In the mind of the new case-keeper there was but one thought—Roy must be broken. Humiliation, disgrace, ruin, ridicule were to be his. If he should be downed, discredited, and discouraged, then, perhaps, he would turn to her as he had in the by-gone days. He was slipping away from her—this was her last chance. She began her duties easily, and her alertnessstimulated Bronco till his senses, too, grew sharper, his observation more acute and lightning-like. Glenister swore beneath his breath that the cards were bewitched. He was like a drunken man, now as truly intoxicated as though the fumes of wine had befogged his brain. He swayed in his seat, the veins of his neck thickened and throbbed, his features were congested. After a while he spoke.
“I want a bigger limit. Is this some boy’s game? Throw her open.”
The gambler shot a triumphant glance at the girl and acquiesced. “All right, the limit is the blue sky. Pile your checks to the roof-pole.” He began to shuffle.
Within the crowded circle the air was hot and fetid with the breath of men. The sweat trickled down Glenister’s brown skin, dripping from his jaw unnoticed. He arose and ripped off his coat, while those standing behind shifted and scuffed their feet impatiently. Besides Roy, there were but three men playing. They were the ones who had won heaviest at first. Now that luck was against them they were loath to quit.
Cherry was annoyed by stertorous breathing at her shoulder, and glanced back to find the little man who had been so excited earlier in the evening. His mouth was agape, his eyes wide, the muscles about his lips twitching. He had lost back, long since, the hundreds he had won and more besides. She searched the figures walling her about and saw no women. They had been crowded out long since. It seemed as though the table formed the bottom of a sloping pit of human faces—eager, tense, staring. It was well she was here,she thought, else this task might fail. She would help to blast Glenister, desolate him, humiliate him. Ah, but wouldn’t she!
Roy bet $100 on the “popular” card. On the third turn he lost. He bet $200 next and lost. He set out a stack of $400 and lost for the third time. Fortune had turned her face. He ground his teeth and doubled until the stakes grew enormous, while the dealer dealt monotonously. The spots flashed and disappeared, taking with them wager after wager. Glenister became conscious of a raging, red fury which he had hard shift to master. It was not his money—what if he did lose? He would stay until he won. Hewouldwin. This luck would not, could not, last—and yet with diabolic persistence he continued to choose the losing cards. The other men fared better till he yielded to their judgment, when the dealer took their money also.
Strange to say, the fickle goddess had really shifted her banner at last, and the Bronco Kid was dealing straight faro now. He was too good a player to force a winning hand, and Glenister’s ill-fortune became as phenomenal as his winning had been. The girl who figured in this drama was keyed to the highest tension, her eyes now on her counters, now searching the profile of her victim. Glenister continued to lose and lose and lose, while the girl gloated over his swift-coming ruin. When at long intervals he won a bet she shrank and shivered for fear he might escape. If only he would risk it all—everything he had. He would have to come to her then!
The end was closer than she realized. The throng hung breathless upon each move of the players, while there was no sound but the noise of shifting chips andthe distant jangle of the orchestra. The lookout sat far forward upon his perch, his hands upon his knees, his eyes frozen to the board, a dead cigar clenched between his teeth. Crowded upon his platform were miners tense and motionless as statues. When a man spoke or coughed, a score of eyes stared at him accusingly, then dropped to the table again.
Glenister took from his clothes a bundle of bank-notes, so thick that it required his two hands to compass it. On-lookers saw that the bills were mainly yellow. No one spoke while he counted them rapidly, glanced at the dealer, who nodded, then slid them forward till they rested on the king. He placed a “copper” on the pile. A great sigh of indrawn breaths swept through the crowd. The North had never known a bet like this—it meant a fortune. Here was a tale for one’s grandchildren—that a man should win opulence in an evening, then lose it in one deal. This final bet represented more than many of them had ever seen at one time before. Its fate lay on a single card.
Cherry Malotte’s fingers were like ice and shook till the buttons of her case-keeper rattled, her heart raced till she could not breathe, while something rose up and choked her. If Glenister won this bet he would quit; she felt it. If he lost, ah! what could the Kid there feel, the man who was playing for a paltry vengeance, compared to her whose hope of happiness, of love, of life hinged on this wager?
Evidently the Bronco Kid knew what card lay next below, for he offered her no sign, and as Glenister leaned back he slowly and firmly pushed the top card out of the box. Although this was the biggest turn of his life, he betrayed no tremor. His gesture displayedthe nine of diamonds, and the crowd breathed heavily. The king had not won. Would it lose? Every gaze was welded to the tiny nickelled box. If the face-card lay next beneath the nine-spot, the heaviest wager in Alaska would have been lost; if it still remained hidden, on the next turn, the money would be safe for a moment.
Slowly the white hand of the dealer moved back; his middle finger touched the nine of diamonds; it slid smoothly out of the box, and there in its place frowned the king of clubs. At last the silence was broken.
Men spoke, some laughed, but in their laughter was no mirth. It was more like the sound of choking. They stamped their feet to relieve the grip of strained muscles. The dealer reached forth and slid the stack of bills into the drawer at his waist without counting. The case-keeper passed a shaking hand over her face, and when it came away she saw blood on her fingers where she had sunk her teeth into her lower lip. Glenister did not rise. He sat, heavy-browed and sullen, his jaw thrust forward, his hair low upon his forehead, his eyes bloodshot and dead.
“I’ll sit the hand out if you’ll let me bet the ‘finger,’ ” said he.
“Certainly,” replied the dealer.
When a man requests this privilege it means that he will call the amount of his wager without producing the visible stakes, and the dealer may accept or refuse according to his judgment of the bettor’s responsibility. It is safe, for no man shirks a gambling debt in the North, and thousands may go with a nod of the head though never a cent be on the board.
There were still a few cards in the box, and the dealerturned them, paying the three men who played. Glenister took no part, but sat bulked over his end of the table glowering from beneath his shock of hair.
Cherry was deathly tired. The strain of the last hour had been so intense that she could barely sit in her seat, yet she was determined to finish the hand. As Bronco paused before the last turn, many of the by-standers made bets. They were the “case-players” who risked money only on the final pair, thus avoiding the chance of two cards of like denomination coming together, in which event (“splits” it is called) the dealer takes half the money. The stakes were laid at last and the deal about to start when Glenister spoke. “Wait! What’s this place worth, Bronco?”
“What do you mean?”
“You own this outfit?” He waved his hand about the room. “Well, what does it stand you?”
The gambler hesitated an instant while the crowd pricked up its ears, and the girl turned wondering, troubled eyes upon the miner. What would he do now?
