The Silver Horde E-Book

Rex Beach

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A former American football star, Boyd Emerson has failed in several businesses. He did all this in order to get the hand of his rich lover, but failure seems to haunt him at every turn. Now he is trying his hand at salmon fishing in Alaska.

Leseprobe

Contents

Chapter 1. Wherein A Spiritless Man And A Rogue Appear

Chapter 2. In Which They Break Bread With A Lonely Woman

Chapter 3. In Which Cherry Malotte Displays A Temper

Chapter 4. In Which She Gives Heart To A Hopeless Man

Chapter 5. In Which A Compact Is Formed

Chapter 6. Wherein Boreas Takes A Hand

Chapter 7. And Neptune Takes Another

Chapter 8. Wherein Boyd Admits His Failure

Chapter 9. And Is Granted A Year Of Grace

Chapter 10. In Which Big George Meets His Enemy

Chapter 11. Wherein Boyd Emerson Is Twice Amazed

Chapter 12. In Which Miss Wayland Is Of Two Minds

Chapter 13. In Which Cherry Malotte Becomes Suspicious

Chapter 14. In Which They Recognize The Enemy

Chapter 15. The Doors Of The Vault Swing Shut

Chapter 16. Willis Marsh Comes Out From Cover

Chapter 17. A New Enemy Appears

Chapter 18. Willis Marsh Springs A Trap

Chapter 19. In Which A Mutiny Is Threatened

Chapter 20. Wherein “Fingerless” Fraser Returns

Chapter 21. A Hand In The Dark

Chapter 22. The Silver Horde

Chapter 23. In Which More Plans Are Laid

Chapter 24. Wherein “The Grande Dame” Arrives, Laden With Disappointments

Chapter 25. The Chase

Chapter 26. In Which A Score Is Settled

Chapter 27. And A Dream Comes True

Chapter 1. Wherein A Spiritless Man And A Rogue Appear

The trail to Kalvik leads down from the northward mountains over the tundra which flanks the tide flats, then creeps out upon the salt ice of the river and across to the village. It boasts no travel in summer, but by winter an occasional toil-worn traveller may be seen issuing forth from the Great Country beyond, bound for the open water; while once in thirty days the mail-team whirls out of the forest to the south, pauses one night to leave word of the world, and then is swallowed up in the silent hills. Kalvik, to be sure, is not much of a place, being hidden away from the main-travelled routes to the interior and wholly unknown except to those interested in the fisheries.

A Greek church, a Russian school with a cassocked priest presiding, and, about a hundred houses, beside the cannery buildings, make up the village. At first glance these canneries might convey the impression of a considerable city, for there are ten plants, in all, scattered along several miles of the river-bank; but in winter they stand empty and still, their great roofs drummed upon by the fierce Arctic storms, their high stacks pointing skyward like long, frozen fingers black with frost. There are the natives, of course, but they do not count, concealed as they are in burrows. No one knows their number, not even the priest who gathers toll from them.

Early one December afternoon there entered upon this trail from the timberless hills far away to the northward a weary team of six dogs, driven by two men. It had been snowing since dawn, and the dim sled-tracks were hidden beneath a six-inch fluff which rendered progress difficult and called the whip into cruel service. A gray smother sifted down sluggishly, shutting out hill and horizon, blending sky and landscape into a blurred monotone, playing strange pranks with the eye that grew tired trying to pierce it.

The travellers had been plodding sullenly, hour after hour, dispirited by the weight of the storm, which bore them down like some impalpable, resistless burden. There was no reality in earth, air, or sky. Their vision was rested by no spot of color save themselves, apparently swimming through an endless, formless atmosphere of gray.

“Fingerless” Fraser broke trail, but to Boyd Emerson, who drove, he seemed to be a sort of dancing doll, bobbing and swaying grotesquely, as if suspended by invisible wires. At times, it seemed to the driver’s whimsical fancy as if each of them trod a measure in the centre of a colorless universe, something after the fashion of goldfish floating in a globe.

Fraser pulled up without warning and instantly the dogs stopped, straightway beginning to soothe their trail-worn pads and to strip the ice-pellets from between their toes. But the “wheelers” were too tired to make the effort, so Emerson went forward and performed the task for them, while Fraser floundered back and sank to a sitting posture on the sled.

“Whew!” he exclaimed, “this is sure tough. If I don’t see a tree or something with enough color to bust this monotony I’ll go dotty.”

“Another day like this and we’d both be snow-blind,” observed Emerson grimly, as he bent to his task. “But it can’t be far to the river now.”

“This fall has covered the trail till I have to feel it out with my feet,” grumbled Fraser. “When I step off to one side I go in up to my hips. It’s like walking a plank a foot deep in feathers, and I feel like I was a mile above the earth in a heavy fog.” After a moment he continued: “Speaking of feathers, how’d you like to have a fried chicken a laMaryland?”

“Shut up!” said the man at the dogs, crossly.

“Well, it don’t do any harm to think about it,” growled Fraser, good-naturedly. He felt out a pipe from his pocket and endeavored unsuccessfully to blow through it, then complained:

“The damn thing is froze. It seems like a man can’t practice no vices whatever in this country. I’m glad I’m getting out of it.”

“So am I,” agreed the younger man. Having completed his task, he came back to the sled and seated himself beside the other.

“As I was saying a mile back yonder,” Fraser resumed, “whatever made you snatch me away from them blue-coated minions of the law, I don’t know. You says it’s for company, to be sure, but we visit with one another about like two deef-mutes. Why did you do it, Bo?”

“Well, you talk enough for both of us.”

“Yes, but that ain’t no reason why you should lay yourself liable to the “square-toes.’ You ain’t the kind to take a chance just because you’re lonesome.”

“I picked you up because of your moth-eaten morals, I dare say. I was tired of myself, and you interested me. Besides,” Emerson added, reflectively, “I have no particular cause to love the law, either.”

