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THE PROMISE
A Tale of the Great Northwest
By
JAMES B. HENDRYX
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by Arrangements with G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
COPYRIGHT, 1915
BY
JAMES B. HENDRYX
Seventh Impression
BY JAMES B. HENDRYX
The Promise
The Gun Brand
Connie Morgan in Alaska
Connie Morgan with the Northwest Mounted
This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE PACE 1
II.--"BROADWAY BILL" 8
III.--THE FINAL KICK 17
IV.--LOVE OR HATE 26
V.--"THIEF!" 34
VI.--THE CROOKED GAME 39
VII.--THE WRECK 47
VIII.--NEW FRIENDS 53
IX.--BILL GETS A JOB 59
X.--NORTHWARD, HO! 65
XI.--BILL HITS THE TRAIL 72
XII.--THE TEST 83
XIII.--ON THE TOTE-ROAD 90
XIV.--AT BAY 99
XV.--THE WERWOLF 106
XVI.--MONCROSSEN 116
XVII.--A TWO-FISTED MAN 125
XVIII.--"BIRD'S-EYE" AND PHILOSOPHY 133
XIX.--A FRAME-UP 138
XX.--A FIRE IN THE NIGHT 147
XXI.--DADDY DUNNIGAN 161
XXII.--CREED SEES A GHOST 169
XXIII.--HEAD-LINES 178
XXIV.--THE LOG JAM 187
XXV.--"THE-MAN-WHO-CANNOT-DIE" 196
XXVI.--MAN OR TOY MAN? 209
XXVII.--JEANNE 217
XXVIII.--A PROPHECY 222
XXIX.--A BUCKSKIN HUNTING-SHIRT 230
XXX.--CREED 235
XXXI.--THE ROBE OF DIABLESSE 246
XXXII.--THE ONE GOOD WHITE MAN 253
XXXIII.--THE PROMISE 259
XXXIV.--THE NEW BOSS 263
XXXV.--A HUNTING PARTY 274
XXXVI.--TOLD ON THE TRAIL 282
XXXVII.--IN THE OFFICE 287
XXXVIII.--CHARLIE FINDS A FRIEND 296
XXXIX.--BILL'S WAY 306
XL.--CHARLIE GOES HUNTING 314
XLI.--THE BLIZZARD 319
XLII.--BUCKING THE STORM 326
XLIII.--IN CAMP AGAIN 338
XLIV.--THE MISSING BONDS 347
XLV.--SNOW-BOUND 358
XLVI.--AN ANNOUNCEMENT 366
XLVII.--MONCROSSEN PAYS A VISIT 374
XLVIII.--THE WEDDING 382
XLIX.--ON THE RIVER 391
L.--FACE TO FACE 399
LI.--THE PROMISE FULFILLED 406
LII.--THE BIG MAN 415
THE PROMISE
CHAPTER I
THE PACE
Young Carmody awoke to the realization of another day.
The sun of mid-forenoon cast a golden rhombus on the thick carpet, and
through the open windows the autumnal air, stirred by just the
suspicion of a breeze, was wafted deliciously cool against his burning
cheeks and throbbing temples.
He gazed about the familiar confines of the room in puffy-eyed
stupidity.
There was a burning thirst at his throat, and he moistened his dry lips
with a bitter-coated tongue. His mouth was lined with a brown slime of
dead liquor, which nauseated him and sent the dull ache to his head in
great throbbing waves.
Upon a beautifully done mahogany table near the door stood a silver
pitcher filled to the brim with clear, cold ice-water. It seemed miles
away, and, despite the horrible thirst that gnawed at his throat, he
lay for many minutes in dull contemplation of its burnished coolness.
The sodden condition of his imagination distorted his sense of
proportion. The journey across the room loomed large in the scheme of
things. It was a move of moment, to be undertaken not lightly, but
after due and proper deliberation.
He threw off the covers and placed a tentative foot upon the floor.
A groan escaped him as his right hand brushed the counterpane. Gingerly
he brought the member within range of his vision--it was swollen to the
wrist and smeared with dried blood, which had oozed from an ugly split
in the tight-drawn skin. Slowly he worked the fingers and frowned--more
in perplexity than distress--at the sharp pain of the stiffened
knuckles.
He crossed to the table and, springing the silver catch of a tiny door,
cunningly empaneled in the wall, selected from the cellaret a
long-necked, cut-glass decanter, from which he poured a liberal drink.
The sight of it sickened him, and for an instant he stood contemplating
the little beads that rushed upward and ranged themselves in a
sparkling semicircle along the curve of the liquor-line.
"The hair of the dog is good for the bite," he muttered, and with an
effort closed his eyes and conveyed the stuff jerkily to his lips. Part
of the contents spilled over his fingers and splashed upon the polished
table-top. As the diffused odor reached his nostrils a wave of nausea
swept over him. With a shudder he drained the glass at a gulp and
groped blindly for the water-pitcher, from which he greedily swallowed
great quantities of ice-water.
He paused before a tall pier-glass and surveyed himself through
bloodshot eyes. The telephone upon the opposite wall emitted a
peremptory ring. Young Carmody turned with a frown of annoyance. He
ignored the summons and carefully scrutinized his damaged hand.
His brain was rapidly clearing and, from out the tangled maze of
dancing girls, popping corks, and hilarious, dress-suited men, loomed
large the picture of a policeman. Just how it all happened he could not
recollect. He must see the boys and get the straight of it.