“Counting bank rolls, fixtures, and all, about a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Why?”
“I’ll pick the ace to lose, my one-half interest in the Midas against your whole damned lay-out!”
There was an absolute hush while the realization of this offer smote the on-lookers. It took time to realize it. This man was insane. There were three cards to choose from—one would win, one would lose, and one would have no action.
Of all those present only Cherry Malotte divined even vaguely the real reason which prompted the man to do this. It was not “gameness,” nor altogether abrutish stubbornness which would not let him quit. It was something deeper. He was desolate and his heart was gone. Helen was lost to him—worse yet, was unworthy, and she was all he cared for. What did he want of the Midas with its lawsuits, its intrigues, and—its trickery? He was sick of it all—of the whole game—and wanted to get away. If he won, very well. If he lost, the land of the Aurora would know him no more.
When he put his proposition; the Bronco Kid dropped his eyes as though debating. The girl saw that he studied the cards in his box intently and that his fingers caressed the top one ever so softly during the instant the eyes of the rest were on Glenister. The dealer looked up at last, and Cherry saw the gleam of triumph in his eye; he could not mask it from her, though his answering words were hesitating. She knew by the look that Glenister was a pauper.
“Come on,” insisted Roy, hoarsely. “Turn the cards.”
“You’re on!”
The girl felt that she was fainting. She wanted to scream. The triumph of this moment stifled her—or was it triumph, after all? She heard the breath of the little man behind her rattle as though he were being throttled, and saw the lookout pass a shaking hand to his chin, then wet his parched lips. She saw the man she had helped to ruin bend forward, his lean face strained and hard, an odd look of pain and weariness in his eyes. She never forgot that look. The crowd was frozen in various attitudes of eagerness, although it had not yet recovered from the suspense of the last great wager. It knew the Midas and what it meant.Here lay half of it, hidden beneath a tawdry square of pasteboard. With maddening deliberation the Kid dealt the top card. Beneath it was the trey of spades. Glenister said no word nor made a move. Some one coughed, and it sounded like a gunshot. Slowly the dealer’s fingers retraced their way. He hesitated purposely and leered at the girl, then the three-spot disappeared and beneath it lay the ace as the king had lain on that other wager. It spelled utter ruin to Glenister. He raised his eyes blindly, and then the deathlike silence of the room was shattered by a sudden crash. Cherry Malotte had closed her check-rack violently, at the same instant crying shrill and clear:
“That bet is off! The cases are wrong!”
Glenister half rose, overturning his chair; the Kid lunged forward across the table, and his wonderful hands, tense and talon-like, thrust themselves forward as though reaching for the riches she had snatched away. They worked and writhed and trembled as though in dumb fury, the nails sinking into the oil-cloth table-cover. His face grew livid and cruel, while his eyes blazed at her till she shrank from him affrightedly, bracing herself away from the table with rigid arms.
Reason came slowly back to Glenister, and understanding with it. He seemed to awake from a nightmare. He could read all too plainly the gambler’s look of baffled hate as the man sprawled on the table, his arms spread wide, his eyes glaring at the cowering woman, who shrank before him like a rabbit before a snake. She tried to speak, but choked. Then the dealer came to himself, and cried harshly through his teeth one word:
“Christ!”
He raised his fist and struck the table so violently that chips and coppers leaped and rolled, and Cherry closed her eyes to lose sight of his awful grimace. Glenister looked down on him and said:
“I think I understand; but the money was yours, anyhow, so I don’t mind.” His meaning was plain. The Kid suddenly jerked open the drawer before him, but Glenister clenched his right hand and leaned forward. The miner could have killed him with a blow, for the gambler was seated and at his mercy. The Kid checked himself, while his face began to twitch as though the nerves underlying it had broken bondage and were dancing in a wild, ungovernable orgy.
“You have taught me a lesson,” was all that Glenister said, and with that he pushed through the crowd and out into the cool night air. Overhead the arctic stars winked at him, and the sea smells struck him, clean and fresh. As he went homeward he heard the distant, full-throated plaint of a wolf-dog. It held the mystery and sadness of the North. He paused, and, baring his thick, matted head, stood for a long time gathering himself together. Standing so, he made certain covenants with himself, and vowed solemnly never to touch another card.
At the same moment Cherry Malotte came hurrying to her cottage door, fleeing as though from pursuit or from some hateful, haunted spot. She paused before entering and flung her arms outward into the dark in a wide gesture of despair.
“Why did I do it? Oh!whydid I do it? I can’t understand myself.”
“MYdear Helen, don’t you realize that my official position carries with it a certain social obligation which it is our duty to discharge?”
“I suppose so, Uncle Arthur; but I would much rather stay at home.”
“Tut, tut! Go and have a good time.”
“Dancing doesn’t appeal to me any more. I left that sort of thing back home. Now, if you would only come along—”
“No—I’m too busy. I must work to-night, and I’m not in a mood for such things, anyhow.”
“You’re not well,” his niece said. “I have noticed it for weeks. Is it hard work or are you truly ill? You’re nervous; you don’t eat; you’re growing positively gaunt. Why—you’re getting wrinkles like an old man.” She rose from her seat at the breakfast-table and went to him, smoothing his silvered head with affection.
He took her cool hand and pressed it to his cheek, while the worry that haunted him habitually of late gave way to a smile.
“It’s work, little girl—hard and thankless work, that’s all. This country is intended for young men, and I’m too far along.” His eyes grew grave again,and he squeezed her fingers nervously as though at the thought. “It’s a terrible country—this—— I—I—wish we had never seen it.”
“Don’t say that,” Helen cried, spiritedly. “Why, it’s glorious. Think of the honor. You’re a United States judge and the first one to come here. You’re making history—you’re building a State—people will read about you.” She stooped and kissed him; but he seemed to flinch beneath her caress.
“Of course I’ll go if you think I’d better,” she said, “though I’m not fond of Alaskan society. Some of the women are nice, but the others—” She shrugged her dainty shoulders. “They talk scandal all the time. One would think that a great, clean, fresh, vigorous country like this would broaden the women as it broadens the men—but it doesn’t.”
“I’ll tell McNamara to call for you at nine o’clock,” said the Judge as he arose. So, later in the day she prepared her long unused finery to such good purpose that when her escort called for her that evening he believed her the loveliest of women.
Upon their arrival at the hotel he regarded her with a fresh access of pride, for the function proved to bear little resemblance to a mining-camp party. The women wore handsome gowns, and every man was in evening dress. The wide hall ran the length of the hotel and was flanked with boxes, while its floor was like polished glass and its walls effectively decorated.
“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Helen as she first caught sight of it. “It’s just like home.”
