Maxwell—her father—coming there. Did he come alone? She stood with straining eyes in a torment of doubt. Soon she was able to make out that only one figure ran with the moving sled. It was as if the heart died in her. Then, in the next moment, she thought that she could distinguish vaguely the outlines of another form on the sled. She was a-tremblewith hope. The sled rushed toward her up the slope, the wearied dogs mending their pace in the frantic delight of home-coming. It was certainty now. Nell could see the man on the sled. He waved a hand to her. A cry of rapture burst from her lips. Within the minute, she was clasped to her husband's breast—all sorrows forgot.
Presently, when the first excitement of the reunion was over, and the three were together in the cheery warmth of the cabin, Jack told his story very briefly, whereat Nell paled and trembled as she realized how near to death this night had been the man she loved. But, when the fugitive finished the story with his arrival at the point where Jim Maxwell waited, Nell suddenly rose and went to the older man and threw herself on his breast and kissed him.
p278t
WHEN THE FIRST EXCITEMENT OF THE REUNION WAS OVER, JACK TOLD HIS STORY.
"Father, if it hadn't been for you—!"
Jack regarded the scene in amazement, not untinged by disapproval. Gratitude was all very well, but it need not express itself too extravagantly. Then he almost forgot theembrace in wonder over the word—"father!"
"Eh?" he questioned confusedly. "You've adopted him? That is, he's adopted you?"
"Oh!" Nell exclaimed, drawing away from her father to regard him with consternation. "Didn't you tell him?"
Jim Maxwell smiled very tenderly.
"No, I didn't tell him. I thought maybe you'd like to do that yourself, dear."
Nell kissed her father again, with such enthusiasm that Jack's disapproval returned with increased bitterness.
"You're a darling, Father," she declared happily. In the reaction from her suffering, she was bubbling over with girlish gayety. "I'd just love to tell him. It will be such fun to see his eyes pop out."
It was fun—and something deeper and sweeter. Jack, for his part, welcomed the fact of this new relationship with the man so curiously and intimately brought into his life. He rejoiced for his own sake, and he rejoiced more for Nell's; since now she need no longer mourn over being a nameless waif,though the mystery of her life was only partly explained.
The hands of the two met in a warm clasp, and their eyes met no less warmly in a firm, honest gaze of mutual liking and respect.
"I reckon I've done a pretty good day's work," Jim said, with a whimsical smile to mask his emotion. "I've got a daughter and a son, too—both in one day. And I didn't have anybody before—not for twelve years." There was a pathetic intensity in his voice, which touched the two hearers to a new appreciation of this man's great loneliness. Then Jim Maxwell shrugged his shoulders, as if he would cast off the mood of emotion. He spoke rapidly now, with incisive directness.
"You must get across the Border as fast as you can. I'll tell you some short cuts." He had driven his dogs often to Malamute, and knew the ways by which the fugitives might gain advantage over their pursuers. "You've had an hour here, and it would be risky to wait any longer before starting out. They may be after you any minute."
p279t
HE HAD OFTEN DRIVEN HIS DOGS TO MALAMUTE.
"They may think I've been burned up in the fire," Jack suggested.
Jim shook his head in dissent.
"No. Those logs would take a good bit of burning. Somebody would give the alarm, and they'd tumble out to see the fire, and they'd see that window you'd smashed through."
"And I had to wade through some loose snow," Jack added. "They'd find my tracks fast enough."
"Tracks leading this way! I tell you, there's no time to be lost. You know the trails to Malamute. Make it as quick as you can. From there, strike across the Border."
He was interrupted by Nell, who exclaimed impulsively:
"But, Father, what about you? I can't bear the thought of leaving you now, when I've just found you after all these years."
Jim Maxwell smiled down on his daughter with deep fondness.
"When you're in Canada, write to me here—toKalmak, telling me where you will be, and I'll join you very soon."
He turned to Jack and gave explicit directions as to how the route to Malamute might be shortened profitably. When he was sure that the young man had understood, he turned again to Nell.
"I'm not quite so poor as I look, little girl," he said, smiling. "When I join you I'll have a wedding-present ready for you—for you, and for the boy here." His glance went affectionately to Jack, who returned it with like affection.