“That’s how I sized it,” said Fraser, wagging his head with animation, “I knew you’d had some kind of a run-in. What was it? This is low down, see, and confidential, as between two crooks. I’ll never snitch.”

“Hold on there! I’m not a crook. I’m not sufficiently ingenious to be a member of your honorable profession.”

“Well, I guess my profession is as honorable as most. I’ve tried all of them, and they’re all alike. It’s simply a question of how the other fellow will separate easiest.” He stopped and tightened his snow-shoe thong, then rising, gazed curiously at the listless countenance of his travelling companion, feeling anew the curiosity that had fretted him for the past three weeks; finally he observed, with a trace of impatience:

“Well, if you ain’t one of us, you’d ought to be. You’ve got the best poker face I ever see; it’s as blind as a plastered wall. You ain’t had a real expression on it since you hauled me off that ice-floe in Norton Sound.”

He swung ahead of the dogs; they rose reluctantly, and with a crack of the whip the little caravan crawled noiselessly into the gray twilight.

An hour later they dropped from the plain, down through a gutter-like gully to the river, where they found a trail, glass-hard beneath its downy covering. A cold breath sucked up from the sea; ahead they saw the ragged ice up-ended by the tide, but their course was well marked now, so they swung themselves upon the sled, while the dogs shook off their lethargy and broke into their pattering, tireless wolf-trot.

At length they came to a point where the trail divided, one branch leading off at right angles from the shore and penetrating the hummocks that marked the tide limit. Evidently it led to the village which they knew lay somewhere on the farther side, hidden by a mile or more of sifting snow, so they altered their course and bore out upon the river.

The going here was so rough that both men leaped from their seats and ran beside the sled, one at the front, the other guiding it from the rear. Up and down over the ridges the trail led, winding through the frozen inequalities, the dogs never breaking their tireless trot. They mounted a swelling ridge and rushed down to the level river ice beyond, but as they did so they felt their footing sag beneath them, heard a shivering creak on every side, and, before they could do more than cry out warningly, saw water rising about the sled-runners. The momentum of the heavy sledge, together with the speed of the racing dogs, forced them out upon the treacherous ice before they could check their speed. Emerson shouted, the dogs leaped, but with a crash the ice gave way, and for a moment the water closed over him.

Clinging to the sled to save himself, his weight slowed it down, and the dogs stopped. “Fingerless” Fraser broke through in turn, gasping as the icy water rose to his armpits. Slowly at first the sled sank, till it floated half submerged, and this spot which a moment before had seemed so safe and solid became now a churning tangle of broken fragments, men and dogs struggling in a liquid that seemed dark as syrup contrasted with the surrounding whiteness. The lead animals, under whose feet the ice was still firm, turned inquiringly, then settled on their haunches with lolling tongues. The pair next ahead of the sledge paddled frantically, straining to reach the solid sheet beyond, but were held back by their harness. Emerson used the sled for a footing and endeavored to gain the ice at one side, but it broke beneath him and he lunged in up to his shoulders. Again he tried, but again the ice broke under his hand, more easily now.

Fraser struggled to get out in the opposite direction, each man aiming to secure an independent footing, but their efforts only enlarged the pool. The chill went through them like thin blades, and they chattered gaspingly, fighting with desperation, while the wheel dogs, involved in the harness, began to whine and cough, at which Emerson shouted:

“Cut the team loose, quick!” But the other spat out a mouthful of salt water and spluttered:

“I–I can’t swim!”

Whereupon the first speaker half swam half dragged himself through the slush and broken debris to the forward end of the sled, and seeking out the sheath-knife from beneath his parka, cut the harness of the two distressed animals. Once free, they scrambled to safety, shook themselves, and rolled in the dry snow.

Emerson next attempted to lift the nose of the sled up on the ice, shouting at the remainder of the team to pull, but they only wagged their tails and whined excitedly at this unusual form of entertainment. Each time he tried to lift the sled he crashed through fresh ice, finally bearing the next pair of dogs with him, and then the two animals in the lead. All of them became hopelessly entangled.

He could have won his way back to the permanent ice as Fraser was doing, but there was no way of getting his team there and he would not sacrifice those dumb brutes now growing frantic. One of them pawed the sheath-knife from his hand. He had become almost numb with cold and despair when he heard the jingle of many small bells, and a sharp command uttered in a new voice.

Out of the snow fog from the direction in which they were headed broke a team running full and free. At a word they veered to the right and came to a pause, avoiding the danger-spot. Even from his hasty glance Emerson marvelled at the outfit, having never seen the like in all his travels through the North, for each animal of the twelve stood hip-high to a tall man, and they were like wolves of one pack, gray and gaunt and wicked. The basket-sled behind them was long and light, and of a design that was new to him, while the furs in it were of white fox.

The figure wrapped up in them spoke again sharply, whereupon a tall Indian runner left the team and headed swiftly for the scene of the accident. As he approached, Emerson noted the fellow’s flowing parka of ground-squirrel skins, from which a score of fluffy tails fell free, and he saw that this was no Indian, but a half-breed of peculiar coppery lightness. The man ran forward till he neared the edge of the opening where the tide had caused the floes to separate and the cold had not had time as yet to heal it; then flattening his body to its full length on the ice, he crawled out cautiously and seized the lead dog. Carefully he wormed his way backward to security, then leaned his weight upon the tugline.

It had been a ticklish operation, requiring nice skill and dexterity, but now that his footing was sure the runner exerted his whole strength, and as the dogs scratched and tore for firm foothold, the sled came crunching closer and closer through the half-inch skin of ice. Then he reached down and dragged Emerson out, dripping and nerveless from his immersion. Together they rescued the outfit.

The person in the sledge had watched them silently, but now spoke in a strange patois, and the breed gave voice to her words, for it was a woman.

“One mile you go–white man house. Go quick–you freeze.” He pointed back whence the two men had come, indicating the other branch of the trail.