“I’ve seen quick-rising cities before,” he said, “but nothing like this. Still, if these Northerners can build a railroad in a month and a city in a summer, whyshouldn’t they have symphony orchestras and Louis Quinze ballrooms?”
“I know you’re a splendid dancer,” she said.
“You shall be my judge and jury. I’ll sign this card as often as I dare without the certainty of violence at the hands of these young men, and the rest of the time I’ll smoke in the lobby. I don’t care to dance with any one but you.”
After the first waltz he left her surrounded by partners and made his way out of the ballroom. This was his first relaxation since landing in the North. It was well not to become a dull boy, he mused, and as he chewed his cigar he pictured with an odd thrill, quite unusual with him, that slender, gray-eyed girl, with her coiled mass of hair, her ivory shoulders, and merry smile. He saw her float past to the measure of a two-step, and caught himself resenting the thought of another man’s enjoyment of the girl’s charms even for an instant.
“Hold on, Alec,” he muttered. “You’re too old a bird to lose your head.” However, he was waiting for her before the time for their next dance. She seemed to have lost a part of her gayety.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“Oh, yes!” she returned, brightly. “I’m having a delightful time.”
When he came for his third dance, she was moredistraitethan ever. As he led her to a seat they passed a group of women, among whom were Mrs. Champian and others whom he knew to be wives of men prominent in the town. He had seen some of them at tea in Judge Stillman’s house, and thereforewas astonished when they returned his greeting but ignored Helen. She shrank slightly, and he realized that there was something wrong; he could not guess what. Affairs of men he could cope with, but the subtleties of women were out of his realm.
“What ails those people? Have they offended you?”
“I don’t know what it is. I have spoken to them, but they cut me.”
“Cutyou?” he exclaimed.
“Yes.” Her voice trembled, but she held her head high. “It seems as though all the women in Nome were here and in league to ignore me. It dazes me—I do not understand.”
“Has anybody said anything to you?” he inquired, fiercely. “Any man, I mean?”
“No, no! The men are kind. It’s the women.”
“Come—we’ll go home.”
“Indeed, we will not,” she said, proudly. “I shall stay and face it out. I have done nothing to run away from, and I intend to find out what is the matter.”
When he had surrendered her, at the beginning of the next dance, McNamara sought for some acquaintance whom he might question. Most of the men in Nome either hated or feared him, but he espied one that he thought suited his purpose, and led him into a corner.
“I want you to answer a question. No beating about the bush. Understand? I’m blunt, and I want you to be.”
“All right.”
“Your wife has been entertained at Miss Chester’s house. I’ve seen her there. To-night she refuses tospeak to the girl. She cut her dead, and I want to know what it’s about.”
“How should I know?”
“If you don’t know, I’ll ask you to find out.”
The other shook his head amusedly, at which McNamara flared up.
“I say you will, and you’ll make your wife apologize before she leaves this hall, too, or you’ll answer to me, man to man. I won’t stand to have a girl like Miss Chester cold-decked by a bunch of mining-camp swells, and that goes as it lies.” In his excitement, McNamara reverted to his Western idiom.
The other did not reply at once, for it is embarrassing to deal with a person who disregards the conventions utterly, and at the same time has the inclination and force to compel obedience. The boss’s reputation had gone abroad.
“Well—er—I know about it in a general way, but of course I don’t go much on such things. You’d better let it drop.”
“Go on.”
“There has been a lot of talk among the ladies about—well, er—the fact is, it’s that young Glenister. Mrs. Champian had the next state-room to them—er—him—I should say—on the way up from the States, and she saw things. Now, as far as I’m concerned, a girl can do what she pleases, but Mrs. Champian has her own ideas of propriety. From what my wife could learn, there’s some truth in the story, too, so you can’t blame her.”
With a word McNamara could have explained the gossip and made this man put his wife right, forcing through her an elucidation of the silly affair in such away as to spare Helen’s feelings and cover the busy-tongued magpies with confusion. Yet he hesitated. It is a wise skipper who trims his sails to every breeze. He thanked his informant and left him. Entering the lobby, he saw the girl hurrying towards him.
“Take me away, quick! I want to go home.”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
“Yes, let us go,” she panted, and when they were outside she walked so rapidly that he had difficulty in keeping pace with her. She was silent, and he knew better than to question, but when they arrived at her house he entered, took off his overcoat, and turned up the light in the tiny parlor. She flung her wraps over a chair, storming back and forth like a little fury. Her eyes were starry with tears of anger, her face was flushed, her hands worked nervously. He leaned against the mantel, watching her through his cigar smoke.
“You needn’t tell me,” he said, at length. “I know all about it.”
“I am glad you do. I never could repeat what they said. Oh, it was brutal!” Her voice caught and she bit her lip. “What made me ask them? Why didn’t I keep still? After you left, I went to those women and faced them. Oh, but they were brutal! Yet, why should I care?” She stamped her slippered foot.
“I shall have to kill that man some day,” he said, flecking his cigar ashes into the grate.
“What man?” She stood still and looked at him.
“Glenister, of course. If I had thought the story would ever reach you, I’d have shut him up long ago.”
“It didn’t come from him,” she cried, hot with indignation.“He’s a gentleman. It’s that cat, Mrs. Champian.”
He shrugged his shoulders the slightest bit, but it was eloquent, and she noted it. “Oh, I don’t mean that he did it intentionally—he’s too decent a chap for that—but anybody’s tongue will wag to a beautiful girl! My lady Malotte is a jealous trick.”
“Malotte! Who is she?” Helen questioned, curiously.
He seemed surprised. “I thought every one knew who she is. It’s just as well that you don’t.”
“I am sure Mr. Glenister would not talk of me.” There was a pause. “Who is Miss Malotte?”
He studied for a moment, while she watched him. What a splendid figure he made in his evening clothes! The cosey room with its shaded lights enhanced his size and strength and rugged outlines. In his eyes was that admiration which women live for. He lifted his bold, handsome face and met her gaze.
“I had rather leave that for you to find out, for I’m not much at scandal. I have something more important to tell you. It’s the most important thing I have ever said to you, Helen.” It was the first time he had used that name, and she began to tremble, while her eyes sought the door in a panic. She had expected this moment, and yet was not ready.
“Not to-night—don’t say it now,” she managed to articulate.
“Yes, this is a good time. If you can’t answer, I’ll come back to-morrow. I want you to be my wife. I want to give you everything the world offers, and I want to make you happy, girl. There’ll be no gossip hereafter—I’ll shield you from everything unpleasant,and if there is anything you want in life, I’ll lay it at your feet. I can do it.” He lifted his massive arms, and in the set of his strong, square face was the promise that she should have whatever she craved if mortal man could give it to her—love, protection, position, adoration.