Preparations for the departure of the two were speedily made. The farewells were uttered; father and daughter kissed tenderly; the men shook hands heartily. Then the dogs, in fine fettle after ample food and rest, leaped forward with joyous energy. The night was clear enough to see the way distinctly; there was no danger of mistaking the trail. On and on they flew over the frozen surface of the snow, following the valleys that trended to the east. Warmly clad and habituatedto icy airs, the two did not suffer any discomfort from the bitter cold of the wind created by their rapid motion through the night. On the contrary, it set their blood tingling with the joy of life. Both were gloriously happy. The starlight was as noon-day since they had come out of the valley of the shadow.
Thus they went forward swiftly, Nell stretched at ease, Jack riding and running by turns. In the twilight of dawn, they came on a native family comfortably encamped, and here they halted for an hour, that the dogs might be fed and rested, and that they, too, might eat and rest. They basked contentedly in the cheery heat from the flames, and at last took leave of their stolid hosts almost reluctantly. Then, once again, they went skimming over the waste, as the pale-yellow sun crept languidly above the horizon. The slanting beams set all the scene a-shimmer with prismatic radiance from the snow crystals. Hitherto, the two had been content with silence, happy in the knowledge that theywere together and that the speeding miles put peril far behind. Now, however, with the quickening life of day, the placid mood came to an end. They became lively, garrulous, demonstrative. Nell insisted that Jack should rehearse for her anew every detail of his escape from the jail. The husband, in turn, demanded a full account of how father and daughter had become known to each other. Both were curious to know the story of Jim Maxwell's life. They could not forbear many speculations as to the nature of the events that had driven this man, whom Jack liked and esteemed, and whom Nell had already grown to love, to isolate himself thus in the desolate North. But they could only guess, since the father had told nothing of himself, except the single fact of his relationship to Nell.
They made Malamute in mid-afternoon. Jack halted the dogs in front of the chief structure in the place, which, though nominally only a saloon, was in fact the hotel and trading post.
"Don't get out, Nell," Jack directed. "I'll have to get directions here for the next stage in the journey. Maybe we'll have to stay for the night, and maybe we won't. I'll be back in a minute." With that he hurried off and entered the saloon.
As the door swung open to admit the newcomer, the few men straggling along the bar, or lounging at the tables, looked up in mild curiosity to see who this might be. Only one showed any especial interest in the stranger. This single exception was a man who sat by a table placed against the wall at right angles to the bar. He had been lazily busy over a game of solitaire, while the woman seated across the table from him looked on listlessly. At Jack's entrance, he had looked up with languid attention. On the instant, he was transformed. All the indifference of his expression vanished. His face showed first an unbounded amazement, then rage. Finally, another emotion—hardly fear, but a furtive anxiety closely akin to fear. He watched covertly as the escaped prisoner went up to thebar, where, after ordering a drink, he began questioning the bartender concerning the most direct route to the Border.
Having secured the information he required, Jack went back to Nell, who sat waiting on the sled, snug within her furs.
p296t
JACK WENT BACK TO NELL, WHO SAT ON THE SLED, SNUG WITHIN HER FURS.
"We'd better stay here for the night," he explained, "and make an early start in the morning."
Nell got down from the sled obediently and accompanied her husband into the saloon, where arrangements for their entertainment were speedily concluded. It was only after the two had gone upstairs to the room assigned them that the man, who had held his head bent low over the spread-out cards of the solitaire game during their presence, looked up and beckoned to a tall, rough-featured individual standing alone at one end of the bar. This was the sheriff of Malamute. As he came near, Dan McGrew spoke, and his voice rasped.
"Did you recognize that chap with the girl?"
"Never laid eyes on him before," the official averred. "What about it?"
"When I was down at Kalmak the other day," Dangerous Dan answered impressively, "they arrested that fellow for murder. He's broken jail."
The sheriff grinned contentedly.
"Then right here's where he breaks in again. I'll see to that. You're sure there's no mistake?"
"No mistake!" was the terse assurance. "I'll swear to his identity if necessary. But probably there'll be somebody after him pretty soon, as they'd figure he'd take this way for the Border."
"I thought you were going in the morning," the sheriff objected. "I'll have to have you for a witness, if nobody else turns up."
"Oh, I'll stay, all right!" Dan laughed.
And the Fates must have laughed with him, and at him, in mockery; for, in this last malignant act, Dangerous Dan McGrew worked evil against himself and none other.... Lou,looking on apathetically, wondered why Dan should be so eager to deliver over a fugitive from justice. He was not usually so intolerant of crime!
