The Countess Courteau had been first to arise; she was fully dressed and the sheet-iron stove was glowing when her companions roused themselves. By the time they had returned from the lake she had breakfast ready.
"Old Jerry is going to be awful sore at missing this court function,"Mr. Linton told her during the meal. "He's a great ladies' man, OldJerry is."
"Perhaps I shall meet him."
"You wouldn't like him if you did; nobody likes him, except me, and I hate him." Linton sighed. "He's a handicap to a young man like me."
"Why don't you send him home?"
"Home? Old Jerry would die before he'd turn back. He'd lift his muzzle and bay at the very idea until some stranger terminated him. Well, he's my cross; I s'pose I've got to bear him."
"Who is Mr. Linton?" the Countess inquired, as she and Pierce left the village behind them.
"Just an ordinary stampeder, like the rest of us. I think."
"He's more than that. He's the kind who'll go through and make good. I dare say his partner is just like him."
Phillips approved of the Countess Courteau this morning even more thoroughly than he had on the evening previous, and they had not walked far before he realized that as a traveler she was the equal of him or of any man. She was lithe and strong and light of foot; the way she covered ground awoke his sincere admiration. She did not trouble to talk much and she dispensed with small talk in others; she appeared to be absorbed in her own affairs, and only when they rested did she engage in conversation. The more Phillips studied her and the better acquainted he became with her the larger proportions did she assume. Not only was she completely mistress of herself, but she had a forceful, compelling way with others; there was a natural air of authority about her, and she managed in some subtle manner to invest herself and her words with importance. She was quite remarkable.
Now, the trail breeds its own peculiar intimacy; although the two talked little, they nevertheless got to know each other quite well, and when they reached the Summit, about midday, Phillips felt a keen regret that their journey was so near its end.
A mist was drifting up from the sea; it obscured the valley below and clung to the peaks like ragged garments. Up and out of this fog came the interminable procession of burden-bearers. The Countess paused to observe them and to survey the accumulation of stores which crowned the watershed.
"I didn't dream so many were coming," said she.
"It's getting worse daily," Pierce told her. "Dyea is jammed, and so isSkagway. The trails are alive with men."
"How many do you think will come?"
"There's no telling. Twenty, thirty, fifty thousand, perhaps. About half of them turn back when they see the Chilkoot."
"And the rest will wish they had. It's a hard country; not one in a hundred will prosper."
They picked their way down the drunken descent to the Scales, then breasted the sluggish human current to Sheep Camp.
A group of men were reading a notice newly posted upon the wall of the log building which served as restaurant and hotel, and after scanning it Pierce explained:
"It's another call for a miners' meeting. We're having quite a time with cache-robbers. If we catch them we'll hang them."
The Countess nodded. "Right! They deserve it. You know we don't haveany stealing on the 'inside.' Now, then, I'll say good-by." She paidPierce and extended her hand to him. "Thank you for helping me across.I'll be in Dyea by dark."
"I hope we'll meet again," he said, with a slight flush.
The woman favored him with one of her generous, friendly smiles. "I hope so, too. You're a nice boy. I like you." Then she stepped into the building and was gone.
"A nice boy!" Phillips was pained. A boy! And he the sturdiest packer on the pass, with perhaps one exception! That was hardly just to him. If they did meet again—and he vowed they would—he'd show her he was more than a boy. He experienced a keen desire to appear well in her eyes, to appear mature and forceful. He asked himself what kind of man Count Courteau could be; he wondered if he, Pierce Phillips, could fall in love with such a woman as this, an older woman, a woman who had been married. It would be queer to marry a countess, he reflected.
As he walked toward his temporary home he beheld quite a gathering of citizens, and paused long enough to note that they were being harangued by the confidence-man who had first initiated him into the subtleties of the three-shell game. Mr. Broad had climbed upon a raised tent platform and was presenting an earnest argument against capital punishment. Two strangers upon the fringe of the crowd were talking, and Pierce heard one of them say:
"Of course he wants the law to take its course, inasmuch as there isn't any law. He's one of the gang."
"The surest way to flush a covey of crooks is to whistle for old JudgeLynch," the other man agreed. "Listen to him!"
"Have they caught the cache-robbers?" Phillips made bold to inquire.
"No, and they won't catch them, with fellows like that on the committee. The crooks hang together and we don't. If I had my way that's just what they'd do—hang together. I'd start in by bending a limb over that rascal."
Phillips had attended several of these indignation meetings and, remembering that all of them bad proved purposeless, he went on toward the McCaskey brothers' tent. He and the McCaskeys were not the closest of friends, in spite of the fact that they had done him a favor—a favor, by the way, for which he had paid many times over—nevertheless, they were his most intimate acquaintances and he felt an urgent desire to tell them about his unusual experience. His desire to talk about the Countess Courteau was irresistible.
But when he entered the tent his greeting fell flat, for Joe, the elderMcCaskey, addressed him sharply, almost accusingly:
"Say, it's about time you showed up!"
"What's the matter?" Pierce saw that the other brother was stretched out in his blankets and that his head was bandaged. "Hello!" he cried. "What ails Jim? Is he sick?"
"Sick? Worse than sick," Joe grumbled. "That money of yours is to blame for it. It's a wonder he isn't dead."
"My money? How?" Phillips was both mystified and alarmed.
Jim raised himself in his blankets and said, irritably: "After this you can run your own pay-car, kid. I'm through, d'you hear?"
"Speak out. What's wrong?"
"Jim was stuck up, that's what's wrong. That's enough, isn't it? They bent a six-gun over his head and grabbed your coin. He's got a dent in his crust the size of a saucer!"
Phillips' face whitened slowly. "My money! Robbed!" he gasped. "JIM!Who did it? How could you let them?"
The younger McCaskey fell back weakly; he waved a feeble gesture at his brother. "Joe'll tell you. I'm dizzy; my head ain't right yet."
"A stranger stopped him—asked him something or other—and another guy flattened him from behind. That's all he remembers. When he came to he found he'd been frisked. He was still dippy when he got home, so I put him to bed. He got up and moved around a bit this morning, but he's wrong in his head."
Phillips seated himself upon a candle-box. "Robbed!" he exclaimed, weakly. "Broke—again! Gee! That was hard money! It was the first I ever earned!"
Joe McCaskey's dark face was doubly unpleasant as he frowned down upon the youth. "Thinking about nothing except your coin, eh? Why don't you think about Jim? He did you a favor and 'most lost his life."
"Oh, I'm sorry—of course!" Phillips rose heavily and crossed to the bed. "I didn't mean to appear selfish. I don't blame you, Jim. I'll get a doctor for you, then you must describe the hold-ups. Give me a hint who they are and I'll go after them."
The younger brother rolled his head in negation and mumbled, sullenly:"I'm all right. I don't want a doctor."