Fraser had emerged meanwhile and circled the water-hole, but even this brief exposure to the open air had served to harden his wet garments into a crackling armor. With rattling teeth, he asked:

“Ain’t you got no dry clothes? Our stuff is soaked.”

Again the Indian translated some words from the girl.

“No! You hurry and no stop here. We go quick over yonder. No can stop at all.”

He hurried back to his mistress, cried once to the pack of gray dogs, “Oonah!” and they were off as if in chase. They left the trail and circled toward the shore, the driver standing erect upon the heels of the runners, guiding his team with wide-flung gestures and sharp cries, the rush of air fluttering the many squirrel-tails of his parka like fairy streamers.

As they dashed past, both white men had one fleeting glimpse of a woman’s face beneath a furred hood, and then it was gone. For a moment they stood and stared after the fast-dwindling team, while the breath of the Arctic sea stiffened their garments and froze their boot-soles to the ice.

“Did you see?” Fraser ejaculated. “Good Lord, it’s a woman!A blondewoman!”

Emerson stirred himself. “Nonsense! She must be a breed,” said he.

“Breeds don’t have yellow hair!” declared the other.

Swiftly they bent in the free dogs and lashed the team to a run. They felt the chill of death in their bones, and instead of riding they ran with the sled till their blood beat painfully. Their outer coverings were like shells, their underclothes were soaked, and although their going was difficult and clumsy, they dared not stop, for this is the extremest peril of the North.

Ten minutes later they swung over the river-bank and into the midst of great rambling frame buildings, seen dimly through the falling snow. Their trail led them to a high-banked cabin, from the stovepipe of which they saw heat-waves pouring. The dogs broke into cry, and were answered by many others conjured from their hiding-places. Both men were greatly distressed by now, and could handle themselves only with difficulty. Another mile would have meant disaster.

“Rout out the owner and tell him we’re wet,” said Emerson; “I’ll free the dogs.”

As Fraser disappeared, the young man ran forward to slip the harness from his animals, but found it frozen into their fur, the knots and buckles transformed into unmanageable lumps of ice, so he wrenched the camp axe from the sled and cut the thongs, then hacked loose the stiff sled-lashings, seized the sodden sleeping-bags, and made for the house. A traveller’s first concern is for his dogs, then for his bedding.

Before he could reach the cabin the door opened and Fraser appeared, a strange, dazed look on his face. He was followed by a large man of coarse and sullen countenance, who paused on the threshold.

“Don’t bother with the rest of the stuff,” Emerson chattered.

“It’s no use,” Fraser replied; “we can’t go in.”

The former paused, forgetting the cold in his amazement.

“What’s wrong? Somebody sick?”

“I don’t know what’s the matter. This man just says “nix,’ that’s all.”

The fellow, evidently a watchman, nodded his head, and growled, “Yaas! Ay got no room.”

“But you don’t understand,” said Emerson. “We’re wet. We broke through the ice. Never mind the room, we’ll get along somehow.” He advanced with the tight-rolled sleeping-bags under his arm, but the man stood immovable, blocking the entrance.

“You can’t come in har! You find anoder house t’ree mile furder.”

The traveller, however, paid no heed to these words, but pushed forward, shifting the bundle to his shoulder and holding it so that it was thrust into the Swede’s face. Involuntarily the watchman drew back, whereupon the unwelcome visitor crowded past, jostling his inhospitable host roughly, laughing the while, although in his laughter there rang a dangerous metallic note. Emerson’s quick action gained him entrance and Fraser followed behind into the living-room, where a flat-nosed squaw withdrew before them. The young man flung down his burden, and addressed her peremptorily.

“Punch up that fire, and get us something to eat, quick!” Turning to the owner of the house, who lumbered in after them, he disregarded the fellow’s scowl, and said:

“Why, you’ve got lots of room, old man! We’ll pay our way. Now get some more firewood, will you? I’m chilled to the bone. That’s a good fellow.” His forceful heartiness forbade dispute, and the man obeyed, sourly.

The two new-comers stripped off their outer clothing, and in a trice the small room became littered and hung with steaming garments. They took possession of the house, and ordered the Swede and his squaw about with firm good nature, until the couple slunk into an inner room and began to talk in low tones.

Fraser had been watching the fellow, and now remarked to his companion:

“Say, what ails that ginney?”

The assumption of good-nature fell away from Boyd Emerson as he replied:

“I never knew anybody to refuse shelter to freezing men before. There’s something back of this–he’s got some reason for his refusal. I don’t want any trouble, but–”

The inner door opened, and the watchman reappeared. Evidently his sluggish resolution had finally set itself.

“You can’t stop har!” he said. “Ay got orders.”

Emerson was at the fire, busy rubbing the cramps from his arms, and did not answer. When Fraser likewise ignored the Swede, he repeated his command, louder this time.

“Get out of may house, quick!”

Both men kept their backs turned and continued to ignore him, at which the fellow advanced heavily, and threatened them in a big, raucous voice, trembling with rage:

“By Yingo, Ay trow you out!”

He stooped and gathered up the garments nearest him, then stepped toward the outer door; but before he could make good his threat, Emerson whirled like a cat, his deep-set eyes dark with sudden fury, and seized his host by the nape of the neck. He jerked him back so roughly that the wet clothes flapped to the floor in four directions, whereat the Scandinavian let forth a bellow; but Emerson struck him heavily on the jaw with his open hand, then hurled him backward into the room so violently that he reeled, and his legs colliding with a bench, he fell against the wall. Before he could recover, his assailant stepped in between his wide-flung hands and throttled him, beating his head violently against the logs. The fellow undertook to grapple with him, at which Emerson wrenched himself free, and, stepping back, spoke in a quivering voice which Fraser had never heard before:

“I’m just playing with you now–I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Get out of my house! Ay got orders!” cried the watchman wildly, and made for him again. It was evident that the man was not lacking in stupid courage, but Emerson, driven to it, stepped aside, and swung heavily. The squaw in the doorway screamed, and the Swede fell full length. Again Boyd was upon him, the restraint of the past long weeks now unbridled, his temper unchecked. He dragged his victim through the store-room, grinding his face into the floor at every effort to rise. He forced him to his own door-sill, jerked the door open, and kicked him out into the snow; then barred the entrance, and returned to the warmth of the logs, his face convulsed and his lips working.