Jim Maxwell, left alone in his cabin, had company a-plenty in thronging thoughts. His mood, on the whole, was nearer to one of happiness than any he had known before in the years since the wrecking of his home. The discovery of his daughter had filled him with pure delight. Had she been other than she was, this recovery of her would still have filled him with gladness. To find her so lovely and so winsome in her personality moved him to proud exaltation. He looked forward to companionship with her in the years to come, and thanked Providence for this assuagement of past loneliness and sorrow. He was grateful, too, for the fact that she had entrusted her life's happiness to one who seemed worthy, so far as any man might be, of such a treasure. Since he hadno son of his own, Jim Maxwell rejoiced over this gift of his daughter's bringing to him.
Nevertheless, it was in this connection that the otherwise happy father found ground for anxiety, and that anxiety pressed upon him heavily. His understanding of the circumstances, which was wider than that of the young persons involved, made him appreciate the evil consequence that must ensue from the present situation. Either Jack would escape across the Border, or he would not. In the latter contingency, there would be immediate peril of his life on being brought back to Kalmak; for Jim had been told, what Nell had not, of the probable lynching by men impatient of the law's delay. But, with the fugitive's escape safely accomplished, there would remain always a stigma on the young man's reputation. Throughout his life, he would go in constant danger of being pointed out as a jail-breaker and murderer. Jim Maxwell would not tolerate such a fate for one near and dear to him, and dearest to his daughter. He made a last round of his traps, bringingthem in and storing them in the cabin preparatory to his departure. And in his progress over the miles, his thoughts were grappling always with the problems by which he was confronted. It was not until nightfall, as he sat smoking cozily in the warm comfort of the cabin, which had been blest by his daughter's presence, that he at last reached a decision. He had little fear of a lynching in case of Jack's recapture; for he meant to take a hand himself in coming events, and he believed that the sheriff at Kalmak, though he knew the official to be of a spineless sort, would make a stand against the mob with his backing. So he dismissed any immediate concern over the retaking of the escaped prisoner. There remained, however, the matter of the stigma. He would not let his son-in-law, Nell's husband, whom she loved, be thus branded by the world. There was only one means of prevention. The young man's innocence must be proved. With the evidence against him such as it was, that innocence could be established in a single way, and innone other—by proving the identity of Sam Ward's actual slayer. Since this was so, Jim Maxwell decided that he himself must bend every energy to tracing out the truth concerning the crime of which Jack Reeves stood accused. Before he slept that night, he resolved that with the dawn he would start for Kalmak, there to begin his work.
In the morning, then, Jim Maxwell set forth on his quest. On arrival at Kalmak, he halted his dogs before the Grand Hotel, where he judged, from a slight acquaintance with the sheriff, that he would find the official in the bar-room. In this he was proven right; for, on entering the saloon, the first person his gaze encountered was the sheriff himself, who stood at the end of the bar facing the door, with an expression of profound melancholy upon his horse-like face. Jim, with only a nod to the others, went straight to the sheriff, whom he greeted with an assumption of deference, since he was well aware of the fellow's pet vanity.
"And what's new?" he asked innocently,after he had given an order to the bar-tender.
The sheriff could hardly pause to drain his glass, so eager was he to pour out his woes to one who had not yet heard them. There was nothing in the narrative that increased the stock of information already possessed by the questioner. It was not until Jim Maxwell had pursued a cross-examination for some time that there came a revelation of importance. This, when it did come, crashed on him like a thunderbolt.
"Have there been any other strangers in the place lately?" he demanded, desirous of any clew to the possible murderer.
"Nary one," the sheriff responded dismally. "It's been dull as ditch-water all winter hereabouts. Hain't anybody come in for a month—leastways, only Dan McGrew, and he ain't a stranger exactly—not by a long shot!"
Dan McGrew! The name screamed in Jim Maxwell's brain. Dan McGrew, here—within reach of his two hands!
He stood motionless, unhearing, unseeing. Beneath the concealing beard, his cheeks werebloodless. His thoughts were chaos. The despair of the years seemed crystallized in this new anguish over the fact that the enemy had been here, almost within his grasp, and he had not known. He seemed to realize as never before the monstrousness of the crime committed against him. Hate more savage than he had known hitherto filled his heart with its black flood. It seemed the final crushing blow of fate, that the wrecker of his home should have come so nearly within his power and then have escaped unscathed. For, somehow, he sensed details given by the sheriff concerning Dan McGrew's going from Kalmak, though he heard not a word of the babbling voice.
