From a nook on the mountainside, a lone man watched scornfully the long,
thin line of the stampede.
Those same threads spun by the Fates had caught another in their mesh.
In a lonely hut, there in the desolate Northland, Jim Maxwell had his
home. His presence was needful for the weaving of that design by which
right should be realized in the final presentation of life's tapestry.
He had traveled thus far beyond the confines of civilization under the
urge of that immutable purpose which drove him in all his wanderings
throughout the years--to find the man he hated, and the woman he loved.
He had sought vainly over all the world in the usual haunts of men--in
many that were unusual. Never, anywhere, had he found a trace. He had
come into this forbidding land, not for the lure of gold, as the others
had come; but for the lure of vengeance against the man who had
despoiled him, and for the lure of love toward the woman who had his
heart in her keeping.
Then, somehow, Jim Maxwell, when he found himself isolated there in a
cabin amid the loneliness of this land, almost forgot vengeance, almost
forgot love, in the immensity of the peace that brooded over the
snow-clad wastes. In the hut he had built with his own hands, from
spruce timbers, he was snugly sheltered against the austerities of the
clime. He had fuel enough, of his gathering along the wooded slopes of
the foot-hills. In the maw of the sheet-iron stove, which he had packed,
the resinous branches were transmuted into dancing flames, redolent of
warmth and cheer in the tiny room of the hut, though outside the blasts
from the Pole were cold as the ice from which they came.
The day of his daughter's wedding--though he had no least suspicion that
wife, or child, or enemy was within thousands of miles--Jim made a
round of his traps. In making the circuit, he was absorbed, without
thought, for the time being, of the life that had been, without thought
of vengeance, without thought of love. It was only after he had returned
at nightfall to the hut, and had fried his mess of bacon on top of the
red-hot stove, and had boiled his coffee hard, as one must in the North,
where there is need of all the energy from food, that Jim sat down on
his bunk of spruce boughs, ready for sleep--yet, for a moment, wakeful.
Then there sounded softly on his ears that old, old lyric of love. It
was the song that had been played out of the feeling of his heart for
his wife, in the years long gone. It was that improvisation with which
he had told Lou his passion on the day when he had heard that Dan McGrew
was coming to visit them. Now, Jim had no means of audible expression.
Nevertheless, the song welled in him. It thrilled in every atom of his
being. It was that same wonderful, joyous, lilting melody, full of life
at its best. The tenderness of love rang in its cadences. Jim's fingers
tensed--they were hungry to seize the chords, rapacious to pounce on the
notes that voiced this heart-song of a lost happiness.
Jim aroused from the trance of memory. He looked to the fire, and rolled
into the bunk.... He had heard, that day, in a native iglook, of a find
of gold on Forgotten Creek. He recalled the fact drowsily as sleep fell
on him.
"I'll take a look across the valley in the morning," he thought.
"There's sure to be a stampede."
So it came about on the day following the marriage of Nell Ross and Jack
Reeves that there was a watcher who looked out over the valley through
which the long line of dogs and men hurried toward the possible riches
of Forgotten Creek.
Jim seated himself on the trunk of a fallen spruce, high on the
mountainside. From this point, he overlooked the whole length of the
valley. He saw at last the animate line darting out of the distance, and
watched as it became definite, with a smile of cynical amusement....
These were the hunters of gold. And gold--Bah! There were only two
things in the world: love and vengeance.
From his seat on the fallen spruce, Jim Maxwell stared out over the
valley. For hours he sat there. He saw the breaking up of the company,
as its members scattered in various directions, now that they were come
into the region of possible wealth. At the last, the valley showed clear
of the human invaders.... And, just then, Jim Maxwell heard a sound,
which already he had learned to know, there in the Northland. It was a
gentle sound, but with a sibilance that held a threat of danger--like
the hiss of a gigantic serpent.
As he heard, Jim instinctively let out a great shout of fear in the
presence of this peril so close upon him. In the same moment, without
pausing to look up, he dropped from the log on which he had been
sitting, and crowded as closely under it as he could, to make it serve
as a bulwark--though, indeed, he well knew the futility of such a
protection against the avalanche that was now crashing down the slope.
Crouched there beneath the log, Jim awaited the issue with an unuttered
prayer for escape in his heart--if escape should be possible.
[Illustration: CROUCHED THERE BENEATH THE LOG, JIM AWAITED THE ISSUE.]
In another instant the din of the snow-slide burst on his ears in its
full fury. And, along with that thunderous noise, the daylight was
blotted out. In the darkness, the man felt the soft, yet inexorable
weight of the massed snow crushing upon him, holding him as in a vise.
There was a tiny free space still beneath the log, and as yet he had no
lack of air. But he was powerless to stir. He realized that there was no
possibility of digging his way out through the heaped bulk of snow
within which he lay entombed. He could find no room for hope. He
resigned himself to meet the end with what fortitude he might. A wave of
wrath swept through him that he must die thus futilely, with his
vengeance unaccomplished. The emotion passed presently, and in its
stead came a vast and poignant yearning for the woman he loved. By a
fierce effort of will, he fought down such desires, which he deemed
weakness at this time, and strove to look Death in the face calmly, with
resignation and without fear.