“Fingerless” Fraser gazed at him queerly, as if at some utterly strange phenomenon, then drawled, with a sly chuckle:

“Well, well, you’re bloody gentle, I must say. I didn’t think it was in you.”

When the other vouchsafed no answer, he took his pipe from a pocket of his steaming mackinaw, and filled it from a tobacco-box on the window-sill; then, leaning back in his chair, he propped his feet up on the table and sighed luxuriously, as he murmured:

“These scenes of violence just upset me something dreadful!”

Chapter 2. In Which They Break Bread With A Lonely Woman

It was perhaps two hours later that Fraser went to the window for the twentieth time, and, breathing against the pane, cleared a peep-hole, announcing:

“He’s gone!”

Emerson, absorbed in a book, made no answer. After his encounter with the householder he had said little, and upon finding this coverless, brown-stained volume–a tattered copy of Don Quixote–he had relapsed into utter silence.

“I say, he’s gone!” reiterated the man at the window.

Still no reply was forthcoming, and, seating himself near the stove, Fraser spread his hands before him in the shape of a book, and began whimsically, in a dry monotone, as if reading to himself:

“At which startling news, Mr. Emerson, with his customary vivacity, smiled engagingly, and answered back:

“ “Why do you reckon he has departed, Mr. Fraser?”

“ “Because he’s lost his voice cussing us,’ I replied, graciously.

“ “Oh no!’ exclaimed the genial Mr. Emerson, more for the sake of conversation than argument; “he has got cold feet!’ Evidently unwilling to let the conversation lag, the garrulous Mr. Emerson continued, “It’s a dark night without, and I fear some mischief is afoot.’

“ “Yes; but what of yonder beautchous gel?’ said I, at which he burst into wild laughter.”

Emerson laid down his book.

“What are you muttering about?” he asked.

“I merely remarked that our scandalized Scandalusian has got tired of singin’ Won’t You Open that Door and Let Me In? and has ducked.”

“Where has he gone?”

“I ain’t no mind-reader; maybe he’s loped off to Seattle after a policeman and a writ of ne plus ultra.Maybe he has gone after a clump of his countrymen–this is herding-season for Swedes.”

Without answering, Emerson rose, and, going to the inner door, called through to the squaw:

“Get us a cup of coffee.”

“Coffee!” interjected Fraser; “why not have a real feed? I’m hungry enough to eat anything except salt-risin’ bread and Roquefort cheese.”

“No,” said the other; “I don’t want to cause any more trouble than necessary.”

“Well, there’s a lot of grub in the cache. Let’s load up the sled.”

“I’m hardly a thief.”

“Oh, but–”

“No!”

“Fingerless” Fraser fell back into sour silence.

When the slatternly woman had slunk forth and was busied at the stove, Emerson observed, musingly:

“I wonder what possessed that fellow to act as he did.”

“He said he had orders,” Fraser offered. “If I had a warm cabin, a lot of grub–and a squaw–I’d like to see somebody give meorders.”

Their clothing was dry now, and they proceeded to dress leisurely. As Emerson roped up the sleeping-bags, Fraser suddenly suspended operations on his attire, and asked, querulously:

“What’s the matter? We ain’t goin’ to move, are we?”

“Yes. We’ll make for one of the other canneries,” answered Emerson, without looking up.

“But I’ve got sore feet,” complained the adventurer.

“What! again?” Emerson laughed skeptically. “Better walk on your hands for a while.”

“And it’s getting dark, too.”

“Never mind. It can’t be far. Come now.”

He urged the fellow as he had repeatedly urged him before, for Fraser seemed to have the blood of a tramp in his veins; then he tried to question the woman, but she maintained a frightened silence. When they had finished their coffee, Emerson laid two silver dollars on the table, and they left the house to search out the river-trail again.

The early darkness, hastened by the storm, was upon them when they crept up the opposite bank an hour later, and through the gloom beheld a group of great shadowy buildings. Approaching the solitary gleam of light shining from the window of the watchman’s house, they applied to him for shelter.

“We are just off a long trip, and our dogs are played out,” Emerson explained. “We’ll pay well for a place to rest.”

“You can’t stop here,” said the fellow, gruffly.

“Why not?”

“I’ve got no room.”

“Is there a road-house near by?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’d better find out mighty quick,” retorted the young man, with rising temper at the other’s discourtesy.

“Try the next place below,” said the watchman, hurriedly, slamming the door in their faces and bolting it. Once secure behind his barricade, he added: “If he won’t let you in, maybe the priest can take care of you at the Mission.”

“This here town of Kalvik is certainly overjoyed at our arrival,” said Fraser, “ain’t it?”

But his irate companion made no comment, whereat, sensing the anger behind his silence, the speaker, for once, failed to extemporize an answer to his own remark.

At the next stop they encountered the same gruff show of inhospitality, and all they could elicit from the shock-headed proprietor was another direction, in broken English, to try the Russian priest.

“I’ll make one more try,” said Emerson, between his teeth, gratingly, as they swung out into the darkness a second time. “If that doesn’t succeed, then I’ll take possession again. I won’t be passed on all night this way.”

“The “buck’ will certainly show us to the straw,” said “Fingerless” Fraser.

“The what?”

“The “buck’–the sky-dog–oh, the priest!”

But when, a mile farther on, they drew up before a white pile surmounted by a dimly discerned Greek cross, no sign of life was to be seen, and their signals awakened no response.

“Gone!–and they knew it.”