Joe explained for him: "He never saw the fellows before and he don't seem to remember much about them. That's natural enough. Your money's gone clean, kid, and a yelp won't get you anything. The crooks are organized and if you set up a holler they'll get all of us. They'll alibi anybody you accuse—it's no trick to alibi a pal—"
"Isn't it?" The question was uttered unexpectedly; it came from the front of the tent and startled the occupants thereof, who turned to behold a stranger just entering their premises. He was an elderly man; he possessed a quick, shrewd eye; he had poked the tent flap aside with the barrel of a Colt's revolver. Through the door-opening could be seen other faces and the bodies of other men who had likewise stolen up unheard. During the moment of amazement following his first words these other men crowded in behind him.
"Maybe it 'll be more of a trick than you figure on." The stranger's gray mustache lifted in a grin that was not at all friendly.
"What the blazes—?" Joe McCaskey exploded.
"Go easy!" the intruder cautioned him. "We've been laying around, waiting for your pal to get back." With a movement of the revolver muzzle he indicated Phillips. "Now then, stretch! On your toes and reach high. You there, get up!" He addressed himself to Jim, who rose from his bed and thrust his hands over his bandaged head. "That's nice!" the stranger nodded approvingly. "Now don't startle me; don't make any quick moves or I may tremble this gun off—she's easy on the trigger." To his friends he called, "Come in, gentlemen; they're gentle."
There were four of the latter; they appeared to be substantial men, men of determination. All were armed.
Pierce Phillips' amazement gave way to indignation. "What is this, an arrest or a hold-up?" he inquired.
"It's right smart of both," the leader of the posse drawled, in a voice which betrayed the fact that he hailed from somewhere in the far Southwest. "We're in quest of a bag of rice—a bag with a rip in it and 'W. K.' on the side. While I slap your pockets, just to see if you're ironed, these gentlemen are goin' to look over your outfit."
"This is an outrage!" Jim McCaskey complained. "I'm just getting over one stick-up. I'm a sick man."
"Sure!" his brother exclaimed, furiously. "You're a pack of fools! What d'you want, anyhow?"
"We want you to shut up! See that you do." The old man's eyes snapped. "If you've got to say something, tell us how there happens to be a trail of rice from this man's cache"—he indicated one of his companions—"right up to your tent."
The McCaskeys exchanged glances. Phillips turned a startled face upon them.
"It isn't much of a trail, but it's enough to follow."
For a few moments nothing was said, and meanwhile the search of the tent went on. When Pierce could no longer remain silent he broke out:
"There's some mistake. These boys packed this grub from Dyea and I helped with some of it."
"Aren't you partners?" some one inquired.
Joe McCaskey answered this question. "No. He landed broke. We felt sorry for him and took him in."
Joe was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the searchers. "Here it is!" said the man. He had unearthed a bulging canvas sack which he flung down for inspection. "There's my mark, 'W. K.,' and there's the rip. I knew we had 'em right!"
After a brief examination the leader of the posse turned to his prisoners, whose hands were still held high, saying:
"Anything you can think of in the way of explanations you'd better save for the miners' meeting. It's waitin' to welcome you. We'll put a guard over this plunder till the rest of it is identified. Now, then, fall in line and don't crowd. After you, gentlemen."
Pierce Phillips realized that it was useless to argue, for his words would not be listened to, therefore he followed the McCaskeys out into the open air. The odium of this accusation was hard to bear; he bitterly resented his situation and something told him he would have to fight to clear himself; nevertheless, he was not seriously concerned over the outcome. Public feeling was high, to be sure; the men of Sheep Camp were in a dangerous frame of mind and their actions were liable to be hasty, ill-considered—their verdict was apt to be fantastic—but, secure in the knowledge of his innocence, Pierce felt no apprehension. Rather he experienced a thrill of excitement at the contretemps and at the ordeal which he knew was forthcoming.
The Countess Courteau had called him a boy. This wasn't a boy's business; this was a real man-sized adventure.
"Gee! What a day this has been!" he said to himself.
The story of the first trial at Sheep Camp is an old one, but it differs with every telling. In the hectic hurry of that gold-rush many incidents were soon forgotten and such salient facts as did survive were deeply colored, for those were colorful days. That trial marked an epoch in early Yukon history, for, although its true significance was unsensed at the time, it really signalized the dawn of common honesty on the Chilkoot and the Chilkat trails, and it was the first move taken toward the disruption of organized outlawry—a bitter fight, by the way, which ended only in the tragic death of Soapy Smith and the flight of his notorious henchmen. Although the circumstances of the Sheep Camp demonstration now seem shocking, they did not seem so at the time, and they served a larger purpose than was at first apparent; not only did theft become an unprofitable and an uninteresting occupation thereafter, but also the men who shaped a code and drew first blood in defense of it experienced a beneficial reaction and learned to fit the punishment to the crime—no easy lesson to learn where life runs hot and where might is right.
The meeting was in session and it had been harangued into a dangerous frame of mind when Pierce Phillips and the two McCaskeys were led before it. A statement by the leader of the posse, corroborated by the owner of the missing sack of rice, roused the audience to a fury. Even while these stories were being told there came other men who had identified property of theirs among the provision piles inside the McCaskey tent, and when they, too, had made their reports the crowd began to mill; there were demands for a speedy trial and a swift vengeance.
These demands found loudest echo among the outlaw element for which Lucky Broad had acted as mouthpiece. Although the members of that band were unknown—as a matter of fact, no man knew his neighbor—nevertheless it was plain that there was an organization of crooks and that a strong bond of understanding existed between them. Now, inasmuch as the eye of suspicion had been turned away from them, now that a herring had been dragged across the trail, their obstructive tactics ended and they, too, became noisy in their clamor that justice be done.
The meeting was quickly organized along formal lines and a committee of three was appointed to conduct the hearing. The chairman of this committee-he constituted himself chairman by virtue of the fact that he was first nominated—made a ringing speech in which he praised his honesty, his fairness, and his knowledge of the law. He complimented the miners for their acumen in selecting for such a position of responsibility a man of his distinguished qualifications. It was plain that he believed they had chosen wisely. Then, having inquired the names of his two committeemen, he likewise commended them in glowing terms, although of course he could not praise them quite as unstintedly as he had praised himself. Still, he spoke well of them and concluded by stating that so long as affairs were left in his hands justice would be safeguarded and the rights of this miserable, cringing trio of thieves would be protected, albeit killing, in his judgment, was too mild a punishment for people of their caliber.
"Hear! Hear!" yelled the mob.
Pierce Phillips listened to this speech with a keenly personal and yet a peculiarly detached interest. The situation struck him as unreal, grotesque, and the whole procedure as futile. Under other circumstances it would have been grimly amusing; now he was uncomfortably aware that it was anything but that. There was no law whatever in the land save the will of these men; in their hands lay life or death, exoneration or infamy. He searched the faces round about him, but could find signs neither of friendship nor of sympathy. This done, he looked everywhere for a glimpse of a woman's straw-colored hair and was relieved to discover that the Countess Courteau was not in the audience. Doubtless she had left for Dyea and was already some distance down the trail. He breathed easier, for he did not wish her to witness his humiliation, and her presence would have merely added to his embarrassment.