She stammered uncertainly till the humiliation and chagrin she had suffered this night swept over her again. This town—this crude, half-born mining-camp—had turned against her, misjudged her cruelly. The women were envious, clacking scandal-mongers, all of them, who would ostracize her and make her life in the Northland a misery, make her an outcast with nothing to sustain her but her own solitary pride. She could picture her future clearly, pitilessly, and see herself standing alone, vilified, harassed in a thousand cutting ways, yet unable to run away, or to explain. She would have to stay and face it, for her life was bound up here during the next few years or so, or as long as her uncle remained a judge. This man would free her. He loved her; he offered her everything. He was bigger than all the rest combined. They were his playthings, and they knew it. She was not sure that she loved him, but his magnetism was overpowering, and her admiration intense. No other man she had ever known compared with him, except Glenister—Bah! The beast! He had insulted her at first; he wronged her now.
“Will you be my wife, Helen?” the man repeated, softly.
She dropped her head, and he strode forward to take her in his arms, then stopped, listening. Some one ran up on the porch and hammered loudly at thedoor. McNamara scowled, walked into the hall, and flung the portal open, disclosing Struve.
“Hello, McNamara! Been looking all over for you. There’s the deuce to pay!” Helen sighed with relief and gathered up her cloak, while the hum of their voices reached her indistinctly. She was given plenty of time to regain her composure before they appeared. When they did, the politician spoke, sourly:
“I’ve been called to the mines, and I must go at once.”
“You bet! It may be too late now. The news came an hour ago, but I couldn’t find you,” said Struve. “Your horse is saddled at the office. Better not wait to change your clothes.”
“You say Voorhees has gone with twenty deputies, eh? That’s good. You stay here and find out all you can.”
“I telephoned out to the Creek for the boys to arm themselves and throw out pickets. If you hurry you can get there in time. It’s only midnight now.”
“What is the trouble?” Miss Chester inquired, anxiously.
“There’s a plot on to attack the mines to-night,” answered the lawyer. “The other side are trying to seize them, and there’s apt to be a fight.”
“You mustn’t go out there,” she cried, aghast. “There will be bloodshed.”
“That’s just why Imustgo,” said McNamara. “I’ll come back in the morning, though, and I’d like to see you alone. Good-night!” There was a strange, new light in his eyes as he left her. For one unversed in woman’s ways he played the game surprisingly well, and as he hurried towards his office he smiled grimly into the darkness.
“She’ll answer me to-morrow. Thank you, Mr. Glenister,” he said to himself.
Helen questioned Struve at length, but gained nothing more than that secret-service men had been at work for weeks and had to-day unearthed the fact that Vigilantes had been formed. They had heard enough to make them think the mines would be jumped again to-night, and so had given the alarm.
“Have you hired spies?” she asked, incredulously.
“Sure. We had to. The other people shadowed us, and it’s come to a point where it’s life or death to one side or the other. I told McNamara we’d have bloodshed before we were through, when he first outlined the scheme—I mean when the trouble began.”
She wrung her hands. “That’s what uncle feared before we left Seattle. That’s why I took the risks I did in bringing you those papers. I thought you got them in time to avoid all this.”
Struve laughed a bit, eying her curiously.
“Does Uncle Arthur know about this?” she continued.
“No, we don’t let him know anything more than necessary; he’s not a strong man.”
“Yes, yes. He’s not well.” Again the lawyer smiled. “Who is behind this Vigilante movement?”
“We think it is Glenister and his New Mexican bandit partner. At least they got the crowd together.” She was silent for a time.
“I suppose they really think they own those mines.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But they don’t, do they?” Somehow this question had recurred to her insistently of late, for things were constantly happening which showed there wasmore back of this great, fierce struggle than she knew. It was impossible that injustice had been done the mine-owners, and yet scattered talk reached her which was puzzling. When she strove to follow it up, her acquaintances adroitly changed the subject. She was baffled on every side. The three local newspapers upheld the court. She read them carefully, and was more at sea than ever. There was a disturbing undercurrent of alarm and unrest that caused her to feel insecure, as though standing on hollow ground.
“Yes, this whole disturbance is caused by those two. Only for them we’d be all right.”
“Who is Miss Malotte?”
He answered, promptly: “The handsomest woman in the North, and the most dangerous.”
“In what way? Who is she?”
“It’s hard to say who or what she is—she’s different from other women. She came to Dawson in the early days—just came—we didn’t know how, whence, or why, and we never found out. We woke up one morning and there she was. By night we were all jealous, and in a week we were most of us drivelling idiots. It might have been the mystery or, perhaps, the competition. That was the day when a dance-hall girl could make a homestake in a winter or marry a millionaire in a month, but she never bothered. She toiled not, neither did she spin on the waxed floors, yet Solomon in all his glory would have looked like a tramp beside her.”
“You say she is dangerous?”
“Well, there was the young nobleman, in the winter of ’98, Dane, I think—fine family and all that—big, yellow-haired boy. He wanted to marry her, but afaro-dealer shot him. Then there was Rock, of the mounted police, the finest officer in the service. He was cashiered. She knew he was going to pot for her, but she didn’t seem to care—and there were others. Yet, with it all, she is the most generous person and the most tender-hearted. Why, she has fed every ‘stew bum’ on the Yukon, and there isn’t a busted prospector in the country who wouldn’t swear by her, for she has grubstaked dozens of them. I was horribly in love with her myself. Yes, she’s dangerous, all right—to everybody but Glenister.”
“What do you mean?”
“She had been across the Yukon to nurse a man with scurvy, and coming back she was caught in the spring break-up. I wasn’t there, but it seems this Glenister got her ashore somehow when nobody else would tackle the job. They were carried five miles down-stream in the ice-pack before he succeeded.”
“What happened then?”
“She fell in love with him, of course.”
“And he worshipped her as madly as all the rest of you, I suppose,” she said, scornfully.
“That’s the peculiar part. She hypnotized him at first, but he ran away, and I didn’t hear of him again till I came to Nome. She followed him, finally, and last week evened up her score. She paid him back for saving her.”
“I haven’t heard about it.”
He detailed the story of the gambling episode at the Northern saloon, and concluded: “I’d like to have seen that ‘turn,’ for they say the excitement was terrific. She was keeping cases, and at the finish slammed her case-keeper shut and declared the betoff because she had made a mistake. Of course they couldn’t dispute her, and she stuck to it. One of the by-standers told me she lied, though.”