The vicious manner in which Emerson handled his whip as he said the words betrayed his state of mind. Three weeks of unvarying hardship and toilsome travel had worn out both men, and rendered them well-nigh desperate. Hence they wasted no words when, for the fourth time, their eyes caught the welcome sight of a shining radiance in the gloom of the gathering night. The trail-weary team stopped of its own accord.

“Unhitch!” ordered Emerson, doggedly, as he began to untie the ropes of the sled. He shouldered the sleeping-bags, and made toward the light that filtered through the crusted windows, followed by Fraser similarly burdened. But as they approached they saw at once that this was no cannery; it looked more like a road-house or trading-post, for the structure was low and it was built of logs. Behind and connected with it by a covered hall or passageway crouched another squat building of the same character, its roof piled thick with a mass of snow, its windows glowing. Those warm squares of light, set into the black walls and overhung by white-burdened eaves, gave the place the appearance of a Christmas-card, it was so snug and cozy. Even the glitter was there, caused by the rays refracted from the facets of the myriad frost-crystals.

They mounted the steps of the nigh building, and, without knocking, flung the door open, entered, then tossed their bundles to the floor. With a sharp exclamation at this unceremonious intrusion, an Indian woman, whom they had surprised, dropped her task and regarded them, round-eyed.

“We’re all right this time,” observed Emerson, as he swept the place with his eyes. “It’s a store.” Then to the woman he said, briefly: “We want a bed and something to eat.”

On every side the walls were shelved with merchandise, while the counter carried a supply of clothing, skins, and what not; a cylindrical stove in the centre of the room emanated a hot, red glow.

“This looks like the Waldorf to me,” said “Fingerless” Fraser, starting to remove his parka, the fox fringe on the hood of which was white from his breath.

“What you want?” demanded the squaw, coming forward.

Boyd, likewise divesting himself of his furs, noticed that she was little more than a girl–a native, undoubtedly; but she was neatly dressed, her skin was light, and her hair twisted into a smooth black knot at the back of her head.

“Food! Sleep!” he replied to her question.

“You can’t stop here,” the girl asserted, firmly.

“Oh yes, we can,” said Emerson. “You have plenty of room, and there’s lots of food”–he indicated the shelves of canned goods.

The squaw, without moving, raised her voice and called: “Constantine! Constantine!”

A door in the farther shadows opened, and the tall figure of a man emerged, advancing swiftly, his soft soles noiseless beneath him.

“Well, well! It’s old Squirrel-Tail,” cried Fraser. “Good-evening, Constantine.”

It was the copper-hued native who had rescued them from the river earlier in the day; but although he must have recognized them, his demeanor had no welcome in it. The Indian girl broke into a torrent of excited volubility, unintelligible to the white men.

“You no stop here,” said Constantine, finally; and, making toward the outer door, he flung it open, pointing out into the night.

“We’ve come a long way, and we’re tired,” Emerson argued, pacifically. “We’ll pay you well.”

Constantine only replied with added firmness, “No,” to which the other retorted with a flash of rising anger, “Yes!”

He faced the Indian with his back to the stove, his voice taking on a determined note. “We won’t leave here until we are ready. We’re tired, and we’re going to stay here–do you understand? Now tell your “klootch’ to get us some supper. Quick!”

The breed’s face blazed. Without closing the door, he moved directly upon the interloper, his design recognizable in his threatening attitude; but before he could put his plan into execution, a soft voice from the rear of the room halted him.

“Constantine,” it said.

The travellers whirled to see, standing out in relief against the darkness of the passage whence the Indian had just come a few seconds before, the golden-haired girl of the storm, to whom they had been indebted for their rescue. She advanced, smiling pleasantly, enjoying their surprise.

“What is the trouble?”

“These men no stop here!” cried Constantine violently. “You speak! I make them go.”

“I–I–beg pardon,” began Emerson. “We didn’t intend to take forcible possession, but we’re played out–we’ve been denied shelter everywhere–we felt desperate–”

“You tried the canneries above?” interrupted the girl.

“Yes.”

“And they referred you to the priest? Quite so.” She laughed softly, her voice a mellow contralto. “The Father has been gone for a month; he wouldn’t have let you in if he’d been there.”

She addressed the Indian girl in Aleut and signalled to Constantine, at which the two natives retired–Constantine reluctantly, like a watch-dog whose suspicions are not fully allayed.

“We’re glad of an opportunity to thank you for your timely service this afternoon,” said Emerson. “Had we known you lived here, we certainly should not have intruded in this manner.” He found himself growing hotly uncomfortable as he began to realize the nature of his position, but the young woman spared him further apologies by answering, carelessly:

“Oh, that was nothing. I’ve been expecting you hourly. You see, Constantine’s little brother has the measles, and I had to get to him before the natives could give the poor little fellow a Russian bath and then stand him out in the snow. They have only one treatment for all diseases. That’s why I didn’t stop and give you more explicit directions this morning.”

“If your–er–father–” The girl shook her head.

“Then your husband–I should like to arrange with him to hire lodgings for a few days. The matter of money–”

Again she came to his rescue.

“I am the man of the house. I’m boss here. This splendor is all mine.” She waved a slender white hand majestically at the rough surroundings, laughing in a way that put Boyd Emerson more at his ease. “You are quite welcome to stay as long as you wish. Constantine objects to my hospitality, and treats all strangers alike, fearing they may be Company men. When you didn’t arrive at dark, I thought perhaps he was right this time, and that you had been taken in by one of the watchmen.”

“We throwed a Swede out on his neck,” declared Fraser, swelling with conscious importance, “and I guess he’s “crabbed’ us with the other squareheads.”

“Oh, no! They have instructions not to harbor any travellers. It’s as much as his job is worth for any of them to entertain you. Now, won’t you make yourselves at home while Constantine attends to your dogs? Dinner will soon be ready, and I hope you will do me the honor of dining with me,” she finished, with a graciousness that threw Emerson into fresh confusion.

