The Gold Belt Saloon had enjoyed a profitable all-night patronage; less than an hour previously Morris Best had rounded up the last of his gay song-birds and put an end to their carnival. The poker game, however, was still in progress at the big round table. Already numerous early risers were hurrying in to fortify themselves against the raw day just breaking, and among these last-named, by some evil whim of fate, chanced to be the man for whom Sam Kirby had so patiently waited. The fellow had not come seeking trouble—no one who knew the one-armed gambler's reputation sought trouble with him—but, learning that Kirby was still awake and in a dangerous mood, he had entered the Gold Belt determined to protect himself in case of eventualities.
Doret was but a few seconds behind the man, but those few seconds were fateful. As the pilot stepped into the saloon he beheld a sight that was enough to freeze him motionless. The big kerosene lamps, swung from the rafter braces above, shed over the interior a peculiar sickly radiance, yellowed now by reason of the pale morning light outside. Beneath one of the lamps a tableau was set. Sam Kirby and the man he had struck the night before were facing each other in the center of the room, and Doret heard the gambler cry:
"I've been laying for you!"
Kirby's usually impassive face was a sight; it was fearfully contorted; it was the countenance of a maniac. His words were loud and uncannily distinct, and the sound of them had brought a breathless hush over the place. At the moment of Doret's entrance the occupants of the saloon seemed petrified; they stood rooted in their tracks as if the anger in that menacing voice had halted them in mid-action. 'Poleon, too, turned cold, for it seemed to him that he had opened the door upon a roomful of wax figures posed in theatric postures. Then in the flash of an eye the scene dissolved into action, swift and terrifying.
What happened was so unexpected, it came with such a lack of warning, that few of the witnesses, even though they beheld every move, were able later to agree fully upon details. Whether Kirby actually fired the first shot, or whether his attempt to do so spurred his antagonist to lightning quickness, was long a matter of dispute. In a flash the room became a place of deafening echoes. Shouts of protest, yells of fright, the crash of overturning furniture, the stamp of fleeing feet mingled with the loud explosion of gunshots—pandemonium.
Fortunately the troupe of women who had been here earlier were gone and the tent was by no means crowded. Even so, there were enough men present to raise a mighty turmoil. Some of them took shelter behind the bar, others behind the stove and the tables; some bolted headlong for the door; still others hurled themselves bodily against the canvas walls and ripped their way out.
The duel was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Sam Kirby's opponent reeled backward and fetched up against the bar; above the din his hoarse voice rose:
"He started it! You saw him! Tried to kill me!"
He waved a smoking pistol-barrel at the gambler, who had sunk to his knees. Even while he was shouting out his plea for justification Kirby slid forward upon his face and the fingers of his outstretched hand slowly unloosed themselves from his gun.
It had been a shocking, a sickening affair; the effect of it had been intensified by reason of its unexpectedness, and now, although it was over, excitement gathered fury. Men burst forth from their places of concealment and made for the open air; the structure vomited its occupants out into the snow.
'Poleon Doret had been swept aside, then borne backward ahead of that stampede, and at length found himself wedged into a corner. He heard the victor repeating: "You saw him. Tried to kill me!" The speaker turned a blanched face and glaring eyes upon those witnesses who still remained. "He's Sam Kirby. I had to get him or he'd have got me." He pressed a hand to his side, then raised it; it was smeared with blood. In blank stupefaction the man stared at this phenomenon.
Doret was the first to reach that motionless figure sprawled face down upon the floor; it was he who lifted the gray head and spoke Kirby's name. A swift examination was enough to make quite sure that the old man was beyond all help. Outside, curiosity had done its work and the human tide was setting back into the wrecked saloon. When 'Poleon rose with the body in his arms he was surrounded by a clamorous crowd. Through it he bore the limp figure to the cloth-covered card-table, and there, among the scattered emblems of Sam Kirby's calling, 'Poleon deposited his burden. By those cards and those celluloid disks the old gambler had made his living; grim fitness was in the fact that they should carpet his bier.
When 'Poleon Doret had forced his way by main strength out of the Gold Belt Saloon, he removed his cap and, turning his face to the wind, he breathed deeply of the cool, clean air. His brow was moist; he let the snowflakes fall upon it the while he shut his eyes and strove to think. Engaged thus, he heard Lucky Broad address him.
With the speaker was Kid Bridges; that they had come thither on the run was plain, for they were panting.
"What's this about Kirby?" Lucky gasped.
"We heard he's just been croaked!" the Kid exclaimed.
'Poleon nodded. "I seen it all. He had it comin' to him," and with a gesture he seemed to brush a hideous picture from before his eyes.
"Old Sam! DEAD!"
Broad, it seemed, was incredulous. He undertook to bore his way into the crowd that was pressing through the saloon door, but Doret seized him.
"Wait!" cried the latter. "Dat ain't all; dat ain't de worst."
"Say! Where's Letty?" Bridges inquired. "Was she with him when it happened? Does she know—"
"Dat's w'at I'm goin' tell you." In a few words 'Poleon made known the girl's condition, how he had happened to encounter her, and how he had been looking for her father when the tragedy occurred. His listeners showed their amazement and their concern.
"Gosh! That's tough!" It was Broad speaking. "Me 'n' the Kid had struck camp and was on our way down to fix up our boat when we heard about the killin'. We couldn't believe it, for Sam—"
"Seems like it was a waste of effort to save that outfit," Bridges broke in. "Sam dead and Letty dyin'—all in this length of time! She's a good kid; she's goin' to feel awful. Who's goin' to break the news to her?"
"I don' know." 'Poleon frowned in deep perplexity. "Dere's doctor in dere now," he nodded toward the Gold Belt. "I'm goin' tak' him to her, but she mus' have woman for tak' care of her. Mebbe Madame la Comtesse—"
"Why, the Countess is gone! She left at daylight. Me 'n' the Kid are to follow as soon as we get our skiff fixed."
"Gone?"
"Sure!"
"Sacre! De one decent woman in dis place, Wal!" 'Poleon shrugged. "Dose dance-hall gal' is got good heart—"
"Hell! They pulled out ahead of our gang Best ran his boats through the White Horse late yesterday and he was off before it was light. I know, because Phillips told me. He's joined out with 'em—blew in early and got his war-bag. He left the Countess flat."
Doret was dumfounded at this news and he showed his dismay.
"But—dere's no more women here!" he stammered. "Dat young lady she's seeck; she mus' be nurse'. By Gar! Who's goin' do it, eh?"
The three of them were anxiously discussing the matter when they were joined by the doctor to whom 'Poleon had referred. "I've done all there is to do here," the physician announced. "Now about Kirby's daughter. You say she's delirious?" The pilot nodded. He told of Rouletta's drenching on the afternoon previous and of the state in which he had just found her. "Jove! Pneumonia, most likely. It sounds serious, and I'm afraid I can't do much. You see I'm all ready to go, but—of course I'll do what I can."
"Who's goin' nurse her?" 'Poleon demanded for a second time. "Dere ain't no women in dis place."