Presently, Jim Maxwell aroused from this trance of rage. He found himself weak and shaken, and his tone was husky as he ordered more drinks for himself and for the gratified sheriff. He gulped the raw liquor hurriedly, and welcomed the sting of it. He regained his usual stern composure soon, and, immediately then, his thoughts took a new turn. Heresumed the prosecution of his inquiries with increased eagerness. It may have been that the association of ideas drove him on. Dan McGrew was to him the epitome of crime. The presence of Dan McGrew in the neighborhood struck him as of possible significance. He was without a shred of evidence, in the matter of Sam Ward's death, against the man he hated. Yet, he felt a strange conviction that here was the clew for which he had been searching.... The sheriff was highly pleased by the manifest interest of this trapper, who, in their previous meetings, had shown no trace of geniality.
"You say this Dan McGrew—" Jim stumbled a little over the name—"was here when this Reeves chap came in?"
"Blew in that very self-same day, jest a little while before the murderer got here."
"I suppose he hadn't heard of the murder until he got here?" Jim suggested.
The sheriff shook his head.
"We didn't any of us know a thing about Sam Ward having been killed, until the youngfeller drove up and told that cussed yarn about seein' the murder through his glasses. The nerve of him! And he'd got away with it, too, if it hadn't been for Dan McGrew puttin' it into my head to search his pack."
The listener started perceptibly at this information.
"Oh, it was Dan McGrew who first directed suspicion against this young man, was it?"
The sheriff was deeply chagrined by his inadvertent revelation of the truth. He attempted to hedge.
"Why, not exactly. Maybe he was the first to speak right out plain, but I'd been thinkin' jest that same thing."
Jim did not care to press the point. He had no wish to wound the sheriff's sensibilities, at least while further information might be extracted from the man. But he regarded this news concerning the part Dan McGrew had played in the affair as of vital importance. While the sheriff maundered on, he rapidly reviewed the details of the case, so far as he knew them.
The murderer, according to Jack's account, must have seen the approach of the bridal pair. The fact was, indeed, proven by his hasty flight from the scene of the crime. Thereafter, he might have watched, and probably had watched, the arrival of the sled, and he doubtless had been aware that the newcomers camped on the creek for the night. Already, in previous study of the questions involved, Jim had arrived at these conclusions, which established a plausible explanation for the presence of the knife-handle in Jack's pack. Certainly, it could have been no difficult feat for the assassin to secrete this evidence during the night encampment. As certainly, there could have been no other opportunity. Nor could there be any doubt as to the motive for the action. It had been for the purpose of fixing guilt upon the innocent, that the guilty might go free.
Now, in addition to these conclusions already established, there appeared another and salient fact.
The person who first suggested the searchingof the pack wherein the knife-handle lay concealed had been Dan McGrew. The inference was undeniable. It was made stronger still by the correlated fact that Dan McGrew had arrived at Kalmak only shortly before the coming of the alleged murderer. By further questioning, Jim drew from the loquacious sheriff additional data. Dangerous Dan had arrived on foot. He had talked of having been in the stampede; but he had given no precise account of his movements, nor had he explained the reason for his coming to Kalmak, over which the sheriff had puzzled. The day following his arrival, he had set out for Malamute with a hired outfit.
A rapid survey of all these circumstances brought Jim Maxwell to the conviction that Dangerous Dan McGrew had added murder to his other crimes. The evidence was by no means conclusive, but it was sufficient to any one reasoning from the facts. Jim, sure of Jack's innocence, regarded the guilt of Dan McGrew as actually established. There remained the necessity of final proof, whichwould brand the murderer as such before the world and clear the innocent from unjust suspicion.
It was reasonable to suppose that the slayer of Sam Ward had taken to himself, in payment for his crime, anything of value on the dead man's body. Thus there was a possibility, even a probability, that Dangerous Dan McGrew now carried with him some tangible evidence that would serve to convict him. This evidence must be secured. In no other way could the innocence of Jack Reeves be proclaimed to the world. And Dangerous Dan had gone to Malamute. Jim smiled slowly, staring fixedly, as if his gaze reached out across the miles. The sheriff, though hardly a coward, shrank a little from some strange quality in that look.
Jim Maxwell, in truth, was wondering as to his exact purpose in going to Malamute. Was it to save Jack Reeves, or was it to kill Dangerous Dan McGrew? Both, perhaps.
He put a last question to the sheriff, who was puzzled by it—not the less so by reasonof a certain hesitation in the questioner's voice as he spoke.
"There wasn't any—any woman with this—Dan McGrew?"
"Nope! He's been here three or four times for a game with the boys. He's square, Dan is. An' I hain't never seen him look at nary one of the gals."