“So, in addition to his other vices, Mr. Glenister is a reckless gambler, is he?” said Helen, with heat. “I am proud to be indebted to such a character. Truly this country breeds wonderful species.”
“There’s where you’re wrong,” Struve chuckled. “He’s never been known to bet before.”
“Oh, I’m tired of these contradictions!” she cried, angrily. “Saloons, gambling-halls, scandals, adventuresses! Ugh! I hate it! Ihateit! Why did I ever come here?”
“Those things are a part of every new country. They were about all we had till this year. But it is women like you that we fellows need, Miss Helen. You can help us a lot.” She did not like the way he was looking at her, and remembered that her uncle was up-stairs and asleep.
“I must ask you to excuse me now, for it’s late and I am very tired.”
The clock showed half-past twelve, so, after letting him out, she extinguished the light and dragged herself wearily up to her room. She removed her outer garments and threw over her bare shoulders a negligée of many flounces and bewildering, clinging looseness. As she took down her heavy braids, the story of Cherry Malotte returned to her tormentingly. So Glenister had savedherlife also at risk of his own. What a very gallant cavalier he was, to be sure! He should bear a coat of arms—a dragon, an armed knight, and a fainting maiden. “I succor ladies in distress—handsome ones,” should be the motto on his shield.“The handsomest woman in the North,” Struve had said. She raised her eyes to the glass and made a mouth at the petulant, tired reflection there. She pictured Glenister leaping from floe to floe with the hungry river surging and snapping at his feet, while the cheers of the crowd on shore gave heart to the girl crouching out there. She could see him snatch her up and fight his way back to safety over the plunging ice-cakes with death dragging at his heels. What a strong embrace he had! At this she blushed and realized with a shock that while she was mooning that very man might be fighting hand to hand in the darkness of a mountain-gorge with the man she was going to marry.
A moment later some one mounted the front steps below and knocked sharply. Truly this was a night of alarms. Would people never cease coming? She was worn out, but at the thought of the tragedy abroad and the sick old man sleeping near by, she lit a candle and slipped down-stairs to avoid disturbing him. Doubtless it was some message from McNamara, she thought, as she unchained the door.
As she opened it, she fell back amazed while it swung wide and the candle flame flickered and sputtered in the night air. Roy Glenister stood there, grim and determined, his soft, white Stetson pulled low, his trousers tucked into tan half-boots, in his hand a Winchester rifle. Beneath his corduroy coat she saw a loose cartridge-belt, yellow with shells, and the nickelled flash of a revolver. Without invitation he strode across the threshold, closing the door behind him.
“Miss Chester, you and the Judge must dress quickly and come with me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Vigilantes are on their way here to hang him. Come with me to my house where I can protect you.”
She laid a trembling hand on her bosom and the color died out of her face, then at a slight noise above they both looked up to see Judge Stillman leaning far over the banister. He had wrapped himself in a dressing-gown and now gripped the rail convulsively, while his features were blanched to the color of putty and his eyes were wide with terror, though puffed and swollen from sleep. His lips moved in a vain endeavor to speak.
ONthe morning after the episode in the Northern, Glenister awoke under a weight of discouragement and desolation. The past twenty-four hours with their manifold experiences seemed distant and unreal. At breakfast he was ashamed to tell Dextry of the gambling debauch, for he had dealt treacherously with the old man in risking half of the mine, even though they had agreed that either might do as he chose with his interest, regardless of the other. It all seemed like a nightmare, those tense moments when he lay above the receiver’s office and felt his belief in the one woman slipping away, the frenzied thirst which Cherry Malotte had checked, the senseless, unreasoning lust for play that possessed him later. This lapse was the last stand of his old, untamed instincts. The embers of revolt in him were dead. He felt that he would never again lose mastery of himself, that his passions would never best him hereafter.
Dextry spoke. “We had a meeting of the ‘Strangles’ last night.” He always spoke of the Vigilantes in that way, because of his early Western training.
“What was done?”
“They decided to act quick and do any odd jobs of lynchin’, claim-jumpin’, or such as needs doin’.There’s a lot of law sharps and storekeepers in the bunch who figure McNamara’s gang will wipe them off the map next.”
“It was bound to come to this.”
“They talked of ejectin’ the receiver’s men and puttin’ all us fellers back on our mines.”
“Good. How many can we count on to help us?”
“About sixty. We’ve kept the number down, and only taken men with so much property that they’ll have to keep their mouths shut.”
“I wish we might engineer some kind of an encounter with the court crowd and create such an uproar that it would reach Washington. Everything else has failed, and our last chance seems to be for the government to step in; that is, unless Bill Wheaton can do something with the California courts.”
“I don’t count on him. McNamara don’t care for California courts no more’n he would for a boy with a pea-shooter—he’s got too much pull at headquarters. If the ‘Stranglers’ don’t do no good, we’d better go in an’ clean out the bunch like we was killin’ snakes. If that fails, I’m goin’ out to the States an’ be a doctor.”
“A doctor? What for?”
“I read somewhere that in the United States every year there is forty million gallons of whiskey used for medical purposes.”
Glenister laughed. “Speaking of whiskey, Dex—I notice that you’ve been drinking pretty hard of late—that is, hard for you.”
The old man shook his head. “You’re mistaken. It ain’t hard for me.”
“Well, hard or easy, you’d better cut it out.”
It was some time later that one of the detectivesemployed by the Swedes met Glenister on Front Street, and by an almost imperceptible sign signified his desire to speak with him. When they were alone he said:
“You’re being shadowed.”
“I’ve known that for a long time.”
“The district-attorney has put on some new men. I’ve fixed the woman who rooms next to him, and through her I’ve got a line on some of them, but I haven’t spotted them all. They’re bad ones—‘up-river’ men mostly—remnants of Soapy Smith’s Skagway gang. They won’t stop at anything.”
“Thank you—I’ll keep my eyes open.”
A few nights after, Glenister had reason to recall the words of the sleuth and to realize that the game was growing close and desperate. To reach his cabin, which sat on the outskirts of the town, he ordinarily followed one of the plank walks which wound through the confusion of tents, warehouses, and cottages lying back of the two principal streets along the water front. This part of the city was not laid out in rectangular blocks, for in the early rush the first-comers had seized whatever pieces of ground they found vacant and erected thereon some kind of buildings to make good their titles. There resulted a formless jumble of huts, cabins, and sheds, penetrated by no cross streets and quite unlighted. At night, one leaving the illuminated portion of the town found this darkness intensified.