He murmured “Gladly,” and then lost himself in wonder at this well-gowned girl living amid such surroundings. Undeniably pretty, graceful in her movements, bearing herself with certainty and poise–who was she? Where did she come from? And what in the world was she doing here?

He became aware that “Fingerless” Fraser was making the introductions. “This is Mr. Emerson; my name is French. I’m one of the Virginia Frenches, you know; perhaps you have heard of them. No? Well, they’re the real thing.”

The girl bowed, but Emerson forestalled her acknowledgment by breaking in roughly, with a threatening scowl at the adventurer:

“His name isn’t French at all, Madam; it’s Fraser–‘Fingerless’ Fraser. He’s an utterly worthless rogue, and absolutely unreliable so far as I can learn. I picked him up on the ice in Norton Sound, with a marshal at his heels.”

“That marshal wasn’t after me,” stoutly denied Fraser, quite unabashed. “Why, he’s a friend of mine–we’re regular chums–everybody knows that. He wanted to give me some papers to take outside, that’s all.”

Boyd shrugged his shoulders indifferently:

“Warrants!”

“Not at all! Not at all!” airily.

Their hostess, greatly amused at this remarkable turn of the ceremony, prevented any further argument by saying:

“Well, French or Fraser, whichever it is, you are both welcome. However, I should prefer to think of you as a runaway rather than as an intimate friend of the marshal at Nome; I happen to know him.”

“Well, we ain’t what you’d exactly call pals,” Fraser hastily disclaimed. “I just sort of bow to him”–he gave an imitation of a slight, indifferent headshake–“that way!”

“I see,” commented their hostess, quizzically; then recalling herself, she continued: “I should have made myself known before; I am Miss Malotte.”

“Ch–” began the crook, then shut his lips abruptly, darting a shrewd glance at the girl. Emerson saw their eyes meet, and fancied that the woman’s smile sat a trifle unnaturally on her lips, while the delicate coloring of her face changed imperceptibly. As the fellow mumbled some acknowledgment, she turned to the younger man, inquiring impersonally:

“I suppose you are bound for the States?”

“Yes; we intend to catch the mail-boat at Katmai. I am taking Fraser along for company; it’s hard travelling alone in a strange country. He’s a nuisance, but he’s rather amusing at times.”

“I certainly am,” agreed that cheerful person, now fully at his ease. “I’ve a bad memory for names!”–he looked queerly at his hostess–“but I’m very amusing, very!”

“Not “very,’“ corrected Emerson.

Then they talked of the trail, the possibilities of securing supplies, and of hiring a guide. By-and-by the girl rose, and after showing them to a room, she excused herself on the score of having to see to the dinner. When she had withdrawn, “Fingerless” Fraser pursed his thin lips into a noiseless whistle, then observed:

“Well, I’ll–be–cussed!”

“Who is she?” asked Emerson, in a low, eager tone. “Do you know?”

“You heard, didn’t you? She’s Miss Malotte, and she’s certainly some considerable lady.”

The same look that Emerson had noted when their hostess introduced herself to them flitted again into the crook’s unsteady eyes.

“Yes, but whois she? What does this mean?” Emerson pointed to the provisions and fittings about them. “What is she doing here alone?”

“Maybe you’d better ask her yourself,” said Fraser.

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Emerson detected a strange note in the rogue’s voice, but it was too slight to provoke reply, so he brushed it aside and prepared himself for dinner.

The Indian girl summoned them, and they followed her through the long passageway into the other house, where, to their utter astonishment, they seemed to step out of the frontier and into the heart of civilization. They found a tiny dining-room, perfectly appointed, in the centre of which, wonder of wonders, was a round table gleaming like a deep mahogany pool, upon the surface of which floated gauzy hand-worked napery, glinting silver, and sparkling crystal, the dark polish of the wood reflecting the light from shaded candles. It held a delicately figured service of blue and gold, while the selection of thin-stemmed glasses all in rows indicated the character of the entertainment that awaited them. The men’s eyes were too busy with the unaccustomed sight to note details carefully, but they felt soft carpet beneath their feet and observed that the walls were smooth and harmoniously papered.

When one has lived long in the rough where things come with the husk on, he fancies himself weaned away from the dainty, the beautiful, and the artistic; after years of a skillet-and-sheath-knife existence he grows to feel a scorn for the finer, softer, inconsequent trifles of the past, only to find, of a sudden, that, unknown to him perhaps, his soul has been hungering for them all the while. The feel of cool linen comes like the caress of a forgotten sweetheart, the tinkle of glass and silver are so many chiming fairy bells inviting him back into the foretime days. And so these two unkempt men, toughened and browned to the texture of leather by wind and snow, brought by trail and campfire to disregard ceremony and look upon mealtime as an unsatisfying, irksome period, stood speechless, affording the girl the feminine pleasure of enjoying their discomfiture.

“This is m–marvelous,” murmured Emerson, suddenly conscious of his rough clothing, his fur boots, and his hands cracked by frost. “I’m afraid we’re not in keeping.”

“Indeed you are,” said the girl, “and I am delighted to have somebody to talk to. It’s very lonesome here, month after month.”

“This is certainly a swell tepee,” Fraser remarked, staring about in open admiration. “How did you do it?”

“I brought my things with me from Nome.”

“Nome!” ejaculated Emerson, quickly.

“Yes.”

“Why, I’ve been in Nome ever since the camp was discovered. It’s strange we never met.”

“I didn’t stay there very long. I went back to Dawson.”