Jim Maxwell turned away abruptly from the sheriff, without a word in parting. The careless words screeched in his brain, mocking devils of derision:
"He's square, Dan is."
Jim Maxwell set his face homeward, and urged the dogs to their best speed, for he had much to do and time pressed. He reached the cabin with the first shadows of dusk, and, after attending to the dogs, busied himself in collecting important papers, which must be carried with him, since he could hazard no guess as to when he might return to the cabin, if ever. His skins were to be left behind, though their total value was a considerable sum. He had put out his line of traps forthe solace afforded by occupation, rather than for profit from the pelts. He would leave them with no regret over the loss involved. He cared little for money at any time—now, not at all. The only consideration was that he must travel fast and light.
With the dawn Jim Maxwell was off. At the last, he experienced a pang of regret over leaving this humble dwelling, where, though he had companioned so long with misery, he had, nevertheless, found soothing from the serenity and the silence, and where, in the end, he had found a daughter and a daughter's love. But this regret at parting from the familiar place was, after all, a trivial thing compared with the desire to hasten from it to the accomplishment of the work that awaited. He was obsessed by the purpose to avenge his own wrongs and those of his children, as he had already come to term Nell and Jack in his thoughts. The object of that vengeance was Dan McGrew. In these hours of pursuit after the man who had injured him and his so foully, his mood was all of fierce hatred.The tenderness that had stirred and wakened in his heart with the recognition of his daughter now slept again. A fury of rage filled him. This nearness to his enemy inflamed every passionate memory of wrong. Usually considerate of every creature, he was now merciless, and sent the dogs forward at top speed, cursing them when they lagged.
As the day advanced, heavy gray clouds covered the whole face of the heavens. The light wind which had been blowing from the east, veered to the north soon after mid-day, and quickened. It quickened more and more. Presently it was blowing a gale. And it came icy cold from the floes within the Circle. Jim, under the numbing touch, was compelled to go afoot oftener, in order to make the sluggish blood bestir itself. Yet his action was almost automatic, the result of habit formed in like experiences. He was hardly conscious of the changed conditions. Though his flesh felt the ice-lash of the air and fought against it, the brain inhibited sensation. His thought was all of the task that awaited. The chillof the body was nothing to him. He knew only the hot wrath that throbbed in his blood. He gave no heed, even when the powdery snow came in almost level flight. It was solely the slackening pace of the dogs that had power to arouse him. Sorely reluctant, he gave them a breathing spell, and fed them. He desired no food for himself. He was sustained by the spirit of vengeance which was flaming within him. He was not afraid of the cold, which grew momently more deadly; nor of the snow, though it fell so thickly that, when the journey was resumed, the dogs attained hardly half their former speed. The flakes flew in masses so dense that it was difficult to tell whether the darkness were of its own making or the night were come. He could still distinguish the peaks by which he set his course, and, since he went to his destination, nothing else mattered at all—except that the dogs dawdled. He cursed them again. His voice went out to them by turns raucously savage and imploring.
The dogs ran floundering through the snow,which deepened dangerously fast. Ever afterward, Jim Maxwell believed that, somehow, the power of righteousness had gone with him, triumphing in his behalf over the elements that would have barred his way. It seemed, indeed, that only a miracle could have carried him safely through the cold and storm. He had expected, by unsparing driving of the dogs, to reach Malamute well before dark. He himself now had no sense of time, only as it meant delay in coming face to face with Dan McGrew. As a matter of fact, it was ten o'clock at night when his eyes picked out faint yellow gleams twinkling through the snow-wrack, which he knew to be the lighted windows of the Malamute saloon. The dogs understood that they were come to the journey's end. They strained at the breast-straps in a last desperate burst of speed, and then, unbidden, halted before the door of the saloon and dropped on their bellies, panting and slavering. Jim Maxwell with difficulty stirred his cold-stiffened muscles and clambered down from the sled. He stood dazedfor a full minute, as if not yet fully conscious that he had reached the end of the way, that the hour of vengeance had at last struck.
Then, suddenly, Jim Maxwell straightened himself and squared his shoulders. He walked to the door of the saloon and opened it with a steady hand and stepped within, shaking the snow from his parka as he went. He halted just inside and stood quietly. At his entrance, silence had fallen on the noisy room and the eyes of all were turned on him.
p297t
HE HALTED JUST INSIDE AND STOOD QUIETLY.