The prosecution's case was quickly made, and it was a strong one. Even yet the damning trickle of rice grains could be traced through the moss and mire directly to the door of the prisoners' tent, and the original package, identified positively by its owner, was put in evidence. This in itself was enough; testimony from the other men who had likewise recovered merchandise they had missed and mourned merely strengthened the case and further inflamed the minds of the citizens.
From the first there had never been a doubt in Phillips' mind that the McCaskeys were guilty. The facts offered in evidence served only to explain certain things which had puzzled him at various times; nevertheless, his indignation and his contempt for them were tempered with regrets, for he could not but remember that they had befriended him. It was of course imperative that he establish his own innocence, but he determined that in so doing he would prejudice their case as little as possible. That was no more than the merest loyalty.
When it came tune to hear the defense, the McCaskeys stared at Pierce coolly; therefore he climbed to the tent platform and faced his accusers.
He made known his name, his birthplace, the ship which had borne him north. He told how he had landed at Dyea, how he had lost his last dollar at the gambling-table, how he had appealed to the McCaskey boys, and how they had given him shelter. That chance association, he took pains to explain, had continued, but had never ripened into anything more, anything closer; it was in no wise a partnership; he had nothing to do with them and they had nothing to do with him. Inasmuch as the rice had been stolen during the previous night, he argued that he could have had no hand in the theft, for he had spent the night in Linderman, which fact he offered to prove by two witnesses.
"Produce them," ordered the chairman.
"One of them is still at Linderman, the other was here in Sheep Camp an hour ago. She has probably started for Dyea by this time."
"A woman?"
"Yes, sir. I brought her across."
"What is her name?"
Phillips hesitated. "The Countess Courteau," said he. There was a murmur of interest; the members of the committee conferred with one an other.
"Do you mean to tell us that you've got a titled witness?" the self-appointed spokesman inquired. His face wore a smile of disbelief; when the prisoner flushed and nodded he called out over the heads of the crowd:
"Countess Courteau!" There was no answer. "Do any of you gentlemen know the Countess Courteau?" he inquired.
His question was greeted by a general laugh.
"Don't let him kid you," cried a derisive voice.
"Never heard of her, but I met four kings last night," yelled another.
"Call the Marquis of Queensberry," shouted still a third.
"Countess Courteau!" repeated the chairman, using his hands for a megaphone.
The cry was taken up by other throats. "Countess Courteau! CountessCourteau!" they mocked. "Come, Countess! Nice Countess! PrettyCountess!" There was a ribald note to this mockery which causedPhillips' eyes to glow.
"She and the count have just left the palace. Let's get along with the hangin'," one shrill voice demanded.
"You won't hang me!" Phillips retorted, angrily.
"Be not so sure," taunted the acting judge. "Inasmuch as your countess appears to be constituted of that thin fabric of which dreams are made; inasmuch as there is no such animal—"
"Hol' up!" came a peremptory challenge. "M'sieu Jodge!" It was the big French Canadian whom Pierce had met on the crest of the divide; he came forward now, pushing his resistless way through the audience. "Wat for you say dere ain't nobody by dat name, eh?" He turned his back to the committee and addressed the meeting. "Wat for you hack lak dis, anyhow? By gosh! I heard 'bout dis lady! She's ol'-timer lak me."
"Well, trot her out! Where is she?"
"She's on her way to Dyea," Pierce insisted. "She can't be far—"
'Poleon Doret was angry. "I don' listen to no woman be joke 'bout, you hear? Dis boy spik true. He was in Linderman las' night, for I seen him on top of Chilkoot yesterday myse'f, wit' pack on his back so beeg as a barn."
"Do you know the accused?" queried the spokesman.
'Poleon turned with a shrug. "Non! No! But—yes, I know him li'l bit. Anybody can tell he's hones' boy. By Gar! She's strong feller, too—pack lak hell!"
Pierce Phillips was grateful for this evidence of faith, inconclusive as it was in point of law. He was sorry, therefore, to see the Frenchman, after replying shortly, impatiently, to several senseless cross-questions, force his way out of the crowd and disappear, shaking his head and muttering in manifest disgust at the temper of his townsmen.
But although one friend had gone, another took his place—a champion, by the way, whom Pierce would never have suspected of being such. Profiting by the break in the proceedings, Lucky Broad spoke up.
"Frenchy was right—this kid's on the square," he declared. "I'm the gentleman who gathered his wheat at Dyea—he fairly fed it to me, like he said—so I guess I'm acquainted with him. We're all assembled up to mete out justice, and justice is going to be met, but, say! a sucker like this boy wouldn't KNOW enough to steal!"
It was doubtful if this witness, well-intentioned as he was, carried conviction, for, although his followers took their cue from him and applauded loudly, their very manifestations of faith aroused suspicion among the honest men present.
One of the latter, a red-faced, square-shouldered person, thrust a determined countenance close to Broad's and cried, angrily: "Is that so? Well, I'm for hangin' anybody you boost!"
This sentiment met with such instantaneous second that the confidence-man withdrew precipitately. "Have it your own way," he gave in, with an airy gesture. "But take it from me you're a bunch of boobs. Hangin' ain't a nice game, and the guy that hollers loudest for it is usually the one that needs it worst."
It took some effort on the part of the chairman to bring the meeting to order so that the hearing could be resumed.
Phillips went on with his story and told of spending the night with Tom Linton, then of his return to Sheep Camp to learn that he had been robbed of all his savings. Corroboration of this misfortune he left to the oral testimony of the two brothers McCaskey and to the circumstantial evidence of Jim's bandaged head.
While it seemed to him that he had given a simple, straightforward account of himself which would establish his innocence, so far, at least, as it applied to the theft of the sack of rice, he was uncomfortably aware that evidence of systematic pilfering had been introduced and that evidence he had not met except indirectly. His proof seemed good so far as it went, but it did not go far, and he believed it all too likely that his hearers still considered him an accomplice, at the best.
Jim McCaskey was next called and Pierce made way for him. The younger brother made a poor start, but he warmed up to his own defense, gaining confidence and ease as he talked.
In the first place, both he and Joe were innocent of this outrageous charge—as innocent as unborn babes—and this air of suspicion was like to smother them. This Jim declared upon his honor. The evidence was strong, he admitted, but it was purely circumstantial, and he proposed to explain it away. He proposed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; letting the blame fall where it would and leaving the verdict entirely up to his hearers. Joe would substantiate his every statement.
It was quite true that he and his brother had been Good Samaritans; they had opened their doors and had taken in this young man when he was hungry and homeless, but that was their habit. They had fed him, they had shared their blankets with him, they had helped him in a thousand ways, not without serious inconvenience to themselves. Why, only on the day before the speaker himself had volunteered to take the young man's earnings to Dyea for safekeeping, thereby letting himself in for an unmerciful mauling, and suffering a semi-fractured skull, the marks of which would doubtless stay with him for a long time.