The physician shook his head. "Who indeed? It's a wretched situation! If she's as ill as you seem to think, why, we'll have to do the best we can, I suppose. She probably won't last long. Come!" Together he and the French Canadian hurried away.
It was afternoon when Lucky Broad and Kid Bridges came to 'PoleonDoret's tent and called its owner outside.
"We're hitched up and ready to say 'gid-dap,' but we came back to see how Letty's getting along," the former explained.
'Poleon shook his head doubtfully; his face was grave. "She's bad seeck."
"Does she know about old Sam?"
"She ain't know not'in'. She's crazee altogether. Poor li'l gal, she's jus' lak baby. I'm scare' as hell."
The confidence-men stared at each other silently; then they stared atDoret. "What we goin' to do about it?" the Kid inquired, finally.
'Poleon was at a loss for an answer; he made no secret of his anxiety."De doctor say she mus' stay right here—"
"He say if she get cold once more—pouf! She die lak dat! Plenty fire, plenty blanket, medicine every hour, dat's all. I'm prayin' for come along some woman—any kin' of woman at all—I don' care if she's squaw."
"There ain't any skirts back of us. Best's outfit was the last to leaveLinderman. There won't be any more till after the freeze-up."
"Eh bien! Den I s'pose I do de bes' I can. She's poor seeck gal in beeg, cold countree wit' no frien's, no money—"
"No money?" Broad was startled. "Why, Sam was 'fat'! He had a bank-roll—"
"He lose five t'ousan' dollar' playin' card las' night. Less 'n eighty dollar' dey lef' him. Eighty dollar' an'—dis." From the pocket of his mackinaw 'Poleon drew Kirby's revolver, that famous single-action six-shooter, the elaborate ivory grip of which was notched in several places. Broad and his partner eyed the weapon with intense interest.
"That's Agnes, all right!" the former declared. "And that's where old Sam kept his books." He ran his thumb-nail over the significant file-marks on the handle. "Looks like an alligator had bit it."
Bridges was even more deeply impressed by the announcement of Kirby's losses than was his partner. "Sam must of been easy pickin', drunk like that. He was a gamblin' fool when he was right, but I s'pose he couldn't think of nothin' except fresh meat for Agnes. Letty had him tagged proper, and I bet she'd of saved him if she hadn't of gone off her nut. D'you think she's got a chance?"
"For get well?" 'Poleon shrugged his wide shoulders. "De doctor say it's goin' be hard pull. He's goin' stay so long he can, den—wal, mebbe 'noder doctor come along. I hope so."
"If she does win out, then what?" Broad inquired.
'Poleon considered the question. "I s'pose I tak' her back to Dyea an' send her home. I got some dog."
Lucky studied the speaker curiously; there was a peculiar hostile gleam in his small, colorless eyes. "Medicine every hour, and a steady fire, you say. You don't figger to get much sleep, do you?"
"Non. No. But me, I'm strong feller; I can sleep hangin' up by de ear if I got to."
"What's the big idea?"
"Eh?" Doret was frankly puzzled. "Wat you mean, 'beeg idea'?"
"What d'you expect to get out of all this?"
"M'sieu'!" The French Canadian's face flushed, he raised his head and met the gaze of the two men. There was an air of dignity about him as he said: "Dere's plenty t'ing in dis worl' we don' get pay' for. You didn't 'spect no pay yesterday when you run de W'ite 'Orse for save dis gal an' her papa, did you? No. Wal, I'm woodsman, river-man; I ain't dam' stampeder. Dis is my countree, we're frien's together long tam; I love it an' it loves me. I love de birds and hanimals, an' dey're frien's wit' me also. 'Bout spring-tam, w'en de grub she's short, de Canada jays dey come to visit me, an' I feed dem; sometam' I fin' dere's groun-squirrel's nest onder my tent, an' mebbe mister squirrel creep out of his hole, t'inkin' summer is come. Dat feller he's hongry; he steal my food an' he set 'longside my stove for eat him. You t'ink I hurt dose he'pless li'l t'ing? You s'pose I mak' dem pay for w'at dey eat?"
'Poleon was soaring as only his free soul could soar; he indicated the tent at his back, whence issued the sound of Rouletta Kirby's ceaseless murmurings.
"Dis gal—she's tiny snowbird wit' broken wing. Bien! I fix her wing debes' I can. I mak' her well an' I teach her to fly again. Dat's all."Broad and Bridges had listened attentively, their faces impassive.Lucky was the first to speak.
"Letty's a good girl, y'understand. She's different to these others—"
'Poleon interrupted with a gesture of impatience. "It ain't mak' no difference if she's good or bad. She's seeck."
"Me 'n' the Kid have done some heavy thinkin', an' we'd about decided to get a high stool and take turns lookin' out Letty's game, just to see that her bets went as they laid, but I got a hunch you're a square guy. What D'YOU think, Kid?"
Mr. Bridges nodded his head slowly. "I got the same hunch. The point is this," he explained. "We can't very well throw the Countess—we got some of her outfit—and, anyhow, we'd be about as handy around an invalid as a coupla cub bears. I think we'll bow out. But, Frenchy"—the gambler spoke with intense earnestness—"if ever we hear a kick from that gal we'll—we'll foller you like a track. Won't we, Lucky?"
"We'll foller him to hell!" Mr. Broad feelingly declared.
Gravely, ceremoniously, the callers shook hands with Doret, then they returned whence they had come. They went their way; Rouletta's delirium continued; 'Poleon's problem increased daily; meanwhile, however, the life of the North did not slacken a single pulse-beat.
Never since their earliest associations had Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk found themselves in such absolute accord, in such complete harmony of understanding, as during the days that immediately followed their reconciliation. Each man undertook to outdo the other in politeness; each man forced himself to be considerate, and strove at whatever expense to himself to lighten the other's burdens; all of their relations were characterized by an elaborate, an almost mid-Victorian courtesy. A friendly rivalry in self-sacrifice existed between them; they quarreled good-naturedly over the dish-washing, that disgusting rite which tries the patience of every grown man; when there was wood to be cut they battled with each other for the ax.
But there is a limit to politeness; unfailing sunshine grows tedious, and so does a monotonous exercise of magnanimity.
While it had been an easy matter to cut their rowboat in two, the process of splicing it together again had required patience and ingenuity, and it had resulted in delay. By the time they arrived at Miles Canon, therefore, the season was far advanced and both men, without knowing it, were in a condition of mind to welcome any sort of a squall that would serve to freshen the unbearably stagnant atmosphere of amiability in which they were slowly suffocating.
Here for the first time the results of their quarrel arose to embarrass them; they could find no pilot who would risk his life in a craft so badly put together as theirs. After repeated discouragements the partners took counsel with each other; reluctantly they agreed that they were up against it.
"Seems like I've about ruined us," Mr. Quirk acknowledged, ruefully.
"You? Why, Jerry, it was my fault we cut the old ship in two," Mr.Linton declared.
The former speaker remonstrated, gently. "Now, Tom, it's just like you to take the blame, but it was my doin's; I instigated that fratricidal strife."