For a time Jim Maxwell stood there without movement, blinking confusedly, while his body drank in the steaming warmth. The men in the room regarded the newcomer with frank stares of curiosity. He was unknown to any of them. They guessed him to be a miner just in from the creeks, dog-tired from his fight with the storm. Without being told, one of the hangers-on of the saloon hurried out to care for the dogs, since their owner seemed almost helpless. Very soon, in fact, a suspicion grew in the minds of the observers that something more than the cold had affected this stranger.
"Full of hooch!" was the verdict.
Presently, Jim's vision cleared. He cast one piercing glance about the room. He saw Dangerous Dan McGrew sitting at a table along the wall, a little way to his left. Hehad schooled himself for the sight. There was no betrayal of the emotion that shook his soul at first sight of the man who had robbed him of wife and child and happiness. He even noted with a savage satisfaction something constrained in the pose of his enemy, who sat half-turned toward him, a card suspended in mid-air. Dan McGrew had seen him—that was certain. And it was certain, too, that Dan McGrew would not make the opening move. Jim Maxwell was content. His foe hesitated—and hesitation is weakness. He had no doubt as to his own strength. He believed it adequate for every demand upon it.
He vaunted himself too soon. His eyes passed beyond the man he hated to the one who sat on the opposite side of the table. A darkness fell upon his spirit. He gazed steadily enough, for he had no power even to shift the direction of his eyes. There was no outward sign of the convulsion in his soul. He remained looking steadfastly at the woman who had been his wife, at the woman whom hehad loved and lost. None of the onlookers dreamed that the sight of her meant anything to this stranger. It was natural that he should consider her attentively—she was a handsome woman, in a place where women were rare.
Jim Maxwell's heart died within him. He had tried so often throughout the years to believe that the wife, who had been tricked into deserting him, had at least never been beguiled into aught unfitting her womanhood. Now, he saw before him the damning proof that she had given herself to vileness, to Dangerous Dan McGrew, whom presently he would kill....
But the sight of her dear face! Notwithstanding all the horror, to see her once again in the flesh before his eyes was a rapture exquisite, yet torturing. Her face was the loved symbol of all his happiness. It was, as well, the symbol of all hideousness, which had swallowed up happiness. As he beheld her thus, ravening emotion devoured his strength. Suddenly he felt his knees sag. His eyelids fell of their own weight, so that sight of herwas shut out. The shock of darkness, after the glory of her face, startled him to realization of his surroundings and steadied him. He asserted his will once again. He straightened and shuffled toward the bar. But he did not open his eyes until he had fairly turned his back on the pair at the table by the wall. Those observing him sniggered and mumbled again of hooch, when he lurched against the bar, and clung to it for support as a drunken man might.... Jim Maxwell was drunken—drunken with grief and hate and love.
After a little he recovered some measure of composure. He drew from his pocket a buckskin bag, and poured some gold-pieces on the bar.
"Drinks for the house!" he commanded.
The bartender busied himself in dispensing this hospitality to the crowd, which surged forward thirstily at the welcome summons. The Rag-time Kid, a wan-faced youth with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip, who performed noisily on the piano which stood against one wall, left his instrument and cameforward hastily. Jim saw that drinks were served to Dangerous Dan McGrew and the woman opposite him, as well as the few others that were seated at the tables. He nodded curtly when the company raised their glasses toward him before drinking. His manner, however, was so singular and so remote that none ventured to address him directly. They eyed him askance. They speculated among themselves concerning who the man might be; for now, in some mysterious fashion, they had come to perceive that this was not one of the ordinary miners from the creeks, with the mud of the bottoms still matted in his beard. But they could make no definite surmise to account for him. In some vague way, they felt the portentousness of his presence among them. It was as if he stood enveloped in an atmosphere of tragedy. They looked at him furtively, confused, wondering, half-fearful, at his aspect. They no longer deemed him merely a drunken man. But what he was, they could by no means understand. They drank again, for his money still lay on the bar.They raised their glasses toward him. But the mystery of his coming remained unsolved, and it grew more burdensome as minutes passed, pressing heavily upon their spirits. Jim Maxwell drank with the others the first time and the second. He might, perhaps, have drained a third glass, but, while he delayed, his eyes chanced to fall on the piano, for the wan-faced youth with the cigarette dangling from his lower lip, was still enjoying his respite and was making merry at the bar. It had been a long time since Jim had touched the keys, but now, in the travail of his soul, it seemed to him that in music he might find surcease for the warring emotions within his breast. He went toward the piano, striding firmly. When he was come to it, he threw off parka and cap and seated himself and laid his hands noiselessly on the keys in a touch gentle and fond as a caress.