Again he fancied the girl’s eyes held a vague challenge, but he could not be sure; for she seated him, and then gave some instructions to the Aleut girl, who had entered noiselessly. It was the strangest meal Boyd Emerson had ever eaten, for here, in a forgotten corner of an unknown land, hidden behind high-banked log walls, he partook of a perfect dinner, well served, and presided over by a gracious, richly gowned young woman who talked interestingly on many subjects, For a second time he lost himself in a maze of conjecture. Who was she? What was her mission here? Why was she alone? But not for long; he was too heavily burdened by the responsibility and care of his own affairs to waste much time by the way on those of other people; and becoming absorbed in his own thoughts, he grew more silent as the signs of refinement and civilization about him revived memories long stifled. Fraser, on the contrary, warmed by the wine, blossomed like the rose, and talked garrulously, recounting marvellous stories, as improbable as they were egotistical. He monopolized his hostess’ attention, the while his companion became more preoccupied, more self-contained, almost sullen.

This was not the effect for which the girl had striven; her younger guest’s taciturnity, which grew as the dinner progressed, piqued her, so at the first opportunity she bent her efforts toward rallying him. He answered politely, but she was powerless to shake off his mood. It was not abashment, as she realized when, from the corner of her eye, she observed him covertly stroke the linen and finger the silver as if to renew a sense of touch long unused. Being unaccustomed to any sort of indifference in men, his spiritless demeanor put her on her mettle, yet all to no avail; she could not find a seam in that mask of listless abstraction. At last he spoke of his own accord:

“You said those watchmen have instructions not to harbor travellers. Why is that?”

“It is the policy of the Companies. They are afraid somebody will discover gold around here.”

“Yes?”

“You see, this is the greatest salmon river in the world; the “run’ is tremendous, and seems to be unfailing; hence the cannery people wish to keep it all to themselves.”

“I don’t quite understand–”

“It is simple enough. Kalvik is so isolated and the fishing season is so short that the Companies have to send their crews in from the States and take them out again every summer. Now, if gold were discovered hereabouts, the fishermen would all quit and follow the “strike,’ which would mean the ruin of the year’s catch and the loss of many hundreds of thousands of dollars, for there is no way of importing new help during the short summer months. Why, this village would become a city in no time if such a thing were to happen; the whole region would fill up with miners, and not only would labor conditions be entirely upset for years, but the eyes of the world, being turned this way, other people might go into the fishing business and create a competition which would both influence prices, and deplete the supply of fish in the Kalvik River. So you see there are many reasons why this region is forbidden to miners.”

“I see.”

“You couldn’t buy a pound of food nor get a night’s lodging here for a king’s ransom. The watchmen’s jobs depend upon their unbroken bond of inhospitality, and the Indians dare not sell you anything, not even a dogfish, under penalty of starvation, for they are dependent upon the Companies’ stores.”

“So that is why you have established a trading-post of your own?”

“Oh dear, no. This isn’t a store. This food is for my men.”

“Your men?”

“Yes, I have a crew out in the hills on a grub-stake. This is our cache. While they prospect for gold, I stand guard over the provisions.”

Fraser chuckled softly. “Then you are bucking the Salmon Trust?”

“After a fashion, yes. I knew this country had never been gone over, so I staked six men, chartered a schooner, and came down here from Nome in the early spring. We stood off the watchmen, and when the supply-ships arrived, we had these houses completed, and my men were out in the hills where it was hard to follow them. I stayed behind, and stood the brunt of things.”

“But surely they didn’t undertake to injure you?” said Emerson, now thoroughly interested in this extraordinary young woman.

“Oh, didn’t they!” she answered, with a peculiar laugh. “You don’t appreciate the character of these people. When a man fights for money, just plain, sordid money, he loses all sense of honor, chivalry, and decency, he employs any means that come handy. There is no real code of financial morality, and the battle for dollars is the bitterest of all contests. Of course, being a woman, they couldn’t very well attack me personally, but they tried everything except physical violence, and I don’t know how long they will refrain from that. These plants are owned separately, but they operate under an agreement, with one man at the head. His name is Marsh–Willis Marsh, and, of course, he’s not my friend.”

“Sort of “United we stand, divided we fall.’“

“Exactly. That spreads the responsibility, and seems to leave nobody guilty for their evil deeds. The first thing they did was to sink my schooner–in the morning you will see her spars sticking up through the ice out in front there. One of their tugs “accidentally’ ran her down, although she was at anchor fully three hundred feet inside the channel line. Then Marsh actually had the effrontery to come here personally and demand damages for the injury to his towboat, claiming there were no lights on the schooner.”

Cherry Malotte’s eyes grew dark with indignation as she continued: “Nobody thinks of hanging lanterns to little crafts like her at anchor under such conditions. Having allowed me to taste his power, that man first threatened me covertly, and then proceeded to persecute me in a more open manner. When I still remained obdurate, he–he”–she paused. “You may have heard of it. He killed one of my men.”

“Impossible!” ejaculated Boyd.

“Oh, but it isn’t impossible. Anything is possible with unscrupulous men where there is no law; they halt at nothing when in chase of money. They are different from women in that. I never heard of a woman doing murder for money.”

“Was it really murder?”

“Judge for yourself. My man came down for supplies, and they got him drunk–he was a drinking man–then they stabbed him. They said a Chinaman did it in a brawl, but Willis Marsh was to blame. They brought the poor fellow here, and laid him on my steps, as if I had been the cause of it. Oh, it was horrible, horrible!” Her eyes suddenly dimmed over and her white hands clenched.

“And you still stuck to your post?” said Emerson, curiously.

“Certainly! This adventure means a great deal to me, and, besides, I will not be beaten”–the stem of the glass with which she had been toying snapped suddenly–“at anything.”

She appeared, all in a breath, to have become prematurely hard and worldly, after the fashion of those who have subsisted by their wits. To Emerson she seemed to have grown at least ten years older. Yet it was unbelievable that this slip of a woman should be possessed of the determination, the courage, and the administrative ability to conduct so desperate an enterprise. He could understand the feminine rashness that might have led her to embark upon it in the first place, but to continue in the face of such opposition–why, that was a man’s work and required a man’s powers, and yet she was utterly unmasculine. Indeed, it seemed to him that he had never met a more womanly woman. Everything about her was distinctly feminine.