Glenister knew his course so well that he could have walked it blindfolded. Nearing a corner of the warehouse this evening he remembered that the planking at this point was torn up, so, to avoid the mud, he leaped lightly across. Simultaneously with his jump he detected a movement in the shadows that bankedthe wall at his elbow and saw the flaming spurt of a revolver-shot. The man had crouched behind the building and was so close that it seemed impossible to miss. Glenister fell heavily upon his side and the thought flashed over him, “McNamara’s thugs have shot me.”
His assailant leaped out from his hiding-place and ran down the walk, the sound of his quick, soft footfalls thudding faintly out into the silence. The young man felt no pain, however, so scrambled to his feet, felt himself over with care, and then swore roundly. He was untouched; the other had missed him cleanly. The report, coming while he was in the act of leaping, had startled him so that he had lost his balance, slipped upon the wet boards, and fallen. His assailant was lost in the darkness before he could rise. Pursuit was out of the question, so he continued homeward, considerably shaken, and related the incident to Dextry.
“You think it was some of McNamara’s work, eh?” Dextry inquired when he had finished.
“Of course. Didn’t the detective warn me to-day?”
Dextry shook his head. “It don’t seem like the game is that far along yet. The time is coming when we’ll go to the mat with them people, but they’ve got the aige on us now, so what could they gain by putting you away? I don’t believe it’s them, but whoever it is, you’d better be careful or you’ll be got.”
“Suppose we come home together after this,” Roy suggested, and they arranged to do so, realizing that danger lurked in the dark corners and that it was in some such lonely spot that the deed would be tried again. They experienced no trouble for a time, though on nearing their cabin one night the younger manfancied that he saw a shadow glide away from its vicinity and out into the blackness of the tundra, as though some one had stood at his very door waiting for him, then became frightened at the two figures approaching. Dextry had not observed it, however, and Glenister was not positive himself, but it served to give him the uncanny feeling that some determined, unscrupulous force was bent on his destruction. He determined to go nowhere unarmed.
A few evenings later he went home early and was busied in writing when Dextry came in about ten o’clock. The old miner hung up his coat before speaking, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then, amid mouthfuls of smoke, began:
“I had my own toes over the edge to-night. I was mistook for you, which compliment I don’t aim to have repeated.”
Glenister questioned him eagerly.
“We’re about the same height an’ these hats of ours are alike. Just as I come by that lumber-pile down yonder, a man hopped out an throwed a ‘gat’ under my nose. He was quicker than light, and near blowed my skelp into the next block before he saw who I was; then he dropped his weepon and said:
“ ‘My mistake. Go on.’ I accepted his apology.”
“Could you see who he was?”
“Sure. Guess.”
“I can’t.”
“It was the Bronco Kid.”
“Lord!” ejaculated Glenister. “Do you think he’s after me?”
“He ain’t after nobody else, an’, take my word for it, it’s got nothin’ to do with McNamara nor that gamblin’row. He’s too game for that. There’s some other reason.”
This was the first mention Dextry had made of the night at the Northern.
“I don’t know why he should have it in for me—I never did him any favors,” Glenister remarked, cynically.
“Well, you watch out, anyhow. I’d sooner face McNamara an’ all the crooks he can hire than that gambler.”
During the next few days Roy undertook to meet the proprietor of the Northern face to face, but the Kid had vanished completely from his haunts. He was not in his gambling-hall at night nor on the street by day. The young man was still looking for him on the evening of the dance at the hotel, when he chanced to meet one of the Vigilantes, who inquired of him:
“Aren’t you late for the meeting?”
“What meeting?”
After seeing that they were alone, the other stated:
“There’s an assembly to-night at eleven o’clock. Something important, I think. I supposed, of course, you knew about it.”
“It’s strange I wasn’t notified,” said Roy. “It’s probably an oversight. I’ll go along with you.”
Together they crossed the river to the less frequented part of town and knocked at the door of a large, unlighted warehouse, flanked by a high board fence. The building faced the street, but was enclosed on the other three sides by this ten-foot wall, inside of which were stored large quantities of coal and lumber. After some delay they were admitted, and, passing down through the dim-lit, high-banked lanes of merchandise, came tothe rear room, where they were admitted again. This compartment had been fitted up for the warm storage of perishable goods during the cold weather, and, being without windows, made an ideal place for clandestine gatherings.
Glenister was astonished to find every man of the organization present, including Dextry, whom he supposed to have gone home an hour since. Evidently a discussion had been in progress, for a chairman was presiding, and the boxes, kegs, and bales of goods had been shoved back against the walls for seats. On these were ranged the threescore men of the “Stranglers,” their serious faces lighted imperfectly by scattered lanterns. A certain constraint seized them upon Glenister’s entrance; the chairman was embarrassed. It was but momentary, however. Glenister himself felt that tragedy was in the air, for it showed in the men’s attitudes and spoke eloquently from their strained faces. He was about to question the man next to him when the presiding officer continued:
“We will assemble here quietly with our arms at one o’clock. And let me caution you again not to talk or do anything to scare the birds away.”
Glenister arose. “I came late, Mr. Chairman, so I missed hearing your plan I gather that you’re out for business, however, and I want to be in it. May I ask what is on foot?”
“Certainly. Things have reached such a pass that moderate means are useless. We have decided to act, and act quickly. We have exhausted every legal resource and now we’re going to stamp out this gang of robbers in our own way. We will get together in an hour, divide into three groups of twenty men, eachwith a leader, then go to the houses of McNamara, Stillman, and Voorhees, take them prisoners, and—” He waved his hand in a large gesture.
Glenister made no answer for a moment, while the crowd watched him intently.
“You have discussed this fully?” he asked.
“We have. It has been voted on, and we’re unanimous.”
“My friends, when I stepped into this room just now I felt that I wasn’t wanted. Why, I don’t know, because I have had more to do with organizing this movement than any of you, and because I have suffered just as much as the rest. I want to know if I was omitted from this meeting intentionally.”
“This is an embarrassing position to put me in,” said the chairman, gravely. “But I shall answer as spokesman for these men if they wish.”
“Yes. Go ahead,” said those around the room.
“We don’t question your loyalty, Mr. Glenister, but we didn’t ask you to this meeting because we know your attitude—perhaps I’d better say sentiment—regarding Judge Stillman’s niece—er—family. It has come to us from various sources that you have been affected to the prejudice of your own and your partner’s interest. Now, there isn’t going to be any sentiment in the affairs of the Vigilantes. We are going to do justice, and we thought the simplest way was to ignore you in this matter and spare all discussion and hard feeling in every quarter.”