Sweetly but firmly Linton differed with his partner. "It ain't often that you're wrong, Jerry, old boy—it ain't more than once or twice in a lifetime—but you're wrong now. I'm the guilty wretch and I'd ought to hang for it. My rotten temper—"
"Pshaw! You got one of the nicest dispositions I ever see—in a man. You're sweeter 'n a persimmon. I pecked at you till your core was exposed. I'm a thorn in the flesh, Tom, and folks wouldn't criticize you none for doin' away with me."
"You're 'way off. I climbed you with my spurs—"
"Now, Tom!" Sadly Mr. Quirk wagged his gray head. "I don't often argue with anybody, especially with you, but the damnable idea of dividin' our spoils originated in my evil mind and I'm goin' to pay the penalty. I'll ride this white-pine outlaw through by myself. You ear him down till I get both feet in the stirrups, then turn him a-loose; I'll finish settin' up and I won't pull leather."
"How you talk! Boats ain't like horses; it'll take a good oarsman to navigate these rapids—"
"Well?" Quirk looked up quickly. "I'm a good oarsman." There was a momentary pause. "Ain't I?"
Mr. Linton hastily remedied his slip of the tongue. "You're a bear!" he asserted, with feeling. "I don't know as I ever saw a better boatman than you, for your weight and experience, but—there's a few things about boats that you never had the chance to pick up, you being sort of a cactus and alkali sailor. For instance, when you want a boat to go 'gee' you have to pull on the 'off' oar. It's plumb opposite to the way you steer a horse."
"Sure! Didn't I figger that out for the both of us? We 'most had a runaway till I doped it out."
Now this was a plain perversion of fact, for it was Tom who had made the discovery. Mr. Linton was about to so state the matter when he reflected that doubtless Jerry's intentions were honest and that his failing memory was to blame for the misstatement. It was annoying to be robbed of the credit for an important discovery, of course, but Tom swallowed his resentment.
"The point is this," he said, with a resumption of geniality. "You'd get all wet in them rapids, Jerry, and—you know what that means. I'd rather take a chance on drowning myself than to nurse you through another bad cold."
It was a perfectly sincere speech—an indirect expression of deep concern that reflected no little credit upon the speaker's generosity. Tom was exasperated, therefore, when Jerry, by some characteristic process of crooked reasoning, managed to misinterpret it. Plaintively the latter said:
"I s'pose I AM a handicap to you, Tom. You're mighty consid'rate of my feelin's, not to throw it up to me any oftener than you do."
"I don't throw it up to you none. I never did. No, Jerry, I'll row the boat. You go overland and keep your feet dry."
"A lot of good that would do." Mr. Quirk spoke morosely. "I'd starve to death walkin' around if you lost the grub."
This struck Tom Linton as a very narrow, a very selfish way of looking at the matter. He had taken no such view of Jerry's offer; he had thought less about the grub than about his partner's safety. It was an inconsiderate and unfeeling remark. After a moment he said:
"You know I don't throw things up to you, Jerry. I ain't that kind."Mr. Quirk stirred uneasily. "You didn't mean to say that, did you?"
What Jerry would have answered is uncertain, for his attention at the moment was attracted by a stranger who strode down the bank and now accosted him and his partner jointly.
"Bonjour, m'sieu's!" said the new-comer. "I'm lookin' for buy some lemon'. You got some, no?"
Mr. Quirk spoke irritably. "Sure. We've got a few, but they ain't for sale."
The stranger—Quirk remembered him as the Frenchman, Doret, whom he had seen at Sheep Camp—smiled confidently.
"Oh yes! Everyt'ing is for sale if you pay 'nough for him," said he.
Now this fellow had broken the thread of a conversation into which a vague undertone of acrimony was creeping—a conversation that gave every indication of developing into an agreeable and soul-satisfying difference of opinion, if not even into a loud and free-spoken argument of the old familiar sort. To have the promise of an invigorating quarrel frustrated by an idiotic diversion concerning lemons caused both old men to turn their pent-up exasperation upon the speaker.
"We've got use for our lemons and we're going to keep them," said Tom."We're lemon-eaters—full of acid—that's us."
"We wouldn't give lemon aid to nobody." Jerry grinned in malicious enjoyment of his own wit.
"You got how many?" 'Poleon persisted.
"Oh, 'bout enough! Mebbe a dozen or two."
"I buy 'em. Dere's poor seeck lady—"
Tom cut in brusquely. "You won't buy anything here. Don't tell us your troubles. We've got enough of our own, and poverty ain't among the number."
"W'at trouble you got, eh? Me, I'm de trouble man. Mebbe I fix 'em."
Sourly the partners explained their difficulty. When 'Poleon understood he smiled again, more widely.
"Good! I mak' bargain wit' you, queeck. Me, I'm pilot of de bes' an' I tak' your boat t'rough for dose lemon'."
The elderly men sat up; they exchanged startled glances.
"D'you mean it?"
"I'm goin' have dose lemon'."
"Can't you buy any in the saloons?"
"No. Wal, w'at you say?"
Tom inquired of his partner, "Reckon you can get along without 'em,Jerry?"
"Why, I been savin' 'em for you."
"Then it's a go!"
"One t'ing you do for me, eh?" 'Poleon hesitated momentarily. "It's goin' tak' tam for fin' dam' fool to he'p me row dat bateau, but—I fin' him. Mebbe you set up wit' li'l seeck gal while I'm gone. What?" In a few words he made known the condition of affairs at his camp, and the old men agreed readily enough. With undisguised relief they clambered stiffly out of their boat and followed the French Canadian up the trail. As they toiled up the slope 'Poleon explained:
"De doctor he's go to Dawson, an' t'ree day dis gal been layin' seeck—crazee in de head. Every hour medicine, all de tam fire in de stove! Sapre! I'm half 'sleep."
"We'll set up with her as long as you want," Tom volunteered. "Being a family man myself, I'm a regular nurse."
"Me, too," Jerry exclaimed. "I never had no family, but I allus been handy around hosses, and hosses is the same as people, only bigger—"
Mr. Linton stifled a laugh at this remark. "That'll show you!" said he."You leave it to me, Jerry."
"Well, ain't they?"
"No."
"They are, too."
"Plumb different."
The argument waxed hot; it had reached its height when 'Poleon laid a finger upon his lips, commanding silence. On tiptoe he led the two men into his tent. When he had issued instructions and left in search of a boatman the partners seated themselves awkwardly, their caps in their hands. Curiously, apprehensively, they studied the fever-flushed face of the delirious girl.
"Purty, ain't she?" Jerry whispered.
Tom nodded. "She's sick, all right, too," he said in a similar tone; then, after a moment: "I've been thinking about them lemons. We're getting about a hundred dollars a dozen for 'em. Kind of a rotten trick, under the circumstances. I'm sorry you put it up to that feller the way you did."
Mr. Quirk stiffened, his eyes widened in astonishment.
"Me? I didn't put it up to him. You done it. They're your lemons."
"How d'you figure they're mine?"
"You bought 'em, didn't you?"