Phillips had left camp early the previous morning, to be sure, and he had not come home until an hour or two ago, but where he had gone, how he had occupied himself during his absence, where he had spent the night, of course the speaker had no way of knowing. Phillips was often absent at night; he came and he went at all hours, and neither Joe nor the witness ever questioned him, believing his statements that he was packing for hire. Neither his brother nor he had ever seen that sack of rice antil it was uncovered by the posse, and as for the other plunder, it was all part and parcel of an outfit which their guest had been assembling for some time. They supposed, of course, that he had bought it, bit by bit, with his earnings.
Pierce Phillips listened in speechless amazement, scarcely believing his own ears, the while Jim McCaskey struck the fetters from his own and his brother's limbs and placed them upon his. It seemed impossible that such a story could carry weight, but from all indications it did. When Joe McCaskey took the center of the stage and glibly corroborated his brother's statements Pierce interrupted him savagely, only to be warned that he'd better be silent.
"That's all we've got to say," concluded the elder of the precious pair when he had finished. "You can judge for yourselves who did the stealing. Jim and I've got all the grub we want; this fellow hasn't any."
"Have you anything to say for yourself?" The chairman addressed himself to Phillips.
"I have." Pierce again took the stand. "You're making a great mistake," he said, earnestly. "These men have lied; they're trying to save themselves at my expense. I've told you everything, now I demand that you wait to hear the Countess Courteau or Mr. Linton. They'll prove where I spent last night, at least."
"Mr. Chairman!" A stranger claimed general attention. "I've listened to the evidence and it's strong enough for me. The grub didn't get up and walk away by itself; somebody took it. Grub is more than grub in this country; it's more than money; it's a man's life, that's what it is. Now, then, the McCaskeys had an outfit when they landed; they didn't need to steal; but this fellow, this dirty ingrate, he hadn't a pound. I don't swallow his countess story and I don't care a hoot where he was last night. Let's decide first what punishment a thief gets, then let's give it to him."
"Hear! Hear!" came the cry.
"Hanging is good enough for thieves!" shouted the choleric individual who had so pointedly made known his distrust of Lucky Broad. "I say stretch 'em."
"Right! Let's make an example!"
"Hang him!" There rose a hoarse chorus of assent to this suggestion, whereupon the chairman stepped forward.
"All those in favor of hanging—" he began. But again he was interrupted by 'Poleon Doret, who once more bored his way into the crowd, crying:
"Wait! I got somet'ing to say." He was breathing heavily, as if from a considerable exertion; perspiration stood upon his face; his eyes were flashing. He vaulted lightly to the platform, then flung out his long arms, crying: "You hack lak crazee mans. Wat talk is dis 'bout hangin'? You ain't wild hanimals!"
The red-faced advocate of the noose who had spoken a moment before answered him in a loud voice:
"I paid hard money for my grub and I've packed every pound of it on my back. You can take a mark's life by stealing his matches the same as by shooting him. I want to see thieves on the end of a rope."
Doret bent down to him. "All right, m'sieu! You want blood; we give it to you. Bring on dat rope. I'll put it on dis boy's neck if you'll do de pullin'. For me, I ain't care 'bout killin' no-body, but you—you're brave man. You hang on tight w'ile dis boy he keeck, an' strangle, an' grow black in de face. It's goin' mak you feel good all over!"
"Rats!Iwon't do the trick, but—"
"Somebody mus' do de pullin'." 'Poleon grinned. "He ain't goin' hang himse'f. Mebbe you got pardner w'at lak give you hand, eh?" He raised his head and laughed at the crowd. "Messieurs, you see how 'tis. It tak' brave man to hang a feller lak dis. Some day policeman's goin' come along an' say: 'By Gar, I been lookin' for you long tarn. De new jodge at Dyea he tell me you murder a boy at Sheep Camp. S'pose you come wit' me an' do little hangin' yourse'f.' No, messieurs! We ain't Hinjuns; we're good sensible peoples, eh?"
A member of the committee, one who had hitherto acted a passive part, now stepped forward.
"Frenchy has put it right," he acknowledged. "We'll have courts in this country some day, and we'll have to answer to them. Miners' law is all right, so far as it goes, but I won't be a party to a murder. That's what this would be, murder. If you're going to talk hanging, you can take me off of your committee."
Lucky Broad uttered a yelp of encouragement. "Hangin' sounds better 'n it feels," he declared. "Think it over, you family men. When you make your stakes and go home, little Johnny's going to climb onto your knee and say, 'Papa, tell me why you hung that man at Sheep Camp,' and you'll say, 'Why, son, we hung him because he stole a sack of rice.' Like hell you will!"
'Poleon Doret regained public attention by saying, "Messieurs, I got s'prise for you." He lifted himself to his toes and called loudly over the heads of the assembled citizens, "Dis way, madame." From the direction he was looking there came a swiftly moving figure, the figure of a tall woman with straw-gold hair. Men gave way before her. She hurried straight to the tent platform, where 'Poleon leaned down, took her beneath her arms, and swung her lightly up beside him. "Madame de Countess Courteau," he announced; then with a flourish he swept off his knitted cap and bowed to the new-comer. To those beneath him he cried, sharply, "Tak' off dose hat or I knock dem off."
The Countess, too, had evidently made haste, for she was breathing deeply. She flashed a smile at Pierce Phillips, then said, so that all could hear:
"I understand you accuse this young man of stealing something last night. Well, he was in Linderman. He brought me over to-day."
"We don't care so much about the rice; this stealing has been going on for a long time," a bystander explained.
"True. But the rice was stolen last night, wasn't it? The man who stole it probably stole the other stuff."
"They're two to one," Pierce told her. "They're trying to saw it off on me."
The Countess turned and stared at the McCaskey brothers, who met her look defiantly. "Ban!" she exclaimed. "I haven't heard the evidence, for I was on my way to Dyea when Mr.—" She glanced inquiringly at 'Poleon.
He bowed again. "Doret," said he. "Napoleon Doret."
"—when Mr. Doret overtook me, but I'm willing to wager my life that this boy isn't a thief." Again she smiled at Phillips, and he experienced a tumult of conflicting emotions. Never had he seen a woman like this one, who radiated such strength, such confidence, such power. She stood there like a goddess, a splendid creature fashioned of snow and gold; she dominated the assembly. He was embarrassed that she should find him in this predicament, shamed that she should be forced to come to his assistance; nevertheless, he was thrilled at her ready response.
It was the elder McCaskey who next claimed attention. "We've made our spiel," he began; then he launched into a repetition of his former statement of facts.
The Countess stepped to Pierce's side, inquiring, quickly, "What is this, a joke?"
"I thought so at first, but it looks as if I'll be cutting figure eights on the end of a tent-rope."
"What makes them think you did the stealing?"
"The McCaskeys swear I did. You see, I had no outfit of my own—"
"Are you broke?"