“It’s a lie!” shouted the young man, hoarsely. “A damned lie! You wouldn’t let me in for fear I’d kick, eh? Well, you were right. I will kick. You’ve hinted about my feelings for Miss Chester. Let me tell youthat she is engaged to marry McNamara, and that she’s nothing to me. Now, then, let me tell you, further, that you won’t break into her house and hang her uncle, even if he is a reprobate. No, sir! This isn’t the time for violence of that sort—we’ll win without it. If we can’t, let’s fight like men, and not hunt in a pack like wolves. If you want to do something, put us back on our mines and help us hold them, but, for God’s sake, don’t descend to assassination and the tactics of the Mafia!”
“We knew you would make that kind of a talk,” said the speaker, while the rest murmured grudgingly. One of them spoke up.
“We’ve talked this over in cold blood, Glenister, and it’s a question of their lives or our liberty. The law don’t enter into it.”
“That’s right,” echoed another at his elbow. “We can’t seize the claims, because McNamara’s got soldiers to back him up. They’d shoot us down. You ought to be the last one to object.”
He saw that dispute was futile. Determination was stamped on their faces too plainly for mistake, and his argument had no more effect on them than had the pale rays of the lantern beside him, yet he continued:
“I don’t deny that McNamara deserves lynching, but Stillman doesn’t. He’s a weak old man”—some one laughed derisively—“and there’s a woman in the house. He’s all she has in the world to depend upon, and you would have to kill her to get at him. If youmustfollow this course, take the others, but leave him alone.”
They only shook their heads, while several pushed by him even as he spoke. “We’re going to distribute ourfavors equal,” said a man as he left. They were actuated by what they called justice, and he could not sway them. The life and welfare of the North were in their hands, as they thought, and there was not one to hesitate. Glenister implored the chairman, but the man answered him:
“It’s too late for further discussion, and let me remind you of your promise. You’re bound by every obligation that exists for an honorable man—”
“Oh, don’t think that I’ll give the snap away!” said the other; “but I warn you again not to enter Stillman’s house.”
He followed out into the night to find that Dextry had disappeared, evidently wishing to avoid argument. Roy had seen signs of unrest beneath the prospector’s restraint during the past few days, and indications of a fierce hunger to vent his spleen on the men who had robbed him of his most sacred rights. He was of an intolerant, vindictive nature that would go to any length for vengeance. Retribution was part of his creed.
On his way home, the young man looked at his watch, to find that he had but an hour to determine his course. Instinct prompted him to join his friends and to even the score with the men who had injured him so bitterly, for, measured by standards of the frontier, they were pirates with their lives forfeit. Yet, he could not countenance this step. If only the Vigilantes would be content with making an example—but he knew they would not. The blood hunger of a mob is easy to whet and hard to hold. McNamara would resist, as would Voorhees and the district-attorney, then there would be bloodshed, riot, chaos. The soldiers would be called out and martial law declared, the streets would becomeskirmish-grounds. The Vigilantes would rout them without question, for every citizen of the North would rally to their aid, and such men could not be stopped. The Judge would go down with the rest of the ring, and what would happen to—her?
He took down his Winchester, oiled and cleaned it, then buckled on a belt of cartridges. Still he wrestled with himself. He felt that he was being ground between his loyalty to the Vigilantes and his own conscience. The girl was one of the gang, he reasoned—she had schemed with them to betray him through his love, and she was pledged to the one man in the world whom he hated with fanatical fury. Why should he think of her in this hour? Six months back he would have looked with jealous eyes upon the right to lead the Vigilantes, but this change that had mastered him—what was it? Not cowardice, nor caution. No. Yet, being intangible, it was none the less marked, as his friends had shown him an hour since.
He slipped out into the night. The mob might do as it pleased elsewhere, but no man should enter her house. He found a light shining from her parlor window, and, noting the shade up a few inches, stole close. Peering through, he discovered Struve and Helen talking. He slunk back into the shadows and remained hidden for a considerable time after the lawyer left, for the dancers were returning from the hotel and passed close by. When the last group had chattered away down the street, he returned to the front of the house and, mounting the steps, knocked sharply. As Helen appeared at the door, he stepped inside and closed it after him.
The girl’s hair lay upon her neck and shoulders intumbled brown masses, while her breast heaved tumultuously at the sudden, grim sight of him. She stepped back against the wall, her wondrous, deep, gray eyes wide and troubled, the blush of modesty struggling with the pallor of dismay.
The picture pained him like a knife-thrust. This girl was for his bitterest enemy—no hope of her was for him. He forgot for a moment that she was false and plotting, then, recalling it, spoke as roughly as he might and stated his errand. Then the old man had appeared on the stairs above, speechless with fright at what he overheard. It was evident that his nerves, so sorely strained by the events of the past week, were now snapped utterly. A human soul naked and panic-stricken is no pleasant sight, so Glenister dropped his eyes and addressed the girl again:
“Don’t take anything with you. Just dress and come with me.”
The creature on the stairs above stammered and stuttered, inquiringly:
“What outrage is this, Mr. Glenister?”
“The people of Nome are up in arms, and I’ve come to save you. Don’t stop to argue.” He spoke impatiently.
“Is this some r-ruse to get me into your power?”
“Uncle Arthur!” exclaimed the girl, sharply. Her eyes met Glenister’s and begged him to take no offence.
“I don’t understand this atrocity. They must be mad!” wailed the Judge. “You run over to the jail, Mr. Glenister, and tell Voorhees to hurry guards here to protect me. Helen, ’phone to the military post and give the alarm. Tell them the soldiers must come at once.”
“Hold on!” said Glenister. “There’s no use of doing that—the wires are cut; and I won’t notify Voorhees—he can take care of himself. I came to help you, and if you want to escape you’ll stop talking and hurry up.”
“I don’t know what to do,” said Stillman, torn by terror and indecision. “You wouldn’t hurt an old man, would you? Wait! I’ll be down in a minute.”
He scrambled up the stairs, tripping on his robe, seemingly forgetting his niece till she called up to him, sharply:
“Stop, Uncle Arthur! You mustn’trun away.” She stood erect and determined. “You wouldn’t dothat, would you? This is our house. You represent the law and the dignity of the government. You mustn’t fear a mob of ruffians. We will stay here and meet them, of course.”
“Good Lord!” said Glenister. “That’s madness. These men aren’t ruffians; they are the best citizens of Nome. You don’t realize that this is Alaska and that they have sworn to wipe out McNamara’s gang. Come along.”
“Thank you for your good intentions,” she said, “but we have done nothing to run away from. We will get ready to meet these cowards. You had better go or they will find you here.”
She moved up the stairs, and, taking the Judge by the arm, led him with her. Of a sudden she had assumed control of the situation unfalteringly, and both men felt the impossibility of thwarting her. Pausing at the top, she turned and looked down.