"I PAID for 'em, if that's what you mean, but I bought 'em for you, same as I bought that liquor. You've et most of 'em, and you've drank most of the whisky. You needed it worse than I did, Jerry, and I've always considered—"
Now any reference, any reflection upon his physical limitations, however remote or indirect, aroused Jerry's instant ire. "At it again, ain't you?" he cried, testily. "I s'pose you'll forget about that whisky in four or five years. I hope so—"
"'Sh-h!" Tom made a gesture commanding silence, for Jerry had unconsciously raised his voice. "What ails you?" he inquired, sweetly.
"Nothin' ails me," Jerry muttered under his breath. "That's the trouble. You're allus talkin' like it did—like I had one foot in the grave and was gaspin' my last. I'm hard as a hickory-nut. I could throw you down and set on you."
Mr. Linton opened hia bearded lips, then closed them again; he withdrew behind an air of wounded dignity. This, he reflected, was his reward for days of kindness, for weeks of uncomplaining sacrifice. Jerry was the most unreasonable, the most difficult person he had ever met; the more one did for him the crankier he became. There was no gratitude in the man, his skin wouldn't hold it. Take the matter of their tent, for instance: how would the old fellow have managed if he, Tom, had not, out of pure compassion, taken pity on him and rescued him from the rain back there at Linderman? Had Jerry remembered that act of kindness? He had not. On the contrary, he had assumed, and maintained, an attitude of indulgence that was in itself an offense—yes, more than an offense. Tom tried to center his mind upon his partner's virtues, but it was a difficult task, for honesty compelled him to admit that Jerry assayed mighty low when you analyzed him with care. Mr. Linton gave up the effort finally with a shake of his head.
"What you wigwaggin' about?" Jerry inquired, curiously. Tom made no answer. After a moment the former speaker whispered, meditatively: "I'D have GIVE him the lemons if he'd asked me for 'em. Sick people need lemons."
"Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't," Mr. Linton whispered, shortly.
"Lemons is acid, and acid cuts phlegm."
"Lemons ain't acid; they're alkali."
This statement excited a derisive snort from Mr. Quirk. "Alkali! My God! Ever taste alkali?" Jerry had an irritating way of asserting himself in regard to matters of which he knew less than nothing; his was the scornful certainty of abysmal ignorance.
"Did you ever give lemons to sick folks?" Tom inquired, in his turn.
"Sure! Thousands."
Now this was such an outrageous exaggeration that Linton was impelled to exclaim:
"RATS! You never SAW a thousand sick folks."
"I didn't say so. I said I'd given thousands of lemons—"
"Oh!" Tom filled his pipe and lit it, whereupon his partner breathed a sibilant warning:
"Put out that smudge! D'you aim to strangle the girl?"
With a guilty start the offender quenched the fire with his thumb.
"The idea of lightin' sheep-dip in a sick-room!" Mr. Quirk went on.With his cap he fanned violently at the fumes.
"You don't have to blow her out of bed," Tom growled. Clumsily he drew the blankets closer beneath the sick girl's chin, but in so doing he again excited his companion's opposition.
"Here!" Jerry protested. "She's burnin' up with fever. You blanket 'em when they've got chills." Gently he removed the covers from Rouletta's throat.
Linton showed his contempt for this ridiculous assertion by silently pulling the bedding higher and snugly tucking it in. Jerry promptly elbowed him aside and pulled it lower. Tom made an angry gesture, and for a third time adjusted the covers to suit himself, whereupon Jerry immediately changed them to accord with his ideas.
Aggressively, violently, but without words this time, the partners argued the matter. They were glaring at each other, they had almost come to blows when, with a start, Jerry looked at his watch. Swiftly he possessed himself of the medicine-glass and spoon; to Tom he whispered:
"Quick! Lift her up."
Linton refused. "Don't you know ANYTHING?" he queried. "Never move a sick person unless you have to. Give it to her as she lays."
"How you goin' to feed medicine out of a spoon to anybody layin' down?" the other demanded.
"Easy!" Tom took the glass and the teaspoon; together the two men bent over the bed.
But Linton's hands were shaky; when he pressed the spoon to Rouletta's lips he spilled its contents. The girl rolled her head restlessly.
"Pshaw! She moved."
"She never moved," Jerry contradicted. "You missed her." From his nostrils issued that annoying, that insulting, snort of derision which so sorely tried his partner's patience. "You had a fair shot at her, layin' down, Tom, and you never touched her."
"Maybe I'd have had better luck if you hadn't jiggled me."
"Hell! Who jiggled—?"
"'Sh—h!" Once more Mr. Quirk had spoken aloud. "If you've got to holler, go down by the rapids."
After several clumsy attempts both men agreed that their patient had doubtless received the equivalent of a full dose of medicine, so Tom replaced the glass and spoon. "I'm a little out of practice," he explained.
"I thought you done fine." Jerry spoke with what seemed to be genuine commendation. "You got it into her nose every time."
Tom exploded with wrath and it was Jerry's turn to command silence.
"Why don't you hire a hall?" the latter inquired. "Or mebbe I better tree a 'coon for you so you can bark as loud as you want to. Family man! Huh!" Linton bristled aggressively, but the whisperer continued:
"One head of children don't make a family any more 'n one head of heifers makes a herd."
Tom paled; he showed his teeth beneath his gray mustache. Leaning forward, he thrust his quivering bearded face close to the hateful countenance opposite him. "D'you mean to call my daughter a heifer?" he demanded, in restrained fury.
"Keep them whiskers to yourself," Jerry snapped. "You can't pick a row with me, Tom; I don't quarrel with nobody. I didn't call your daughter a heifer, and you know I didn't. No doubt she would of made a fine woman if she'd of grown up, but—Say! I bet I know why you lost her. I bet you poured so much medicine in her crib that she drownded." Jerry giggled at this thought.
"That ain't funny," the other rumbled. "If I thought you meant to call a member of my family a heifer—"
"You've called your wife worse 'n that. I've heard you."
"I meant everything I said. She was an old catamount and—"
"Prob'bly she was a fine woman." Jerry had a discourteous habit of interrupting. "No wonder she walked out and left you flat—she was human. No doubt she had a fine character to start with. So did I, for that matter, but there's a limit to human endurance."
"You don't have to put up with me any longer than you want to," Linton stormed, under his breath. "We can get a divorce easy. All it takes is a saw."
"You made that crack once before, and I called your bluff!" Jerry's angry face was now out-thrust; only with difficulty did he maintain a tone inaudible to the sick girl. "Out of pity I helped you up and handed you back your crutches. But this time I'll let you lay where you fall. A hundred dollars a dozen for lemons! For a poor little sick girl! You 'ain't got the bowels of a shark!"
"It was your proposition!"
"It wasn't!"
"It was!"
"Some folks lie faster 'n a goat can gallop."
"Meaning me?"
"Who else would I mean?"
"Why don't you CALL me a liar and be done with it?"
"I do. It ain't news to anybody but you!"