* * * * *
Jack Reeves and his bride, despite the excellence of the young
prospector's dog-team, lagged behind the others in the long line of the
stampede, for the young husband had his own ideas concerning a location
likely to yield the best results, and meant to let the crowd precede
him, in order that he might pursue his course unmarked. So it came about
that, after the straggling procession of gold-hunters had passed from
the sight of Jim Maxwell, the newly married pair entered the valley,
riding at ease behind the leisurely moving dogs. Jim Maxwell, from his
position on the mountainside, held his gaze turned toward where the last
of the stampeders had vanished, and so failed to observe the newcomers.
Thus, when the avalanche swept down upon him, he had no thought that
his wild, instinctive cry for succor could be heard.
But it was. A quarter of a mile away, Jack Reeves heard the despairful
shout; and Nell, too, heard it. Jack's quick gaze, darting in the
direction of the sound, caught a glimpse of moving shadow against the
white surface of the slope, as Jim dropped from the log to take shelter
beneath it. At the same time, there came to Jack's ears the first noise
of the avalanche's descent, and he understood fully how great was the
peril of the unknown, whose cry for help he had heard. He called to his
dogs savagely, and sent them forward toward the slope at speed. Before
he had time to explain to the startled Nell, the rush and roar of the
snow-slide made clear the situation to her, familiar as she was with
this peril of the mountains. Yet, ere the hurtling masses of snow buried
the spot where he had seen the moving shadow, Jack marked its location
precisely by means of an outcropping ledge, just to the right of the
tree-trunk. As he went forward swiftly, he noted with relief that the
slide, which soon ceased, was a comparatively small one, though of a
size sufficient to prove fatal to its victim, unless aided from without.
At the foot of the slope, some distance to the right of the freshly
heaped-up snow, the sled was halted. Jack and Nell put on their
snow-shoes, and, with a couple of spades from the pack, made their way
with some difficulty to the jutting point of the ledge, which still
protruded a little beyond the new covering of snow. A few feet to the
left of this, they began to dig, working with feverish haste. They
progressed rapidly, for the prospector was in the full prime of his
manhood, with muscles like steel, and the girl, if less strong, was in
equally perfect condition, and with training enough in the arduous life
of the frontier to make the toil simple to her.
They had dug down perhaps a score of feet, and had reached, as Jack
judged, almost to the ground, so that he feared lest he might have
mistaken the location, when suddenly Nell rested motionless.
"Listen!" she commanded. Her tense face was radiant.
Jack ceased shoveling, and listened as he had been bidden.
There came a faint, strangely muffled sound. It came again--an
indistinguishable, inarticulate mutter from somewhere under the snow at
their feet.
Jack shouted triumphantly.
"By cricky, Nell," he cried joyously, "we've struck him, sure as sin!"
He raised his voice to its full volume in a cheerful bellow, meant to
reach the ears of the imprisoned man below:
"Buck up, old pal! We'll have you out in a jiffy." Then the bridal pair
betook themselves to shoveling with the enthusiasm inspired by success.
There was no difficulty in the completion of the work of rescue. Very
soon, the excavation reached the log under which Jim Maxwell was
sheltered, and he was able to crawl forth with some difficulty, owing to
cramped and aching muscles, but safe and sound. He was a little dazed
over his escape, when he had resigned himself to hopelessness. It seemed
to him as if a miracle had been wrought in his behalf by the timely
appearance of these two, where he had believed there was none to aid
him. His feeling of wonder was increased by the fact that one of these
two who had saved him from death, and who now stood beside him
supporting him, was a girl, whose dark, lovely face beneath the fur cap
was alight with an almost maternal joy over the deliverance in which she
had shared. The event seemed, somehow, to soften in a certain degree the
nature of the man, embittered by long years of suffering under a
grievous wrong. For almost the first time since the loss he had
sustained at the hands of Dan McGrew, Jim Maxwell felt a warm emotion,
which was close to tenderness. He continued to regard the two
bewilderedly. But his voice, when at last he spoke, was firm, and
vibrant with gratitude:
"You saved me--and I sha'n't forget it." He paused for a moment, then
added whimsically: "I don't know who you are, or how you got
here--unless you're two sure-enough angels, dropped plumb-straight down
from heaven for this special occasion." The half-jesting note left his
voice. "And I'll say just one thing: If you children ever need a friend,
you can call on me, and I sha'n't fail you. In the meantime," he added
briskly, "I want you to be my guests for the night. My cabin is near
by--a little way up the gulch there."
Something in the dignity of his manner as he made the proffer of
hospitality, some refinement of inflection in his tones, caused the
listeners to look with new curiosity on this roughly dressed man, whose
face was almost hidden beneath the thicket of beard. They were moved by
a sudden, compelling respect for this uncouth-appearing dweller in the
waste. It needed but a glance between husband and wife to ensure their
acceptance of the invitation. So, presently, the three rode on together.
They felt a certain unusual kindliness in their relation as host and
guests. They attributed it, as far as they thought of the matter at
all, to the peculiar manner of their meeting.... They could not guess
that strands woven by the Fates had caught them in a mesh for the final
right weaving of a perfect design.