“We are grateful for your efforts just the same. Good-night.”
“Oh, I’m not going,” said the young man. “If youstick I’ll do the same.” He made the rounds of the first-floor rooms, locking doors and windows. As a place of defence it was hopeless, and he saw that he would have to make his stand up-stairs. When sufficient time had elapsed he called up to Helen:
“May I come?”
“Yes,” she replied. So he ascended, to find Stillman in the hall, half clothed and cowering, while by the light from the front chamber he saw her finishing her toilet.
“Won’t you come with me—it’s our last chance?” She only shook her head. “Well, then, put out the light. I’ll stand at that front window, and when my eyes get used to the darkness I’ll be able to see them before they reach the gate.”
She did as directed, taking her place beside him at the opening, while the Judge crept in and sat upon the bed, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room. The two young people stood so close beside each other that the sweet scent of her person awoke in him an almost irresistible longing. He forgot her treachery again, forgot that she was another’s, forgot all save that he loved her truly and purely, with a love which was like an agony to him. Her shoulder brushed his arm; he heard the soft rustling of her garment at her breast as she breathed. Some one passed in the street, and she laid a hand upon him fearfully. It was very cold, very tiny, and very soft, but he made no move to take it. The moments dragged along, still, tense, interminable. Occasionally she leaned towards him, and he stooped to catch her whispered words. At such times her breath beat warm against his cheek, and he closed his teeth stubbornly. Out in the night a wolf-dogsaddened the air, then came the sound of others wrangling and snarling in a near-by corral. This is a chickless land and no cock-crow breaks the midnight peace. The suspense enhanced the Judge’s perturbation till his chattering teeth sounded like castanets. Now and then he groaned.
The watchers had lost track of time when their strained eyes detected dark blots materializing out of the shadows.
“There they come,” whispered Glenister, forcing her back from the aperture; but she would not be denied, and returned to his side.
As the foremost figures reached the gate, Roy leaned forth and spoke, not loudly, but in tones that sliced through the silence, sharp, clean, and without warning.
“Halt! Don’t come inside the fence.” There was an instant’s confusion; then, before the men beneath had time to answer or take action, he continued: “This is Roy Glenister talking. I told you not to molest these people and I warn you again. We’re ready for you.”
The leader spoke. “You’re a traitor, Glenister.”
He winced. “Perhaps I am. You betrayed me first, though; and, traitor or not, you can’t come into this house.”
There was a murmur at this, and some one said:
“Miss Chester is safe. All we want is the Judge. We won’t hang him, not if he’ll wear this suit we brought along. He needn’t be afraid. Tar is good for the skin.”
“Oh, my God!” groaned the limb of the law.
Suddenly a man came running down the planked pavement and into the group.
“McNamara’s gone, and so’s the marshal and the rest,” he panted. There was a moment’s silence, and then the leader growled to his men, “Scatter out and rush the house, boys.” He raised his voice to the man in the window. “This is your work—you damned turncoat.” His followers melted away to right and left, vaulted the fence, and dodged into the shelter of the walls. The click, click of Glenister’s Winchester sounded through the room while the sweat stood out on him. He wondered if he could do this deed, if he could really fire on these people. He wondered if his muscles would not wither and paralyze before they obeyed his command.
Helen crowded past him and, leaning half out of the opening, called loudly, her voice ringing clear and true:
“Wait! Wait a moment. I have something to say. Mr. Glenister didn’t warn them. They thought you were going to attack the mines and so they rode out there before midnight. I am telling you the truth, really. They left hours ago.” It was the first sign she had made, and they recognized her to a man.
There were uncertain mutterings below till a new man raised his voice. Both Roy and Helen recognized Dextry.
“Boys, we’ve overplayed. We don’t wantthesepeople—McNamara’s our meat. Old bald-face up yonder has to do what he’s told, and I’m ag’in’ this twenty-to-one midnight work. I’m goin’ home.” There were some whisperings, then the original spokesman called for Judge Stillman. The old man tottered to the window, a palsied, terror-stricken object. The girl was glad he could not be seen from below.
“We won’t hurt you this time, Judge, but you’vegone far enough. We’ll give you another chance, then, if you don’t make good, we’ll stretch you to a lamppost. Take this as a warning.”
“I—s-shall do my d-d-duty,” said the Judge.
The men disappeared into the darkness, and when they had gone Glenister closed the window, pulled down the shades, and lighted a lamp. He knew by how narrow a margin a tragedy had been averted. If he had fired on these men his shot would have kindled a feud which would have consumed every vestige of the court crowd and himself among them. He would have fallen under a false banner, and his life would not have reached to the next sunset. Perhaps it was forfeit now—he could not tell. The Vigilantes would probably look upon his part as traitorous; and, at the very least, he had cut himself off from their support, the only support the Northland offered him. Henceforth he was a renegade, a pariah, hated alike by both factions. He purposely avoided sight of Stillman and turned his back when the Judge extended his hand with expressions of gratitude. His work was done and he wished to leave this house. Helen followed him down to the door and, as he opened it, laid her hand upon his sleeve.
“Words are feeble things, and I can never make amends for all you’ve done for us.”
“Forus!” cried Roy, with a break in his voice. “Do you think I sacrificed my honor, betrayed my friends, killed my last hope, ostracized myself, for ‘us’? This is the last time I’ll trouble you. Perhaps the last time I’ll see you. No matter what else you’ve done, however, you’ve taught me a lesson, and I thank you for it. I have found myself at last. I’m not an Eskimo any longer—I’m a man!”
“You’ve always been that,” she said. “I don’t understand as much about this affair as I want to, and it seems to me that no one will explain it. I’m very stupid, I guess; but won’t you come back to-morrow and tell it to me?”
“No,” he said, roughly. “You’re not of my people. McNamara and his are no friends of mine, and I’m no friend of theirs.” He was half down the steps before she said, softly:
“Good-night, and God bless you—friend.”
She returned to the Judge, who was in a pitiable state, and for a long time she labored to soothe him as though he were a child. She undertook to question him about the things which lay uppermost in her mind and which this night had half revealed, but he became fretful and irritated at the mention of mines and mining. She sat beside his bed till he dozed off, puzzling to discover what lay behind the hints she had heard, till her brain and body matched in absolute weariness. The reflex of the day’s excitement sapped her strength till she could barely creep to her own couch, where she rolled and sighed—too tired to sleep at once. She awoke finally, with one last nervous flicker, before complete oblivion took her. A sentence was on her mind—it almost seemed as though she had spoken it aloud:“The handsomest woman in the North ... but Glenister ran away.”