Having safely landed his craft below the rapids, 'Poleon Doret hurried back to his tent to find the partners sitting knee to knee, face to face, and hurling whispered incoherencies at each other. Both men were in a poisonous mood, both were ripe for violence. They overflowed with wrath. They were glaring; they shook their fists; they were racked with fury; insult followed abuse; and the sounds that issued from their throats were like the rustlings of a corn-field in an autumn gale. Nor did inquiry elicit a sensible explanation from either.
"Heifer, eh? Drowned my own child, did I?" Tom ground his teeth in a ferocious manner.
"Don't file your tusks for me," Jerry chattered; "file the saw. We're goin' to need it."
"You men goin' cut dat boat in two again?" 'Poleon inquired, with astonishment.
"Sure. And everything we've got."
It was Linton who spoke; there was a light of triumph in his eyes, his face was ablaze with an unholy satisfaction. "We've been drawing lots for twenty minutes, and this time—I GOT THE STOVE!"
Once again Tom and Jerry's skiff had been halved, once again its owners smarted under the memory of insults unwarranted, of gibes that no apology could atone for. This time it had been old Jerry who cooked his supper over an open fire and old Tom who stretched the tarpaulin over his stove. Neither spoke; both were sulky, avoiding each other's eye; there was an air of bitter, implacable hostility.
Into this atmosphere of constraint came 'Poleon Doret, and, had it not been for his own anxieties, he would have derived much amusement from the situation. As it was, however, he was quite blind to it, showing nothing save his own deep feeling of concern.
"M'sieu's," he began, hurriedly, "dat gal she's gettin' more seeck. I'm scare' she's goin' die to-night. Mebbe you set up wit' me, eh?"
Tom quickly volunteered: "Why, sure! I'm a family man. I—"
"Family man!" Jerry snorted, derisively. "He had one head, mister, and he lost it inside of a month. I'm a better nurse than him."
"Bien! I tak' you both," said 'Poleon.
But Jerry emphatically declined the invitation. "Cut me out if you aim to make it three-handed—I'd Jim the deck, sure. No, I'll set around and watch my grub-pile."
Tom addressed himself to 'Poleon, but his words were for his late partner.
"That settles me," said he. "I'll have to stick close to home, for there's people I wouldn't trust near a loose outfit."
This was, of course, a gratuitous affront. It was fathered in malice; it had its intended effect. Old Jerry hopped as if springs in his rheumatic legs had suddenly let go; he uttered a shrill war-whoop—a wordless battle-cry in which rage and indignation were blended.
"If a certain old buzzard-bait sets up with you, Frenchy, count your spoons, that's all. I know him. A hundred dollars a dozen for lemons! He'd rob a child's bank. He'd steal milk out of a sick baby's bottle."
The pilot frowned. "Dis ain't no tam for callin' names," said he. "To-night dat gal goin' die or—she's goin' begin get well. Me, I'm mos' dead now. Mebbe you fellers forget yourse'f li'l while an' he'p me out."
Tom stirred uneasily. With apparent firmness he undertook to evade the issue, but in his eyes was an expression of uncertainty. Jerry, too, was less obdurate than he had pretended. After some further argument he avoided a weak surrender by muttering:
"All right. Take HIM along, so I'll know my grub's safe, and I'll help you out. I'm a good hand with hosses, and hosses are like humans, only bigger. They got more sense and more affection, too. They know when they're well off. Now if a hoss gets down you got to get him up and walk him around. My idea about this girl—"
Mr. Linton groaned loudly, then to 'Poleon he cried: "Lead the way. You watch the girl and I'll watch this vet'rinary."
That was an anxious and a trying night for the three men. They were unskilled in the care of the sick; nevertheless, they realized that the girl's illness had reached its crisis and that, once the crisis had passed, she would be more than likely to recover. Hour after hour they sat beside her, administering her medicine regularly, maintaining an even temperature in the tent, and striving, as best they could, to ease her suffering. This done, they could only watch and wait, putting what trust they had in her youth and her vitality. Their sense of helplessness oppressed the men heavily; their concern increased as the hours dragged along and the life within the girl flared up to a blaze or flickered down to a mere spark.
Doret was in a pitiable state, on the verge of exhaustion, for his vigil had been long and faithful; it was a nightmare period of suspense for him. Occasionally he dozed, but only to start into wakefulness and to experience apprehensions keener than before. The man was beside himself, and his anxiety had its effect upon Tom and Jerry. Their compassion increased when they learned how Sam Kirby had been taken off and how Rouletta had been brought to this desperate pass. The story of her devotion, her sacrifice, roused their deepest pity, and in the heat of that emotion they grew soft.
This mellowing process was not sudden; no spirit of forgiveness was apparent in either of the pair. Far from it. Both remained sullen, unrelenting; both maintained the same icy front. They continued to ignore each other's presence and they exchanged speech only with Doret. Nevertheless, their sympathy had been stirred and a subtle change had come over them.
This change was most noticeable in Linton. As the night wore on distressing memories, memories he considered long dead and gone, arose to harass him. It was true that he had been unhappily married, but tune had cured the sting of that experience, or so he had believed. He discovered now that such was not the case; certain incidents of those forgotten days recurred with poignant effect. He had experienced the dawn of a father's love, a father's pride; he lost himself in a melancholy consideration of what might have been had not that dawn been darkened. How different, how full, how satisfying, if—As he looked down upon the fair, fever-flushed face of this girl he felt an unaccustomed heartache, a throbbing pity and a yearning tenderness. The hand with which he stroked the hair back from her brow and rearranged her pillow was as gentle as a woman's.
Jerry, too, altered in his peculiar way. As the hours lengthened, his wrinkled face became less vinegary, between his eyes there appeared a deepening frown of apprehension. More than once he opened his lips to ask Tom's opinion of how the fight progressed, but managed in time to restrain himself. Finally he could maintain silence no longer, so he spoke to Doret:
"Mister! It looks to me like she ain't doin' well."
'Poleon rose from his position beside the stove; he bent over the sick-bed and touched Rouletta's brow with his great hand. In a low voice he addressed her:
"Ma soeur! Ma petite soeur! It's 'Poleon spik to you."
Rouletta's eyes remained vacant, her ceaseless whispering continued and the man straightened himself, turning upon his elderly companions. Alarm was in his face; his voice shook.
"M'sieu's! W'at shall we do? Queeck! Tell me."
But Tom and Jerry were helpless, hopeless. Doret stared at them; his hands came slowly together over his breast, his groping fingers interlocked; he closed his eyes, and for a moment he stood swaying. Then he spoke again as a man speaks who suffers mortal anguish. "She mus' not die! She—mus' not die! I tell you somet'ing now: dis li'l gal she's come to mean whole lot for me. At firs' I'm sorry, de same lak you feel. Sure! But bimeby I get to know her, for she talk, talk—all tam she talk, lak crazee person, an' I learn to know her soul, her life. Her soul is w'ite, m'sieu's, it's w'ite an' beautiful; her life—I lit 'im together in little piece, lak broken dish. Some piece I never fin', but I save 'nough to mak' picture here and dere. Sometam I smile an' listen to her; more tam' I cry. She mak' de tears splash on my hand.
