XI

Jeff rightly felt that his first work in connection with the commission

given him was a close scrutiny of Alaskan conditions. He did not care to

work in the dark. He felt that a full understanding of the international

and local situation was a debt he owed not only to Seward but also to

himself; he believed himself, in a sense, a free agent who must act in

the end according to his own conscience and wisdom. The first day in

Sitka had been enlightening; but he was as yet far from a decision as to

his ultimate course.

In the week that followed he spared no pains to dig out the truth. He

talked to otter hunters and trappers, to tradesmen and clerks, to

members of the clergy and to soldiers of the garrison. He conferred with

the officials of the Company; he investigated all rumors dealing with

the proposed Russian-British treaty; he tried to learn the people’s real

sentiment toward America.

It appeared that some rumor had already got about that the United States

was interested in Alaska; but the officials of the monopoly as well as

of Hudson’s Bay Company seemed to regard it lightly. They were taking

their time over the new treaty; and were probably still haggling over

details. The sentiment seemed to be that Russia would make no move to

find a purchaser for Alaska at least for some years.

As he was quietly making his investigations, Jeff did not fail to allay

suspicions as to his real mission by pretending a great interest in the

now abandoned transpacific cable, as well as in certain minor disputes

that had come up regarding fishing and trading rights between the people

of Washington territory and the Russians. Nor did he hesitate to take

part in the gay Sitkan social life.

He found that the days passed quickly and rather pleasantly. He met

various of the Russian ladies and was frequently entertained by them; he

attended every function of importance at the Governor’s house; and he

even had certain pleasant times with Molly. As he still made his

quarters on the ship, he saw a great deal of the American girl, and

although she was not included in the social life of the post, she was a

pleasant companion in his idle hours. They had many a fine walk together

along the beach and back into the forest, and she was his companion at

the first Indian potlatch he ever attended—given at the shack of a

successful Aleut sea otter hunter.

It came about that after the affair was over, the moon beguiled them

into a midnight walk along the Kolosh Ryeka trail, across the quaint

bridge and up a path leading toward Mt. Verstovia. Almost at once the

forest closed around them; and they were hushed and awed by the presence

of the giants. There was a magic in the moonlit Northern woods that even

the wild creatures seemed to feel; a mystery that mere reason could not

reach, a brooding loneliness, the sense of on eternal and secret wisdom.

Though they were not unaware of each other, both the man and the girl

were busy with dreams.

Because they had entered into the mood of the forest they had no wish to

disturb its all-pervading silence, and so they crept softly along the

dim trail, their only communion that of their thoughts and spirits.

Except for this fact they might have completed their walk and turned

back to the ship without the least adventure of any kind. As it was,

they came unseen and unheard, and a minor drama that was in progress on

the hillside moved on unaware of their nearing presence.

Although Jeff was dreaming his eyes were wide open. Perhaps he knew the

old forest maxim that he who will seek will behold wonders surpassing

belief; perhaps there was also a warning of impending events in the

still, breathless air. He suddenly paused in the trail, and Molly,

walking behind him, pressed against his shoulder.

Instantly she saw what had halted him: a momentary silhouette of a man’s

form at the brow of a low hill, just above the forks in the trail.

Almost at once it faded in the shadows; and although they waited, it did

not at once reappear.

This was not just a late traveler from the mountain. His furtive

movements indicated that he was lying in ambush beside the trail. Jeff

touched Molly’s arm, and together they drew farther into the

shadows—waiting for what might transpire.

The girl did not question him with one word. This fact shot home to him

with considerable force, intent though he was on the business in hand.

She quietly took her place at his side; and altogether seemed to be a

full partner in the adventure. All at once he made the surprising

discovery that she was somewhat of an asset rather than a liability. He

was not obliged to spend part of his energy quieting her or combating

her fear; so he knew the considerable relief of putting her entirely out

of his mind. He felt free and strangely capable of handling any sort of

an emergency.

For some little time nothing whatever happened. The girl breathed softly

beside him, and he felt the pleasing touch of her warm shoulder. The

longer he waited, the stronger was his sense that they were twain.

Whatever the crisis, Molly at least could be counted on to stay out of

the way.

“It’s a false alarm, I think,” he whispered. “Did we imagine that

figure?”

But it might not be, after all, a false alarm. Presently he heard the

distant pat-pat of moccasined feet on the path, and peering intently

between the trees, they saw the long shadows of a man moving in jerking

motions along one of the side trails toward the forks. What part he had

in the hillside drama as yet they did not know; he was making no attempt

to walk silently or in any way to conceal his advance. If there were

indeed an ambush at the forks of the trail, this man was walking

straight into it.