His mirrored image grinned at the recollection of the officer, the
quick, hard-struck blow, and the hysterical screams and laughter of the
girls as they were seized in the strong arms of their companions,
rushed across the sidewalk, and swung bodily into the waiting taxis.
_B-r-r-r-r-r. B-r-r-r-r-r-r. B-r-r-r-r-r!_ Again the telephone bell cut
short his musing. There was a compelling insistency in the sound and,
with a muttered imprecation, he jerked the receiver from the hook.
"Well?" he growled. "Yes, this is William Carmody. Oh, hello, governor!
I will be right down. I overslept this morning. Stay where I am! Why?
All right, I'll wait."
"Now what?" he murmured. "The old gentleman seems peeved."
After a cold bath and a vigorous rub he began leisurely to dress. His
eyes cleared and he noted with satisfaction that aside from a slight
pouchiness, and the faint mottling of red that blotched his cheeks, all
traces of the previous night's orgy had disappeared. True his hand
pained him, but he had neatly mended the split with plaster and the
swelling had, in a great measure, yielded to the cold water.
"Getting fat," he grunted, as he noticed the increasing heaviness at
his girth. "Fat and soft," he added, as a huge muscle yielded under the
grip of his strong fingers.
In college this man had pulled the stroke oar of his crew, and on the
gridiron had become a half-back of national renown. By the end of his
second year no amateur could be found who would willingly face him with
the gloves, and upon several occasions, under a carefully guarded
sobriquet, he had given a good account of himself against some of the
foremost professionals of the squared circle. He was a man of mighty
muscles, of red blood, and of iron, to whom the strain and sweat of
physical encounter were the breath of life.
He wondered as he carefully selected a tie, at the strange request he
had received at the telephone. He glanced at the French clock on the
mantel. His father, he knew, had been at his desk these two hours.
They had little in common--these two. After the death of his young
wife, years before, Hiram Carmody had surrounded himself with a barrier
of imperturbability beyond which even his son never ventured. Cold and
unyielding, men called him--a twentieth century automaton of big
business. Rarely, outside of banking hours, did the two meet. Never but
once did they hold extended conversation. It was upon the occasion of
the younger man's return from a year's Continental travel that his
father summoned him and, with an air of impersonal finality, laid out
his life work. The time had come for him to settle down to business. In
regard to the nature of this business, or any choice he might have in
the matter, William was not consulted. As a matter of course, being a
Carmody, he was to enter the bank. His official position was that of
messenger. His salary, six dollars a week, his private allowance, one
hundred. And thus he was dismissed.
It cannot be chronicled that young Carmody was either surprised or
disappointed at thus being assigned to a career. In truth, up to that
time he had thought very little of the future and made no plans. He
realized in a vague sort of way that some time he would engage in
business; therefore, upon receipt of the paternal edict he merely
looked bored, shrugged, and with a perfunctory, "Yes, sir," quit the
room without comment.
He entered upon his duties stoically and without enthusiasm. At the end
of a year his salary had increased to twelve dollars a week, and his
sphere of usefulness enlarged to embrace the opening and sorting of
mail. The monotony of the life palled upon him. He attended to his
duties with dogged persistence and in the evenings haunted the
gymnasiums. His athletic superiority was soon demonstrated and after a
time, neither in the ring nor on the mat could he find an opponent
worthy the name.
More and more he turned for diversion toward the white lights of
Broadway. Here was amusement, excitement--life! He became immensely
popular among certain of the faster set and all unconsciously found
himself pitted against the most relentless foeman of them all--John
Barleycorn.
Gradually the personnel of his friends changed. Less and less
frequently did he appear at the various social functions of the Avenue,
and more and more did he enter into the spirit of the Great White Way.
On every hand he was hailed as "Bill Carmody," and by the great force
of his personality maintained his universal popularity. Many smiled at
the rumors of his wild escapades--some even envied--a few frowned. If
his father knew he kept his own council--it was his way.
Only one warned him. Ethel Manton, beautiful, imperious, and altogether
desirable, with just the suspicion of a challenge in her daringly
flashing eyes, was the one person in all the world that Bill Carmody
loved. And loving her, he set her high upon a pedestal and entered the
lists with all the ardor of his being. His was the love of desire--the
love of a strong man for his mate, bringing out by turns all that was
best and worst in him.
Yet she remained cold--this girl of his golden dreams. Only at rare
intervals did she unbend and allow him a fleeting glimpse of her very
soul. At such times her eyes grew tender and she seemed very near to
him--and very dear. And then he would tell her of his great love, and
always her answer was the same: She would marry no man who was content
to live upon an allowance. He must make good--must win to the fore in
the business world as he had won in the athletic. And above all he must
forswear the pace!
In vain he explained that business held no interest for him; that it
was no man's game, but a sordid struggle of wits for the amassing of
unneeded gold. In vain he argued that his father, already rich, would,
in the event of their marriage, settle a large amount upon them in
their own right. In answer to her reference to his habits he would
laugh. He was not afraid; _there_ was a man's game!
Of course, once married, all that would be changed. But, pshaw; it is
all in a lifetime! And then he would lightly promise to mend his
ways--a promise that was forgotten within the hour. What do women know
of a strong man's play?
But one woman did know, and, knowing, cared.