"Wal, I begin talk back to her. I sing her li'l song, I tell her story, I cool her face, I give her medicine, an' den she sleep. I sit an' watch her—how many day an' night I watch her I don' know. Sometam I sleep li'l bit, but when she stir an' moan I spik to her an' sing again until-she know my voice."
'Poleon paused; the old men watched his working face.
"M'sieu's," he went on, "I'm lonely man. I got no frien's, no family; I live in dreams. Dat's all I got in dis whole worl'—jus' dreams. One dream is dis, dat some day I'm going find somet'ing to love, somet'ing dat will love me. De hanimals I tame dey run away; de birds I mak' play wit' dey fly south when de winter come. I say, 'Doret, dis gal she's poor, she's frien'less, she's alone. She's very seeck, but you goin' mak' her well. She ain't goin' run away. She ain't goin' fly off lak dem birds. No. She's goin' love you lak a broder, an' mebbe she's goin' let you stay close by.' Dieu! Dat's fine dream, eh? It mak' me sing inside; it mak' me warm an' glad. I w'isper in her ear, 'Ma soeur! Ma petite soeur! It's your beeg broder 'Poleon dat spik. He's goin' mak' you well,' an' every tam she onderstan'. But now—"
A sob choked the speaker; he opened his tight-shut eyes and stared miserably at the two old men. "I call to her an' she don' hear. Wat I'm goin' do, eh?"
Neither Linton nor Quirk made reply. 'Poleon leaned forward; fiercely he inquired:
"Which one of you feller' is de bes' man? Which one is go to church de mos'?"
Tom and Jerry exchanged glances. It was the latter who spoke:
"Tom—this gentleman-knows more about churches than I do. He was married in one."
Mr. Linton nodded. "But that was thirty years ago, so I ain't what you'd call a regular attendant. I used to carry my religion in my wife's name, when I had a wife."
"You can pray?"
Tom shook his head doubtfully. "I'd be sure to make a mess of it."
Doret sank to a seat; he lowered his head upon his hands. "Me, too," he confessed. "Every hour I mak' prayer in my heart, but—I can't spik him out."
"If I was a good talker I'd take a crack at it," Jerry ventured, "but—I'd have to be alone."
Doret's lips had begun to move; his companions knew that he was voicing a silent appeal, so they lowered their eyes. For some moments the only sound in the tent was the muttering of the delirious girl.
Linton spoke finally; his voice was low, it was husky with emotion: "I've been getting acquainted with myself to-night—first time in a long while. Things look different than they did. What's the good of fighting, what's the use of hurrying and trampling on each other when this is the end? Gold! It won't buy anything worth having. You're right, Doret; somebody to love and to care for, somebody that cares for you, that's all there is in the game. I had dreams, too, when I was a lot younger, but they didn't last. It's bad, for a man to quit dreaming; he gets mean and selfish and onnery. Take me—I ain't worth skinning. I had a kid—little girl—I used to tote her around in my arms. Funny how it makes you feel to tote a baby that belongs to you; seems like all you've got is wrapped up in it; you live two lives. My daughter didn't stay long. I just got started loving her when she went away. She was—awful nice."
The speaker blinked, for his eyes were smarting. "I feel, somehow, asif she was here to-night—as if this girl was her and I was her daddy.She might have looked something like this young lady if she had lived.She would have made a big difference in me."
Tom felt a hand seek his. It was a bony, big-knuckled hand not at all like 'Poleon Doret's. When it gave his fingers a strong, firm, friendly pressure his throat contracted painfully. He raised his eyes, but they were blurred; he could distinguish nothing except that Jerry Quirk had sidled closer and that their shoulders all but touched.
Now Jerry, for all of his crabbedness, was a sentimentalist; he also was blind, and his voice was equally husky when he spoke:
"I'd of been her daddy, too, wouldn't I, Tom? We'd of shared her, fifty-fifty. I've been mean to you, but I'd of treated her all right. If you'll forgive me for the things I've said to you maybe the Lord will forgive me for a lot of other things. Anyhow, I'm goin' to do a little rough prayin' for this kid. I'm goin' to ask Him to give her a chance."
Mr. Quirk did pray, and if he made a bad job of it, as he more than suspected, neither of his earthly hearers noticed the fact, for his words were honest, earnest. When he had finished Tom Linton's arm was around his shoulders; side by side the old men sat for a long time. Their heads were bowed; they kept their eyes upon Rouletta Kirby's face. Doret stood over them, motionless and intense; they could hear him sigh and they could sense his suffering. When the girl's pain caused her to cry out weakly, he knelt and whispered words of comfort to her.
Thus the night wore on.
The change came an hour or two before dawn and the three men watched it with their hearts in their throats. Mutely they questioned one another, deriving deep comfort from each confirmatory nod and gesture, but for some time they dared not voice their growing hope. Rouletta's fever was breaking, they felt sure; she breathed more deeply, more easily, and she coughed less. Her discomfort lessened, too, and finally, when the candle-light grew feeble before the signs of coming day, she fell asleep. Later the men rose and stole out of the tent into the cold.
Doret was broken. He was limp, almost lifeless; there were deep lines about his eyes, but, nevertheless, they sparkled.
"She's goin' get well," he said, uncertainly. "I'm goin' teach dat li'l bird to fly again."
The partners nodded.
"Sure as shootin'," Jerry declared.
"Right-o!" Linton agreed. "Now then"—he spoke in an energetic, purposeful tone—"I'm going to put Jerry to bed while I nail that infernal boat together again."
"Not much, you ain't!" Jerry exclaimed. "You know I couldn't sleep a wink without you, Tom. What's more, I'll never try."
Arm in arm the two partners set off down the river-bank. 'Poleon smiled after them. When they were out of sight he turned his face up to the brightening sky and said, aloud:
"Bon Dieu, I t'ank you for my sister's life."
Pierce Phillips awoke from a cramped and troubled slumber to find himself lying upon a pile of baggage in the stern of a skiff. For a moment he remained dazed; then he was surprised to hear the monotonous creak of oars and to feel that he was in motion. A fur robe had been thrown over him; it was powdered with snowflakes, but it had kept him warm. He sat up to discover Laure facing him.
"Hello!" said he. "You here?"
The girl smiled wearily. "Where did you think I'd be? Have a good sleep?"
He shrugged and nodded, and, turning his eyes shoreward, saw that the forest was flowing slowly past. The boat in which he found himself was stowed full of impedimenta; forward of Laure a man was rowing listlessly, and on the seat beyond him were two female figures bundled to the ears in heavy wraps. They were the 'coon-shouting sisters whose song had drawn Pierce into the Gold Belt Saloon the evening before. In the distance were several other boats.
"You feel tough, I'll bet." Laure's voice was sympathetic.
After a moment of consideration Pierce shook his head. "No," said he."I feel fine—except that I'm hungry. I could eat a log-chain."
"No headache?"
"None. Why?"
Laure's brown eyes widened in admiration and astonishment. "Jimminy! You're a hound for punishment. You must have oak ribs. Were you weaned on rum?"