“Fortunately, the fishing season is short,” she added, while a pucker of perplexity came between her dainty brows; “but I don’t know what will happen next summer.”

“I’d like to meet this Marsh-hen party,” observed Fraser, his usually colorless eyes a bright sea-green.

“Do you fear further–er–violence?” asked Emerson.

Cherry shrugged her rounded shoulders. “I anticipate it, but I don’t fear it. I have Constantine to protect me, and you will admit he is a capable bodyguard.” She smiled slightly, recalling the scene she had interrupted before dinner. “Then, too, Chakawana, his sister, is just as devoted. Rather a musical name, don’t you think so, Chakawana? It means “The Snowbird’ in Aleut, but when she’s aroused she’s more like a hawk. It’s the Russian in her, I dare say.”

The girl became conscious that her guests were studying her with undisguised amazement now, and therefore arose, saying, “You may smoke in the other room if you wish.”

Lost in wonder at this unconventional creature, and dazed by the strangeness of the whole affair, Emerson gained his feet and followed her, with “Fingerless” Fraser at his heels.

Chapter 3. In Which Cherry Malotte Displays A Temper

The unsuspected luxury of the dining-room, and the excellence of the dinner itself had in a measure prepared Emerson for what he found in the living-room. One thing only staggered him–a piano. The bear-skins on the floor, the big, sleepy chairs, the reading-table littered with magazines, the shelves of books, even the basket of fancy-work–all these he could accept without further parleying; but a piano! in Kalvik! Observing his look, the girl said:

“I am dreadfully extravagant, am I not? But I love it, and I have so little to do. I read and play and drive my dog-team–that’s about all.”

“And rescue drowning men in time for dinner,” added Boyd Emerson, not knowing whether he liked this young woman or not. He knew this north country from bitter experience, knew that none but the strong can survive, and recognizing himself as a failure, her calm assurance and self-certainty offended him vaguely. It seemed as if she were succeeding where he had failed, which rather jarred his sense of the fitness of things. Then, too, conventionality is a very agreeable social bond, the true value of which is not often recognized until it is found missing, and this girl was anything but conventional.

Again he withdrew into that silent mood from which no effort on the part of his hostess could arouse him, and it soon became apparent from the listless hang of his hands and the distant light in his eyes that he had even become unconscious of her presence in the room. Observing the cause of her impatience, Fraser interrupted his interminable monologue to say, without change of intonation:

“Don’t get sore on him; he’s that way half the time. I rode herd one night on a feller that was going to hang for murder at dawn, and he set just like that for hours.” She raised her brows inquiringly, at which he continued: “But you can’t always tell; when my brother got married he acted the same way.”

After an hour, during which Emerson barely spoke, she tired of the other man’s anecdotes, which had long ceased to be amusing, and, going to the piano, shuffled the sheet music idly, inquiring:

“Do you care for music?” Her remark was aimed at Emerson, but the other answered:

“I’m a nut on it.”

She ignored the speaker, and cast another question over her shoulder:

“What kind do you prefer?” Again the adventurer outran his companion to the reply:

“My favorite hymn is the Maple Leaf Rag. Let her go, professor.”

Cherry settled herself obligingly and played ragtime, although she fancied that Emerson stirred uneasily as if the musical interruption disturbed him; but when she swung about on her seat at the conclusion, he was still lax and indifferent.

“That certainly has some class to it,” “Fingerless” Fraser said, admiringly. “Just go through the reperchure from soda to hock, will you? I’m certainly fond of that coon clatter.” And realizing that his pleasure was genuine, she played on and on for him, to the muffled thump of his feet, now and then feeding her curiosity with a stolen glance at the other. She was in the midst of some syncopated measure when Boyd spoke abruptly: “Please play something.”

She understood what he meant and began really to play, realizing very soon that at least one of her guests knew and loved music. Under her deft fingers the instrument became a medium for musical speech. Gay roundelays, swift, passionate Hungarian dances, bold Wagnerian strains followed in quick succession, and the more utter her abandon the more certainly she felt the younger man respond.

Strange to say, the warped soul of “Fingerless” Fraser likewise felt the spell of real music, and he stilled his loose-hinged tongue. By-and-by she began to sing, more for her own amusement than for theirs, and after awhile her fingers strayed upon the sweet chords of Bartlett’s A Dream, a half-forgotten thing, the tenderness of which had lived with her from girlhood. She heard Emerson rise, then knew he was standing at her shoulder. Could he sing, she wondered, as he began to take up the words of the song? Then her dream-filled eyes widened as she listened to his voice breathing life into the beautiful words. He sang with the ease and flexibility of an artist, his powerful baritone blending perfectly with her contralto.

For the first time she felt the man’s personality, his magnetism, as if he had dropped his cloak and stood at her side in his true semblance. As they finished the song she wheeled abruptly, her face flushed, her ripe lips smiling, her eyes moist, and looked up to find him marvelously transformed. His even teeth gleamed forth from a brown face that had become the mirror of a soul as spirited as her own, for the blending of their voices had brought them into a similar harmony of understanding.

“Oh, thankyou,” she breathed.

“Thank you,” he said. “I–I–that’s the first time in ages that I’ve had the heart to sing. I was hungry for music, I was starving for it. I’ve sat in my cabin at night longing for it until my soul fairly ached with the silence. I’ve frozen beneath the Northern Lights straining my ears for the melody that ought to go with them–they must have an accompaniment somewhere, don’t you think so?”

“Yes, yes,” she breathed.

“They musthave; they are too gloriously, terribly beautiful to be silent. I’ve stood in the whispering spruce groves and tried to sing contentment back into my heart, but I couldn’t do it. This is the first real taste I’ve had in three years. Three years!”

He was talking rapidly, his blue eyes dancing. Cherry remembered thinking at dinner that those eyes were of too light and hard a blue for tenderness. She now observed that they were singularly deep and passionate.