Before Jeff could fully realize this possibility and make any move to

warn him, the man had reached a small opening between the trees where a

moment before the skulking figure had disappeared. He was in plain sight

in the moonlight as he started to walk through. At this instant, the

affair lost its commonplace character.

There was a sudden confusion of swiftly moving figures in the small

clearing. The foe had not been content with decent odds; not one, but

three, sprang from the thickets and fell upon the lone pedestrian.

The rest that Jeff saw, he saw as he ran. He saw that the three men

evidently lacked faith in their naked hands to master a lone foe and

were chivalrously armed with clubs; and he saw further that the

pedestrian, instead of instantly yielding to overwhelming numbers, was

putting up the gamest kind of a fight, meanwhile looking for a chance to

take to his heels. Jeff saw these things as he ran, and he was not

obliged to look back over his shoulder. He was running with the idea of

getting into the affair in the shortest possible time.

He felt quite sure that it was none of his concern. He was unarmed

except for his cane, he had a lady in his charge, and sooner or later he

would meet an unhappy end simply by this sort of interference in other

people’s affairs. Nevertheless, it was not in him to stand aside when

one fought three. Love of fair play is deeply ingrained in Southern

youth—part of the heritage of chivalry that has come straight down to

the sons of the Cavaliers—and his legs would have wilted under him had

he tried to run away. He was like a war horse who smelled battle from

afar, breaking any rein of caution that tried to hold him.

He sprinted up the trail fast as he could go, hoping in his heart that

the excitement would not be over before he reached the scene. He forgot

his fine clothes, any stateliness that he might have fancied he

possessed, and he went eight feet at a jump. His eyes flashed and he

brandished his club about his head like a battle-ax.

But there was serious business enough when he charged up into the small

clearing. The three men had launched a most brutal and deadly attack;

and death might come at the end of it. He was presently aware, now that

he came near enough to see plainly, that if his old war gods were not

with him still, this adventure on the hillside might easily put an end

to him. There was valiant fighting before him if he were to come

through.

He realized now that the fight had significance beyond what he had first

thought. It was not a mere attack by footpads. The aggressors were

evidently desperate, or they would certainly make some effort to flee as

he sped among them. Their victim was now shown to be an Indian doubtless

on the way home from the native potlatch; certainly not acceptable prey

to roadside bandits. The three men were evidently soldiers, as they wore

the uniform of the garrison.

Jeff did not for a moment suppose he was interfering in an official

arrest. Honorable law enforcement is not carried out on wayside trails

in the midnight hours. And there was no time to deliberate further. The

nearest of the three men lunged at him as he ran past to give aid to the

Indian, and in an instant they were grappling like wrestlers.

The conflict was a desperate one, from the first instant. Jeff’s man was

a powerful Russian of about his own age; and the grasp of his strong

hand precluded any attempt on the Southerner’s part to use his cane.

With his left hand, a fighting tool that seemed of forged steel rather

than mortal human flesh, he reached and seized Jeff’s throat.

The latter had cause to remember certain hand-to-hand combats at Five

Forks; and an honored foe who had passed whooping into Valhalla from his

arms. The sport and the adventure of this present fight on the Kolosh

Ryeka trail speedily passed away and left it a grim and terrible

business neither pleasant to see nor sweet to know. With the closing of

those iron fingers on his windpipe the brawl became literally one of

life and death. Jeff forgot how he came there, how it all had happened,

and what had been the issues involved, and only remembered he must break

this hold or perish.

He did not have any large amount of time. Inability to breathe may be

tolerated for a few seconds; but thereafter comes a noticeable slump in

one’s prowess, accompanied by acute disorders in all the physical and

mental processes. Unlike most things, an enemy’s hold on one’s own

throat grows stronger with passing time, simply because of increasing

inability to struggle against it. Jeff dropped his cane, and wrenched

with both hands at the cruel pinchers which were depriving him of life.

He gave all he had, an amount that was not without honor in the tales

that veterans told, and it was just enough. The Russian was forced to

let go to save the bones of his wrists and fingers; but the throat skin

was flayed off under his raking nails. Jeff’s breath came back in a

torturing sob, but his strength came with it; and he met the Russian’s

next attack with considerable power.

Bear-like arms encircled him, and with a terrific wrench his foe hurled

him to the ground. He wished to have him where, when an opportunity

again presented itself, he could hold Jeff’s windpipe undisturbed. In

one fight and another throughout his youth Jeff had never met a more

satisfactory opponent than this strapping Muscovite, or encountered such

ungentle alacrity as this with which he was now laid upon his back. If

he lost, at least it would be to some one worthy of his steel.