"I never took a drink until last night. I'm a rank amateur."
"Really!" The girl studied him with renewed interest. "What set you off?"
Pierce made no answer. His face seemed fixed in a frown. His was a tragic past; he could not bear to think of it, much less could he speak of it. Noting that the oarsman appeared to be weary, Pierce volunteered to relieve him, an offer which was quickly accepted. As he seated himself and prepared to fall to work Laure advised him:
"Better count your money and see if it's all there."
He did as directed. "It's all here," he assured her.
She flashed him a smile, then crept into the place he had vacated and drew up the robe snugly. Pierce wondered why she eyed him with that peculiar intentness. Not until she had fallen asleep did he suspect with a guilty start that the robe was hers and that she had patiently waited for him to finish his sleep while she herself was drooping with fatigue. This suspicion gave him a disagreeable shock; he began to give some thought to the nature of his new surroundings. They were of a sort to warrant consideration; for a long time he rowed mechanically, a frown upon his brow.
In the first place, he was amazed to find how bravely he bore the anguish of a breaking heart, and how little he desired to do away with himself. The world, strangely enough, still remained a pleasant place, and already the fret for new adventure was stirring in him. He was not happy—thoughts of Hilda awoke real pain, and his sense of injury burned him like a brand—nevertheless, he could not make himself feel so utterly hopeless, so blackly despondent as the circumstances plainly warranted. He was, on the whole, agreeably surprised at his powers of resistance and of recuperation, both physical and emotional. For instance, he should by all means experience a wretched reaction from his inebriety; as a matter of fact, he had never felt better in his life; his head was clear, he was ravenously hungry. Then, too, he was not altogether hopeless; it seemed quite probable that he and Hilda would again meet, in which event there was no telling what might happen. Evidently liquor agreed with him; in his case it was not only an anodyne, but also a stimulus, spurring him to optimistic thought and independent action. Yes, whisky roused a fellow's manhood. It must be so, otherwise he would never have summoned the strength to snap those chains which bound him to the Countess Courteau, or the reckless courage to embark upon an enterprise so foreign to his tastes and to his training as this one.
His memory of the later incidents of the night before was somewhat indistinct, as was his recollection of the scene when he had served his notice upon the Countess. Of this much he felt certain, however, he had done the right thing in freeing himself from a situation that reflected discredit upon his manhood. Whether he had acted wisely by casting in his lot with Morris Best's outfit was another matter altogether. He was quite sure he had not acted wisely, but there is a satisfaction at certain times in doing what we know to be the wrong thing.
Pierce was no fool; even his limited experience in the North had taught him a good deal about the character of dance-hall women and of the men who handled them; he was in no wise deceived, therefore, by the respectability with which the word "theatrical" cloaked this troupe of wanderers; it gave him a feeling of extreme self-consciousness to find himself associated with such folk; he felt decidedly out of place.
What would his people think? And the Countess Courteau? Well, it would teach her that a man's heart was not a football; that a man's love was not to be juggled with. He had made a gesture of splendid recklessness; he would take the consequences.
In justice to the young man, be it said he had ample cause for resentment, and whatever of childishness he displayed was but natural, for true balance of character is the result of experience, and as yet he had barely tasted life.
As for the girl Laure, she awoke no real interest in him, now that he saw her in the light of day; he included her in his general, vague contempt for all women of her type. There was, in fact, a certain contamination in her touch. True, she was a little different from the other members of the party-greatly different from Pierce's preconceived ideas of the "other sort"—but not sufficiently different to matter. It is the privilege of arrogant youth to render stern and conclusive judgment.
Best waved his party toward the shore shortly before dusk. A landing-place was selected, tents, bedding, and paraphernalia were unloaded; then, while the women looked on, the boatmen began pitching camp. The work had not gone far before Phillips recognized extreme inefficiency in it. Confusion grew, progress was slow, Best became more and more excited. Irritated at the general ineptitude, Pierce finally took hold of things and in a short time had made all snug for the night.
Lights were glowing in the tents when he found his way through the gloom to the landing in search of his own belongings. Seated on the gunwale of a skiff he discovered Laure.
"I've been watching you," she said. "You're a handy man."
He nodded. "Is this the way Best usually makes camp?"
"Sure. Only it usually takes him much longer. I'll bet he's glad he hired you."
Pierce murmured something.
"Are you glad he did?"
"Why, yes—of course."
"What do you think of the other girls?"
"I haven't paid much attention to them," he told her, frankly.
There was a moment's pause; then Laure said:
"Don't!"
"Eh?"
"I say, don't!"
Phillips shrugged. In a world-weary, cynical tone he asserted, "Women don't interest me."
"What ails you to-day?" Laure inquired, curiously.
"Nothing. I'm not much of a ladies' man, that's all."
"Yes, you are. Anyhow, you were last night."
"I was all tuned up, then," he explained. "That's not my normal pitch."
"Don't you like me as well as you did?"
"Why—certainly."
"Is there another woman?"
"'Another'?" Pierce straightened himself. "There's not even one. What difference would it make if there were?"
"Oh, none." Laure's teeth flashed through the gloom. "I was just curious. Curiosity killed a cat, didn't it? Will you help me up the bank?"
Pierce took the speaker's arm; together they climbed the gravelly incline toward the illumination from the cook fire. In the edge of the shadows Laure halted and her hand slipped down over Pierce's.
"Remember!" she said, meaningly. "Don't—or you'll hear from me."
Laure had no cause to repeat her admonition, for, in the days that followed, Pierce Phillips maintained toward the women members of the party an admirable attitude of aloofness. He was not rude, neither was he discourteous; he merely isolated himself from them and discouraged their somewhat timid advances toward friendship. This doubtless would have met with Laure's whole-hearted approval had he not treated her in precisely the same way. She had at first assumed a somewhat triumphant air of proprietorship toward him, but this quickly gave way to something entirely different. They began to know each other, to be sure; for hours upon end they were together, which could have resulted in nothing less than a thorough acquaintance; notwithstanding this, there lurked behind Phillips' friendly interest an emotional apathy that piqued the girl and put her on her mettle. She hid her chagrin under an assumption of carelessness, but furtively she studied him, for every hour he bulked bigger to her. He exercised a pronounced effect upon her; his voice, his laughter, brought a light and a sparkle to her eyes; she could not rest when he was out of her sight. His appeal, unconscious on his part, struck to the very core of her being. To discover that she lacked a similar appeal for him roused the girl to desperation; she lay awake nights, trying to puzzle out the reason, for this was a new experience to her. Recalling their meeting and the incidents of that first night at White Horse, she realized that here was a baffling secret and that she did not possess the key to it.
One night the truth came home to her. Best had made camp later than usual, and as a result had selected a particularly bad spot for it—a brushy flat running back from a high, overhanging bank beneath which ran a swirling eddy.