"N—no! I wasn't yesterday. I am now." In a few sentences Pierce made known the facts of his recent loss, and pointed to Jim McCaskey's bandaged head.
When the elder brother had concluded, the Countess again addressed the meeting. "You men take it for granted that Phillips did the stealing because he needed grub," said she. "As a matter of fact he wasn't broke, he had a thousand dollars, and—"
"Say! Who hired you to argue this case?" It was Jim McCaskey speaking.He had edged his way forward and was scowling darkly at the woman."What's the idea, anyhow? Are you stuck on this kid?"
The Countess Courteau eyed her interrogator coolly, her cheeks maintained their even coloring, her eyes were as icy blue as ever. It was plain that she was in no wise embarrassed by his insinuation.
Very quietly she said: "I'll tell you whether I am if you'll tell me who got his thousand dollars. Was it your brother?" Jim McCaskey recoiled; his face whitened. "Who hit you over the head?" the woman persisted. "Did he?"
"That's none of your business," Jim shouted. "I want to know what you're doing in this case. You say the kid was in Linderman last night. Well, I say—you're a—! How d'you know he was there? How d'you know he didn't steal that rice before he left, for that matter?"
"I know he was in Linderman because I was with him."
"With him? All night?" The speaker grinned insultingly.
"Yes, all night. I slept in the same tent with him and—"
"Now I've got your number," the younger McCaskey cried, in triumph.
"Bah!" The Countess shrugged unconcernedly. "As for the rice being stolen before he—"
"'Countess.' Ha!" Jim burst forth again. "Swell countess you are! The Dyea dance-halls are full of 'countesses' like you—counting percentage checks. Boys, who are you going to believe? She slept all night—"
McCaskey got no further, for with a cry of rage Pierce Phillips set his muscles and landed upon him. It was a mighty blow and it found lodgment upon the side of its victim's face.
Jim McCaskey went down and his assailant, maddened completely by the feel of his enemy's flesh, lunged forward to stamp him beneath his heels. But stout arms seized him, bodies intervened, and he was hurled backward. A shout arose; there was a general scramble for the raised platform. There were yells of:
"Shame!"
"Hang on to him!"
"Stretch him up!"
"Dirty ingrate!"
Phillips fought with desperation; his struggles caused the structure to creak and to strain; men piled over it and joined in the fight. He was whining and sobbing in his fury.
Meanwhile ready hands had rescued Jim from the trampling feet and now held his limp body erect.
It was the clarion call of the Countess Courteau which first made itself heard above the din. She had climbed to the railing and was poised there with one arm outflung, a quivering finger leveled at Jim McCaskey's head.
"Look!" she cried. "Look, men—AT HIS HEAD! There's proof that he's been lying!" The victim of the assault had lost his cap in the scuffle, and with it had gone the bandage. His head was bare now, and, oddly enough, it showed no matted hair, no cut, no bruise, no swelling. It was, in fact, a perfectly normal, healthy, well-preserved cranium.
Phillips ceased his struggles; he passed a shaking hand over his eyes to clear his vision; his captors released him and crowded closer to Jim McCaskey, who was now showing the first signs of returning consciousness.
"He told you he was held up—that his skull was cracked, didn't he?" The Countess threw back her head and laughed unrestrainedly. "My! But you men are fools! Now, then, who do you suppose got young Phillips' money? Use your wits, men."
There was a great craning of necks, a momentary hush, the while Jim McCaskey rolled his head loosely, opened his eyes, and stared wildly about.
The Countess bent down toward him, and now her cheeks had grown white, her blue eyes were flaming.
"Well, my man," she cried, in a shaking voice, "now you know what kind of a woman I am. 'Counting percentage checks,' eh?" She seemed upon the point of reaching out and throttling Jim with her long strong fingers. "Let's see you and your precious brother do a little counting. Count out a thousand dollars for this boy. Quick!"
It was 'Poleon Doret who searched the palsied victim. While other hands restrained the older brother he went through the younger one and, having done so, handed Pierce Phillips a bulky envelope addressed in the latter's handwriting.
"She's yours, eh?" 'Poleon inquired.
Phillips made a hasty examination, then nodded.
The Countess turned once more to the crowd. "I move that you apologize to Mr. Phillips. Are you game?" Her question met with a yell of approval. "Now, then, there's a new case on the docket, and the charge is highway robbery. Are you ready to vote a verdict?" Her face was set, her eyes still flashed.
"Guilty!" came with a roar.
"Very well. Hang the ruffians if you feel like it!"
She leaped down from her vantage-point, and without a word, without a glance behind her set out along the Dyea trail.
"Looked kind of salty for a spell, didn't it?" The grizzled leader of the posse, he who had effected the capture of the thieves, was speaking to Pierce. "Well, I'm due for a private apology. I hope you cherish no hard feelings. Eh?"
"None whatever, sir. I'm only too glad to get out whole and get my money back. It was quite an experience." Already Phillips' mind had ranged the events of the last crowded hour into some sort of order; his fancy had tinged them with a glamour already turning rosy with romance, and he told himself that his thrills had been worth their price.
"Lucky that woman showed up. Who is she?" Phillips shook his head. In his turn he inquired, "What are you going to do with the McCaskeys?"
The elder man's face hardened. "I don't know. This talk about hangin' makes me weary. I'd hang 'em; I'd kick a bar'l out from under either of 'em. I've done such things and I never had any bad dreams."
But it was plain that the sentiment favoring such extreme punishment had changed, for a suggestion was made to flog the thieves and send them out of the country. This met with instant response. A motion was put to administer forty lashes and it was carried with a whoop.
Preparations to execute the sentence were immediately instituted. A scourge was prepared by wiring nine heavy leather thongs to a whip-handle, the platform was cleared, and a call was issued for a man to administer the punishment. Some delay ensued at this point, but finally a burly fellow volunteered, climbed to the stage, and removed his canvas coat.
Since the younger McCaskey appeared to be still somewhat dazed from the rough handling he had suffered, his brother was thrust forward. The latter was stripped to the waist, his wrists were firmly bound, then trussed up to one of the stout end-poles of the tent-frame which, skeleton-like, stood over the platform. This done, the committee fell back, and the wielder of the whip stepped forward.
The crowd had watched these grim proceedings intently; it became quite silent now. The hour was growing late, the day had been overcast, and a damp chill that searched the marrow was settling as the short afternoon drew to a close. The prisoner's naked body showed very white beneath his shock of coal-black hair; his flesh seemed tender and the onlookers stared at it in fascination.