As the first soft chord sounded, the pallid youth at the bar started as if struck. He wheeled, and thereafter gazed unfalteringly toward the man at the piano.
It had been long since Jim Maxwell had played. At the outset, his hands moved slowly, almost hesitatingly, for the muscles were still a little numb from the cold of outdoors. But they grew elastic quickly, and a great series of clanging harmonies echoed through the squalid room. The others looked now with the wan-faced youth, whose cigarette had fallen unheeded. There came the dainty scamper of cadenzas, a crashing chord, and silence. The youth, who played himself, though not like this, understood that the stranger had made ready. He waited, tremulous with eagerness; for he loved his art, although he debased it. He muttered to himself:
"God! how that man can play!"
Jim Maxwell's fingers sought the keys again, weaving strange harmonies. And through them ran a thread of melody. The listeners could not understand, though the spell of it held them. Only, they knew somehow that the one who played was a man, full of a man's passions—the primitive passions of love and hate. There was a harshness in the dissonances that told of bitter sorrows; there was a charm in the thread of melody that was all truth and tenderness.
p314t
JIM MAXWELL'S FINGERS SOUGHT THE KEYS AGAIN, WEAVING STRANGE HARMONIES.
Those who heard saw visions, each according to his kind. In this improvisation, Jim interpreted his thronging emotions. The coldness and the desolation of the North were made audible. Through sound itself, he made these dwellers in the lonely places realize again the silence of solitary wastes. The music cried out in sudden anguished longing, then broke in discords, like shrieks for vengeance. Some of the listeners stirred uneasily, uncomprehendingly, yet thrilled—for the soul is more intelligent than the brain. The Rag-time Kid shivered.
Dan McGrew, the cards of his solo-game unheeded on the table before him, watched the man at the piano with steady gaze. His face was expressionless. He had recognized Jim Maxwell at first sight, and he knew that the time of reckoning was at hand. He was dismayed, for he had come in the course ofyears to believe that they two would never meet. Now that they were met, he was ready for whatever might befall. But he dared do nothing to precipitate the crisis. He must wait to be accused or attacked. If he could have followed his desire, he would have shot down the man he had wronged—would have shot him in the back, remorselessly, in cold blood. That he could not do. The code of the frontier forbids such murder. At such an act, these men about him would show no mercy beyond the short shrift of a rope. He could only await the issue with what patience he might, cursing inaudibly, so poised that he could draw at a second's warning.
Lou had not recognized Jim Maxwell on his entrance. She had given only a glance at this bearded stranger. She was infinitely weary of life. She hated this vulgar place, reeking with rank tobacco-smoke and the fumes of liquors. She felt, even through an apathy that had become habitual with her, shame from the leering glances of these men, who took her for the gambler's light-o'-love.She felt herself degraded more and more at her manner of life and by the associations thrust upon her. She knew the evil spirit of the man she had married, which daily and hourly she was compelled to tolerate. The life was become almost unendurable. Yet, she continued the sordid existence, partly because she lacked the courage to break away from him, partly because she could condone the wickedness of Dan McGrew to some extent in appreciation of his loyalty to her. She could not doubt the reality of his love for her. That his love was utterly selfish, she knew. But he gave her all that he could. The woman's instinct toward martyrdom made her feel it a duty not to desert him. Now, after the coming of the stranger, she felt, rather than saw, the change in Dan McGrew, and she wondered over it dully. Not for a moment did she suspect that her husband's emotion was connected with the advent of the bearded man, toward whom she glanced so idly.... Love, often, is not so shrewd as hate.
Her eyes followed Jim Maxwell as he wentto the piano. She was still listless, wholly unsuspecting that aught impended. Even the first softly sounded notes did not arouse her. It was not until her ears caught the delicate thread of melody that her heart heard it, and answered, and she knew that this was the man she loved. Her hands clutched at her bosom in a spasmodic gesture. She swayed in her chair for a moment, then relaxed limply, and sat huddled in the corner between the table and the wall, her face ghastly beneath the rouge. But, lifeless as she seemed, she was listening through every atom of her being. In the varying phases of the music, she lived again the blisses and the torments. And, too, it was borne in upon her that, as she had suffered in the years since their parting, even so had he, who thus wove in sound the fabric of their lives. Yet, she could not believe that this man still loved her, though the music that grew under his fingers was like the talking together of their souls. A great wonder dawned in her, a greater fear, still greater hope. Could it be that the scales had fallen from hiseyes, that he had freed himself from a degrading passion, that he had returned to his allegiance, that he loved her—her! Her body shook as with a palsy from the riot in her heart.