The tents were up, a big camp-fire was blazing brightly, when Pierce Phillips, burdened with a huge armful of spruce boughs and blinded by the illumination, stepped too close to the river's rim and felt the soil beneath him crumble away. Down he plunged, amid an avalanche of earth and gravel; the last sound he heard before the icy waters received him was Laure's affrighted scream. An instant later he had seized a "sweeper," to which he clung until help arrived. He was wet to the skin, of course; his teeth were chattering by the time he had regained the camp-fire. Of the entire party, Laure alone had no comment to make upon the accident. She stood motionless, leaning for support against a tent-pole, her face hidden in her hands. Best's song-birds were noisily twittering about Pierce; Best himself was congratulating the young man upon his ability to swim, when Laure spoke, sharply, imperiously:
"Somebody find his dry things, quickly. And you, Morris, get your whisky."
While one of the men ran for Pierce's duffle-bag, Best came hurrying with a bottle which he proffered to Pierce. The latter refused it, asserting that he was quite all right; but Laure exclaimed:
"Drink! Take a good one, then go into our tent and change as fast as you can."
"Sure!" the manager urged. "Don't be afraid of good liquor. There isn't much left. Drink it all."
A short time later, when Pierce reappeared, clad in dry garments, he felt none the worse for his mishap, but when he undertook to aid in the preparations for the night he suspected that he had taken his employer's orders too literally, for his brain was whirling. Soon he discovered that his movements were awkward and his hands uncertain, and when his camp-mates began to joke he desisted with a laughing confession that he had imbibed too much.
Laure drew him out of hearing, then inquired, anxiously, "Are you all right again?"
"Sure! I feel great."
"I—I thought I'd die when I saw you disappear." She shuddered and hid her face in her hands for a second time. It was quite dark where they stood; they were sheltered from observation.
"Served me right," he declared. "Next time I'll look where—" He halted in amazement. "Why, Laure, I believe you're crying!"
She lifted her face and nodded. "I'm frightened yet." She laid trembling, exploratory hands upon him, as if to reassure herself of his safety. "Pierce! Pierce!" she exclaimed, brokenly.
Suddenly Phillips discovered that this girl's concern affected him deeply, for it was genuine—it was not in the least put on. All at once she seemed very near to him, very much a part of himself. His head was spinning now and something within him had quickened magically. There was a new note in his voice when he undertook to reassure his companion. At his first word Laure looked up, startled; into her dark eyes, still misty with tears, there flamed a light of wonder and of gladness. She swayed closer; she took the lapels of his coat between her gloved fingers and drew his head down to hers; then she kissed him full upon the lips. Slowly, resolutely, his arms encircled her.
On the following morning Laure asked Morris Best for a bottle of whisky. The evenings were growing cold and some of the girls needed a stimulant while camp was being pitched, she explained. The bottle she gave to Pierce, with a request to stow it in his baggage for safekeeping, and that night when they landed, cramped and chilly, she prevailed upon him to open it and to drink. The experiment worked. Laure began to understand that when Pierce Phillips' blood flowed warmly, when he was artificially exhilarated, then he saw her with the eyes of a lover. It was not a flattering discovery, but the girl contented herself, for by now she was desperate enough to snatch at straws. Thenceforth she counted upon strong drink as her ally.
The closing scenes of the great autumn stampede to Dawson were picturesque, for the rushing river was crowded with boats all racing with one another. 'Neath lowering skies, past ghostly shores seen dimly through a tenuous curtain of sifting snowflakes, swept these craft; they went by ones and by twos, in groups and in flotillas; hourly the swirling current bore them along, and as the miles grew steadily less the spirits of the crews mounted. Loud laughter, songs, yells of greeting and encouragement, ran back and forth; a triumphant joyfulness, a Jovian mirth, animated these men of brawn, for they had met the North and they had bested her. Restraint had dropped away by now, and they reveled in a new-found freedom. There was license in the air, for Adventure was afoot and the Unknown beckoned.
Urged on by oar and sweep, propelled by favoring breezes, the Argonauts pressed forward exultantly. At night their roaring camp-fires winked at one another like beacon lights along some friendly channel. Unrolling before them was an endless panorama of spruce and birch and cottonwood, of high hills white with snow, of unexplored valleys dark with promise. As the Yukon increased in volume it became muddy, singing a low, hissing song, as if the falling particles of snow melted on its surface and turned to steam.
Out of all the traffic that flowed past the dance-hall party, among all the boats they overhauled and left behind, Pierce Phillips nowhere recognized the Countess Courteau's outfit. Whether she was ahead or whether they had outdistanced her he did not know and inquiry rewarded him with no hint.
During this journey a significant change gradually came over the young man. Familiarity, a certain intimacy with his companions, taught him much, and in time he forgot to look upon them as pariahs. Best, for instance, proved to be an irritable but good-hearted little Hebrew; he developed a genuine fondness for Pierce, which he took every occasion to show, and Pierce grew to like him. The girls, too, opened their hearts and made him feel their friendship. For the most part they were warm, impulsive creatures, and Pierce was amazed to discover how little they differed from the girls he had known at home. Among their faults he discovered unusual traits of character; there was not a little kindliness, generosity, and of course much cheerfulness. They were free-handed with what they had; they were ready with a smile, a word of encouragement or of sympathy; they were absurdly grateful, too, for the smallest favor or the least act of kindness. Moreover, they behaved themselves extremely well.
They were an education to Phillips; he acknowledged that he had gravely misjudged them, and he began to suspect that they had taught him something of charity.
As for Laure, he knew her very well by now and she knew him—even better. This knowledge had come to them not without cost—wisdom is never cheap—but precisely what each of them had paid or was destined to pay for their better understanding of each other they had not the slightest idea. One thing the girl by this time had made sure of, viz., when Pierce was his natural self he felt her appeal only faintly. On the other hand, the moment he was not his natural self, the moment his pitch was raised, he saw allurements in her, and at such times they met on common ground. She made the most of this fact.
Dawson City burst into view of the party without warning, and no El Dorado could have looked more promising. Hounding a bend of the river, they beheld a city of logs and canvas sprawled between the stream and a curving mountain-side. The day was still and clear, hence vertical pencil-markings of blue smoke hung over the roofs; against the white background squat dwellings stood out distinctly, like diminutive dolls' houses. Upon closer approach the river shore was seen to be lined with scows and rowboats; a stern-wheeled river steamer lay moored abreast of the town. Above it a valley broke through from the north, out of which poured a flood of clear, dark water. It was the valley of the Klondike, magic word.
The journey was ended. Best's boats were unloaded, his men had been paid off, and now his troupe had scattered, seeking lodgings. As in a dream Pierce Phillips joined the drifting current of humanity that flowed through the long front streets and eddied about the entrances of amusement places. He asked himself if he were indeed awake, if, after all, this was his Ultima Thule? Already the labor, the hardship, the adventure of the trip seemed imaginary; even the town itself was unreal. Dawson was both a disappointment and a satisfaction to Pierce. It was not what he had expected and it by no means filled the splendid picture he had painted in his fancy. Crude, raw, unfinished, small, it was little more than Dyea magnified. But in enterprise it was tremendous; hence it pleased and it thrilled the youth. He breathed its breath, he drank the wine of its intoxication, he walked upon air with his head in the clouds.