Joe McCaskey was a man of nerve; he held himself erect; there was defiance in the gaze which he leveled at the faces below him. But his brother Jim was not made of such stern, stuff—he was the meaner, the more cowardly of the pair—and these methodical preparations, the certainty of his own forthcoming ordeal, bred in him a desperate panic. The sight of his brother's flesh bared to the bite of the lash brought home to him the horrifying significance of a flogging, and then, as if to emphasize that significance, the executioner gave his cat-o'-nine-tails a practice swing. As the lashes hissed through the air the victim at the post stiffened rigidly, but his brother, outside the inclosure, writhed in his tracks and uttered a faint moan. Profiting by the inattention of his captors, Jim McCaskey summoned his strength and with an effort born of desperation wrenched himself free. Hands grasped at him as he bolted, bodies barred his way, but he bore them down; before the meaning of the commotion had dawned upon the crowd at large he had fought his way out and was speeding down the street. But fleet-footed men were at his heels, a roar of rage burst from the mob, and in a body it took up the chase. Down the stumpy, muddy trail went the pursuit, and every command to halt spurred the fleeing man to swifter flight. Cabin doors opened; people came running from their tents; some tried to fling themselves in the way of the escaping criminal; packers toiling up the trail heard the approaching clamor, shook off their burdens and endeavored to seize the figure that came bounding ahead of it. But Jim dodged them all. Failing in their attempt to intercept him, these newcomers joined the chase, and the fugitive, once the first frenzy of excitement had died in him, heard their footsteps gaining on him. He was stark mad by now; black terror throttled him. Then some one fired a shot; that shot was followed by others; there came a scattered fusillade, and with a mighty leap Jim McCaskey fell. He collapsed in midair; he was dead when his pursuers reached him.
Mob spirit is a peculiar thing; its vagaries are difficult to explain or to analyze. Some trivial occurrence may completely destroy its temper, or again merely serve to harden it and give it edge. In this instance the escape, the flight, the short, swift pursuit and its tragic ending, had the effect, not of sobering the assembled citizens of Sheep Camp, not of satisfying their long-slumbering rage, but of inflaming it, of intoxicating them to a state of insane triumph. Like the Paris mobs that followed shouting, in the wake of the tumbrels bound for the guillotine, these men came trooping back to the scene of execution, and as they came they bellowed hoarsely and they waved their arms.
Men react powerfully to environment; they put on rough ways with rough clothes. Smooth pavements, soap and hot water, safety-razors, are strong civilizing agents, but a man begins to revert in the time it takes his beard to grow. These fellows had left the world they knew behind them; they were in a world they knew not. Old standards had fallen, new standards had been reared, new values had attached to crime, therefore they demanded that the business in hand go on. Such was the spirit of the Chilkoot trail.
At the first stroke of the descending whip a howl went up—a merciless howl, a howl of fierce exultation. Joe McCaskey rocked forward upon the balls of his feet; his frame was racked by a spasm of agony; he strained at his thongs until his shoulder muscles swelled. The flesh of his back knotted and writhed; livid streaks leaped out upon it, then turned crimson and began to trickle blood.
"ONE!" roared the mob.
The wielder of the scourge swung his weapon again; again the leather strips wrapped around the victim's ribs and laid open their defenseless covering.
McCaskey lunged forward, then strained, backward; the tent-frame creaked as he pulled at it. His head was drawn far back between his shoulders, his face was convulsed, and his gums were bared in a skyward grin. If he uttered any sound it was lost in the uproar.
It was a frightful punishment. The man's flesh was being stripped from his bones.
The count went on monotonously, for the fellow with the whip swung slowly, putting his whole strength behind every blow. When it had climbed to eight the prisoner's body was dripping with blood, his trousers-band was sodden with it. When it had reached ten he hung suspended by his wrists and only a fierce involuntary muscular reaction answered the caress of the nine lashes.
Forty stripes had been voted as the penalty, but 'Poleon Doret vaulted to the platform, seized the upraised whip, and tore it from the executioner's hand. He turned upon the crowd a countenance white with fury and disgust.
"Enough!" he shouted. "By Gar! You keel him next! If you mus' w'ip somebody, w'ip me; dis feller is mos' dead." He strode to the post and with a slash of his hunting-knife cut McCaskey down. This action was greeted by an angry yell of protest; there was a rush toward the platform, but 'Poleon was joined by the leader of the posse, who scrambled through the press and ranged himself in opposition to the audience. The old man was likewise satiated with this torture; his face was wet with sweat; beneath his drooping gray mustache his teeth were set.
"Back up, you hyenas!" he cried, shrilly. "The show's over. The man took his medicine and he took it like a man. He's had enough."
"Gimme the whip. I'll finish the job," some one shouted.
The former speaker bent forward abristle with defiance.
"You try it!" he spat out. "You touch that whip, and by God, I'll kill you!" He lent point to this threat by drawing and cocking his six-shooter. "If you men ain't had enough blood for one day, I'll let a little more for you." His words ended in a torrent of profanity. "Climb aboard!" he shrilled. "Who's got the guts to try?"
Doret spoke to him shortly, "Dese men ain't goin' mak' no trouble, m'sieu'." With that he turned his back and, heedless of the clamor, began to minister to the bleeding man. He had provided himself with a bottle of lotion, doubtless some antiseptic snatched from the canvas drugstore down the street, and with this he wet a handkerchief; then he washed McCaskey's lacerated back. A member of the committee joined him in this work of mercy; soon others came to their assistance, and gradually the crowd began breaking up. Some one handed the sufferer a drink of whisky, which revived him considerably, and by the time he was ready to receive his upper garments he was to some extent master of himself.
Joe McCaskey accepted these attentions without a word of thanks, without a sign of gratitude. He appeared to be numbed, paralyzed, by the nervous shock he had undergone, and yet he was not paralyzed, for his eyes were intensely alive. They were wild, baleful; his roving glance was like poison to the men it fell upon.
"You're due to leave camp," he was told, "and you're going to take the first boat from Dyea. Is there anything you want to say, anything you want to do, before you go?"
"I—want something to—eat," Joe answered, hoarsely. "I'm hungry." These were the first words he had uttered; they met with astonishment; nevertheless he was led to the nearest restaurant. Surrounded by a silent, curious group, he crouched over the board counter and wolfed a ravenous meal. When he had finished he rose, turned, and stared questioningly at the circle of hostile faces; his eyes still glittered with that basilisk glare of hatred and defiance. There was something huge, disconcerting, about the man. Not once had he appealed for mercy, not once had he complained, not once had he asked about his brother; he showed neither curiosity nor concern over Jim's fate, and now he betrayed the utmost indifference to his own. He merely shifted that venomous stare from one face to another as if indelibly to photograph each and every one of them upon his mind.
But the citizens of Sheep Camp were not done with him yet. His hands were again bound, this time behind him; a blanket roll was roped upon his shoulders, upon his breast was hung a staring placard which read:
"I am a thief! Spit on me and send me along."
Thus decorated, he met his crowning indignity. Extending from the steps of the restaurant far down the street twin rows of men had formed, and this gauntlet Joe McCaskey was forced to run. He bore this ordeal as he had borne the other. Men jeered at him, they flung handfuls of wet moss and mud at him, they spat upon him, some even struck him, bound as he was.