But he had not lost yet. The fight had just begun. In fact, he had no

intention of losing, and he struggled like a demon against his foe’s

effort to pin him down. The two of them rolled about on the hill, too

intent on the business of fighting even to howl, and though their

clothes and skins were torn and their faces battered, at first neither

could seem to gain the slightest advantage. The Russian sought in vain

for another grip on Jeff’s throat, and the latter, relying on American

methods, could not at first break through the foe’s guard to the

vulnerable point of his bearded chin.

But now, with the passing moments, a great self-confidence overswept the

Rebel. Except for accidents he knew he would surely win. Some toughness

that had been put in his frame at birth—perhaps a heritage from

frontiersmen ancestors whom he might now, in his little wisdom, be

ashamed to claim—had begun to make itself felt, sustaining him through

punishment that the Russian could not endure. It was a characteristic

American quality; and never did Jeff appreciate it more.

With a strong effort he put his foe beneath him and slowly and patiently

began the work necessary to keep him there. His superior stamina was now

making itself plainly manifest. The foe struggled desperately and with

convulsive strength, but Jeff could not be driven off, nor did his iron

hold relax. And now there was but one flaw in his perfect happiness.

As his foe had gone down and Jeff had wheeled up, he had glanced toward

the other fighters, and what he saw filled him with concern. It was true

that the Indian seemed to be making out fairly well. He was fighting the

biggest man of the three—the veritable giant of the lusty trio—but he

seemed to be a singularly powerful fellow, and although he was hard

pressed Jeff saw in a glance that he was still far from defeat. The

thing that now troubled Jeff was not the fate of the savage, but the

activities of the third Russian.

Until now he had forgotten about this individual. He had cause to

remember an old general’s teachings: not to disregard either wing of the

enemy that might be temporarily in the background. This was just what

Jeff had done; his strategy had ignored a third of the enemy force. Now

the intrusion of this factor might easily turn victory into defeat.

Until a moment ago this man had aided his companion in the combat with

the Indian. The battle proving too hot for his liking, he had turned now

in search of easier prey. In a little half-glimpse between one blow and

another Jeff caught sight of him in the act of circling about through

the shadows to attack him from the rear.

He could not get up to meet that attack in the teeth. His man kept him

too busy for that. He could not even turn his head to watch. And now he

knew that very real terror and most hideous anticipation of cold steel

being driven into his back.

All these soldiers were armed with knives and were altogether too fond

of using them. Blades were particularly useful in hole-and-corner

business of this kind because, unlike a rifle, they struck with the

softest kind of a sliding sound. Besides, a man who would leave his

companion during a fray to seek other conquests is just the kind to whom

stabbing comes natural and easy. Unable to break the hold of his first

enemy that now clung desperately to his arms, unable to wheel him over

as a shield for his own body, there was nothing for Jeff to do but to

pray to his gods of chance and wait for what might befall.

One second passed, then another. Nothing whatever happened except that

which had already been happening—the interchange of a few pleasantries

between himself and the man on whom he lay. The time lengthened almost

to a minute; and instead of a renewed attack with reinforcements on the

part of the foe there was only a strange and growing silence. The third

Russian did not come in sight; neither was any sound to be heard from

him. Nothing remained to believe but that he had had no intention of

helping his friend, but that Jeff had seen him in the act of retiring

from the company.

Now he had lost his chance. In another instant Jeff would be free to

handle him. His first opponent was limp in his arms now, quite

unconscious from a short tap which Jeff had dealt him under the curve of

his jaw; and although no grave after effects were to be anticipated, he

would not be able to resume the fight for some moments at least.

Jeff knocked away his restraining arms and jumped to his feet. He wanted

to make sure about the third Russian. And then he uttered a long, tired

gasp that was partly wonder and partly a mixture of other emotions too

complex to trace.

The man had not gone away, after all. He was lying down. A knife lay

near his hand. Jeff had guessed right as to his murderous intentions.

The Indian, who had put down his man, walked near and looked him over,

discovering at length a slight but evidently effective abrasion on the

side of his head. He also would not be himself for some moments to come.

Old generals had taught the young soldier always to keep his eye open

for the unexpected, the intruding circumstance that turns the tide of

battle. Here it stood, most wonderfully beautiful in the moonlight that

streamed down between the trees.

It was Molly; her eyes lustrous with tears, but her capable hand still

firmly clasping Jeff’s heavy-handled cane.