Abruptly, the music ceased. Then, in another instant, there came a series of noble chords, sonorous and serene. Followed the tripping dance of arpeggios, which deftly hinted of a melody to come. The Rag-time Kid quivered in ecstatic anticipation of something splendid, nor was he disappointed.
There sounded a lilting melody, a-throb with the joy of life. The notes rang with the calls of passion; they trembled into the sighings of exquisite tenderness. There was rapture in the magnificent harmonies that marched with this melody. It was like a song of two hearts glorious in the fulfillment of their love, with all the universe chanting praise of their happiness. It was the lyric of love triumphant.
The man at the piano raised his arms high, and brought his hands down on the keys in agreat swoop. The flames in the smoking-oil lamps leaped and quivered at the devil's din of the discord. The nerves of those that heard leaped and quivered. The player got up from the stool. His eyes swept the staring faces, and he smiled—a smile like a curse.
"You don't know who I am, boys," he said. His voice, resonant, yet softly modulated, was very gentle—dangerously gentle the listeners might have thought, had they known him well.
Dan McGrew knew him well. He understood that the crisis was upon him. He shifted very slightly in his chair, that he might have greater freedom of movement when the need came. He darted a single glance at his wife, and saw her sitting erect again, gazing at the player with dilated eyes in which showed the hunger of a soul. Dan McGrew cursed beneath his breath, and did not look again. Instead, he held his whole attention on the man who had spoken, and who now spoke once more:
"I haven't anything to say to you, except that"—the voice deepened and roughenedsavagely—"one of you is a hound of hell! His name is—Dan McGrew!"
Two shots rang out, which almost blent as one—almost, not quite. The crowd scattered and dropped to the floor. The lights went out.
p315t
TWO SHOTS RANG OUT, WHICH ALMOST BLENT AS ONE.
Word had been sent to the sheriff of Kalmak of Jack Reeves' capture at Malamute, and he at once set forth to bring his prisoner back. He arrived hardly an hour in advance of Jim Maxwell. He took formal possession of the accused, and forthwith made it clear that he was not minded to run any risk of a second escape.
"That young feller ain't in no way safe in a jail," he explained to his brother official. "There's no tellin' what didoes he'd be up to—he's that ornery. I'll jest take him along with me to the saloon over night, an' I'll set up with him, an' nuss him like he was a baby."
Despite all arguments to the contrary, the sheriff had his way, and started to the saloon-hotel, where the distracted bride had already established herself. The officer and his captivewere hardly a rod from the door, when the shots rang out, and, almost in the same second, the lights were extinguished. The sheriff uttered an excited exclamation, and hurried forward with his prisoner. They were just within the door, when the bartender, who had so discreetly shot out the lights, produced new chimneys and leisurely set the oil lamps going again.
As his eyes fell on the form stretched out upon the floor near the piano, Jack Reeves uttered a cry of alarm, and sprang forward. Kneeling, he caught Jim Maxwell's hand in his. He could not speak in the first shock of emotion, for he believed that the man was dead, who lay there so still and white, with closed eyes, and the blood trickling from a wound in his head.
Nell, in an adjoining room, had been shaken with fear at the noise of firing. But, in the stillness that followed, she heard a cry of distress in her husband's voice. She forgot fear then, and rushed into the saloon and to his side. The sight of her father therestruck her dumb and motionless with horror. Thus it came about that she and her husband were passive spectators of the great heart-drama that now developed.
There was another in the group. It was Lou. Before the shots were fired, she had sprung to her feet, and forward, as if to forbid the deadly work. She had been too late. But she had plunged on, heedless of the weapons, reckless of her own life. The instinct of love had guided her through the sudden blackness. So, when the lights burned again, she was there on her knees, crooning heart-broken words to the ears that did not hear. She had no thought whatsoever of that other form which lay stark, crumpled on the floor by the table she had left. She supported Jim in her arms, with a passion of tenderness and mourning; for she, too, believed him dead, and it seemed to her that all the misery that had gone before were as nothing to this anguish over finding him, only to lose him forever. Then, of a sudden, Lou gave a gasp of pure rapture—for Jim Maxwell had opened his eyes, and laystaring placidly at the smoke-begrimed ceiling. She bent and kissed the bearded face, then raised a countenance that was transfigured. It was years younger in that illumination of joy.