Sickened at the sight, Pierce Phillips witnessed the final chapter of this tragedy into which the winds of chance had blown him. For one instant only did his eyes meet those of his former tentmate, but during that brief glance the latter made plain his undying hatred. McCaskey's gaze intensified, his upper lip drew back in a grimace similar to that which he had lifted to the sky when agony ran through his veins like fire; he seemed to concentrate the last ounce of his soul's energy in the sending of some wordless message. Hellish fury, a threat too baneful, too ominous, for expression dwelt in that stare; then a splatter of mire struck him in the face and blotted it out.
When the last jeer had died away, when the figure of Joe McCaskey had disappeared into the misty twilight, Phillips drew a deep breath. What a day this had been, what a tumult he had lived through, what an experience he had undergone! This was an adventure! He had lived, he had made an enemy. Life had come his way, and the consciousness of that fact caused him to tingle. This would be something to talk about; what would the folks back home say to this? And the Countess—that wonderful woman of ice and fire! That superwoman who could sway the minds of men, whose wit was quicker than light. Well, she had saved him, saved his good name, if not his neck, and his life was hers. Who was she? What mission brought her here? What hurry crowded on her heels? What idle chance had flung them into each other's arms? Or was it idle chance? Was there such a thing as chance, after all? Were not men's random fortunes all laid out in conformity with some obscure purpose to form a part of some intricate design? Dust he was, dust blown upon the breath of the North, as were these other human atoms which had been borne thither from the farthest quarters of the earth; but when that dust had settled would it not arrange itself into patterns mapped out at the hour of birth or long before? Somehow he believed that such would be the case.
As for the Countess, his way was hers, her way was his; he could not bear to think of losing her. She was big, she was great, she drew him by the spell of some strange magic.
The peppery old man who, with Doret's help, had defied the miners' meeting approached him to inquire:
"Say, why didn't old Tom come back with you from Linderman?"
"Old Tom?"
"Sure! Old Tom Linton. We're pardners. I'm Jerry Quirk."
"He was tired out."
"Tired!" Mr. Quirk snorted derisively. "What tired him? He can't tote enough grub to satisfy his own hunger. Me, I'm double-trippin'—relayin' our stuff to the Summit and breakin' my back at it. I can't make him understand we'd ought to keep the outfit together; he's got it scattered like a mad woman's hair. But old Tom's in the sere and yellow leaf: he's onnery, like all old men. I try to humor him, but—here's a limit." The speaker looked Pierce over shrewdly. "You said you was packin' for wages. Well, old Tom ain't any help to me. You look strong. Mebbe I could hire you."
Phillips shook his head. "I don't want work just now," said he. "I'm going to Dyea in the morning."
Jim McCaskey was buried where he had fallen, and there beside the trail, so that all who passed might read and ponder, the men of Sheep Camp raised a board with this inscription:
"Here lies the body of a thief."
A certain romantic glamour attaches to all new countries, but not every man is responsive to it. To the person who finds enjoyment, preoccupation, in studying a ruin or in contemplating glories, triumphs, dramas long dead and gone, old buildings, old cities, and old worlds sound a resistless call. The past is peopled with impressive figures, to be sure; it is a tapestry into which are woven scenes of tremendous significance and events of the greatest moment, and it is quite natural, therefore, that the majority of people should experience greater fascination in studying it than in painting new scenes upon a naked canvas with colors of their own imagining. To them new countries are crude, uninteresting. But there is another type of mind which finds a more absorbing spell in the contemplation of things to come than of things long past; another temperament to which the proven and the tried possess a flat and tasteless flavor. They are restless, anticipative people; they are the ones who blaze trails. To them great cities, established order, the intricate structure of well-settled life, are both monotonous and oppressive; they do not thrive well thereunder. But put them out on the fringe of things, transplant them to wild soil, and the sap runs, they flower rankly.
To Pierce Phillips the new surroundings into which he had been projected were intensely stimulating; they excited him as he had never been excited, and each day he awoke to the sense of new adventures. Life, as he had known it, had always been good—and full, too, for that matter—and he had hugely enjoyed it; nevertheless, it had impressed upon him a sense of his own insignificance. He had been lost, submerged, in it. Here, on the threshold of a new world, he had begun to find himself, and the experience was delightful. By some magic he had been lifted to a common level with every other man, and no one had advantage over him. The momentous future was as much his as theirs and the God of Luck was in charge of things.
There was a fever in the very air he breathed, the food he ate, the water he drank. Life ran at a furious pace and it inspired in him supreme exhilaration to be swept along by it. Over all this new land was a purple haze of mystery—a sense of the Unknown right at hand. The Beyond was beckoning; it was as if great curtains had parted and he beheld vistas of tremendous promise. Keenest of all, perhaps, was his joy at discovering himself.
Appreciation of this miraculous rebirth was fullest when, at rare intervals, he came off the trail and back to Dyea, for then he renewed his touch with that other world, and the contrast became more evident.
Dyea throbbed nowadays beneath a mighty head of steam; it had grown surprisingly and it was intensely alive. Phillips never came back to it without an emotional thrill and a realization of great issues, great undertakings, in process of working out. The knowledge that he had a part in them aroused in him an intoxicating pleasure.
Dyea had become a metropolis of boards and canvas, of logs and corrugated iron. Stores had risen, there were hotels and lodging-houses, busy restaurants and busier saloons whence came the sounds of revelry by night and by day. It was a healthy revelry, by the way, like the boisterous hilarity of a robust boy. Dyea was just that—an overgrown, hilarious boy. There was nothing querulous or sickly about this child; it was strong, it was sturdy, it was rough; it romped with everybody and it grew out of its clothes overnight. Every house, every tent, in the town was crowded; supply never quite overtook demand.
Pack-animals were being imported, bridges were being built, the swamps were being hastily corduroyed; there was talk of a tramway up the side of the Chilkoot, but the gold rush increased daily, and, despite better means of transportation, the call for packers went unanswered and the price per pound stayed up. New tribes of Indians from down the coast had moved thither, babies and baggage, and they were growing rich. The stampede itself resembled the spring run of the silver salmon—it was equally mad, equally resistless. It was equally wasteful, too, for birds and beasts of prey fattened upon it and the outsetting current bore a burden of derelicts.
Values were extravagant; money ran like water; the town was wide open and it took toll from every new-comer. The ferment was kept active by a trickle of outgoing Klondikers, a considerable number of whom passed through on their way back to the States. These men had been educated to the liberal ways of the "inside" country and were prodigal spenders. The scent of the salt sea, the sight of new faces, the proximity of the open world, were like strong drink to them, hence they untied their mooseskin "pokes" and scattered the contents like sawdust. Their tales of the new El Dorado stimulated a similar recklessness among their hearers.
To a boy like Pierce Phillips, in whom the spirit of youth was a flaming torch, all this spelled glorious abandon, a supreme riot of Olympic emotions.
Precisely what reason he had for coming to town this morning he did not know; nevertheless, he was drawn seaward as by a mighty magnet. He told himself that ordinary gratitude demanded that he thank the Countess Courteau for her service to him, but as a matter of fact he was less interested in voicing his gratitude than in merely seeing her again. He was not sure but that she would resent his thanks; nevertheless, it was necessary to seek her out, for already her image was nebulous, and he could not piece together a satisfactory picture of her. She obsessed his thoughts, but his intense desire to fix her indelibly therein had defeated its purpose and had blurred the photograph. Who was she? What was she? Where was she going? What did she think of him? The possibility that she might leave Dyea before answering those questions spurred him into a gait that devoured the miles.
But when he turned into the main street of the town his haste vanished and a sudden embarrassment overtook him. What would he say to her, now that he was here? How would he excuse or explain his obvious pursuit? Would she see through him? If so, what light would kindle in those ice-blue eyes? The Countess was an unusual woman. She knew men, she read them clearly, and she knew how to freeze them in their tracks. Pierce felt quite sure that she would guess his motives, therefore he made up his mind to dissemble cunningly. He decided to assume a casual air and to let chance arrange their actual meeting. When he did encounter her, a quick smile of pleased surprise on his part, a few simple words of thanks, a manly statement that he was glad she had not left before his duties permitted him to look her up, and she would be completely deceived. Thereafter fate would decree how well or how badly they got acquainted. Yes, that was the way to go about it.
Having laid out this admirable program, he immediately defied it by making a bee-line for the main hotel, a big board structure still in process of erection. His feet carried him thither in spite of himself. Like a homing-pigeon he went, and instinct guided him unerringly, for he found the Countess Courteau in the office.
She was dressed as on the day before, but by some magic she had managed to freshen and to brighten herself. In her hand she held her traveling-bag; she was speaking to the proprietor as Pierce stepped up behind her.
"Fifteen thousand dollars as it stands," he heard her say. "That's my price. I'll make you a present of the lumber. The Queen leaves in twenty minutes."
The proprietor began to argue, but she cut him short: "That's my last word. Three hundred per cent, on your money."
"But—"
"Think it over!" Her tone was cool, her words were crisp. "I take the lighter in ten minutes." She turned to find Phillips at her shoulder.
"Good morning!" Her face lit up with a smile; she extended her hand, and he seized it as a fish swallows a bait. He blushed redly.
"I'm late," he stammered. "I mean I—I hurried right in to tell you—"
"So they didn't hang you?"
"No! You were wonderful! I couldn't rest until I had told you how deeply grateful—"
"Nonsense!" The Countess shrugged her shoulders. "I'm glad you came before I left."
"You're not—going away?" he queried, with frank apprehension.
"In ten minutes."
"See here!" It was the hotel proprietor who addressed the woman. "You can't possibly make it before snow flies, and the boats are overloaded coming north; they can't handle the freight they've got."
"I'll be back in three weeks," the Countess asserted, positively. "I'll bring my own pack-train. If something should delay me, I'll open up here and put you out of business. This town will be good for a year or two."
"You can't threaten me," the fellow blustered. "Twenty thousand is my price."
"Good-by!" The Countess turned once more to Pierce.
"Are you leaving for good?" he inquired, despondently, unable to dissemble.
"Bless you, no! I'll probably die in this country. I'm going out on business, but I'll be back in Dawson ahead of the ice. You'll be going across soon, I dare say. Come, walk down to the beach with me."
Together they left the building and found their way to the landing-place, where a lighter was taking on passengers for the steamship Queen.
"I suppose you know how sorry I am for what happened yesterday," Pierce began.
The Countess looked up from her abstracted contemplation of the scene; there was a faint inquiry in her face.
"Sorry? I should think you'd be about the happiest boy in Dyea."
"I mean what Jim McCaskey said. I'd have—killed him if I could. I tried to!"
"Oh!" The woman nodded; her teeth gleamed in a smile that was not at all pleasant. "I heard about the shooting this morning; I meant to ask you about it, but I was thinking of other things." She measured the burly frame of the young man at her side and the vindictiveness died out of her expression. Phillips was good to look at; he stood a full six feet in height, his close-cropped hair displayed a shapely head, and his features were well molded. He was a handsome, open lad, the Countess acknowledged. Aloud she said: "I dare say every woman loves to have a man fight for her. I do my own fighting, usually, but it's nice to have a champion." Her gaze wandered back to the hotel, then up the pine-flanked valley toward the Chilkoot; her abstraction returned; she appeared to weigh some intricate mathematical calculation.
With his hands in his pockets the hotel-keeper came idling down to the water's edge and, approaching his departing guest, said, carelessly:
"I've been thinking it over, ma'am. There isn't room for two of us here. I might make it seventeen thousand five hundred, if—"
"Fifteen! No more."
There came a signal from the steamer in the offing; the Countess extended her hand to Pierce.
"Good-by! If you're still here three weeks from now you may be able to help me." Then she joined the procession up the gang-plank.
But the hotel-keeper halted her. "Fifteen is a go!" he said, angrily.
The Countess Courteau stepped back out of the line. "Very well. Make out the bill of sale. I'll meet you at Healy & Wilson's in ten minutes."
A moment later she smiled at Pierce and heaved a sigh of relief.
"Well, I brought him to time, didn't I? I'd never have gone aboard. I'd have paid him twenty-five thousand dollars, as a matter of fact, but he hadn't sense enough to see it. I knew I had him when he followed me down here."
"What have you bought?"
"That hotel yonder—all but the lumber."
"All BUT the lumber! Why, there isn't much else!" Pierce was more than a little astonished.
"Oh yes, there is! Dishes, hardware, glass, beds, bedding, windows, fixtures—everything inside the building, that's what I bought. That's all I wanted. I'll have the place wrecked and the stuff packed up and on men's backs in two days. It cost—I don't know what it cost, and I don't care. The fellow was perfectly right, though; I haven't time to get to Seattle and back again. Know any men who want work?"
"I want it."
"Know any others?" Pierce shook his head. "Find some—the more the better. Carpenters first, if there are any." The speaker was all business now. "You're working for me from this minute, understand? Treat me right and I'll treat you right. I'll take you through to Dawson. I want carpenters, packers, boatmen; they must work fast. Long hours, long chances, big pay, that's what it will mean. That outfit must be in Dawson ahead of the ice. Such a thing has never been done; it can't be done! But I'll do it! Do you want to tackle the job?"
Phillips' eyes were dancing. "I'll eat it up!" he cried, breathlessly.
"Good! I think you'll do. Wait for me at the hotel." With a brisk nod she was off, leaving him in a perfect whirl of emotions.
Her man! She had called him that. "Fast work, long hours, long chances"; an impossible task! What happy impulse had sped him to town this morning? Ten minutes was the narrow margin by which he had won his opportunity, and now the door to the North had opened at a woman's touch. Inside lay—everything! She thought he'd do? Why, she must KNOW he'd do. She must know he'd give up his life for her!
He pinched himself to ascertain if he were dreaming.