THE STORE-HOUSE
Steve pushed back from the table in An-ina's kitchen. The woman was
standing ready to minister to his lightest demands. She had waited on
him throughout the meal, and remained standing the whole time. It was a
habit, which, throughout their years of life together, Steve had been
powerless to break her of. It was her pride thus to wait upon him.
Her soft, watchful eyes were observing him closely as he filled and lit
his pipe. There was something approaching anxiety in their depths. It
may have been the dull yellow lamplight that robbed the man's face of
its usual look of robust health. But if the shadows wrought upon it and
the curious pasty yellow tint of the skin were due to the lamplight,
certainly the hollows about the eyes, the cheeks, which had become
almost alarmingly drawn, and the sunken lines about the firm mouth could
not have been attributed to a similar cause.
An-ina understood this. She understood more. She had realized, during
the weeks that had elapsed since Steve's return from the heart of Unaga,
a curious growing bodily lassitude in the man. It was something
approaching inertia, and she knew its cause. Fear had grown up in her
simple Indian mind and heart. She wanted to speak. She wanted to offer
her warning. But somehow Steve's will was her law, and she knew that
will was driving him now in a fashion that would only leave her words
wasted. So, while her lips remained silent, her feelings were clearly
enough expressed in her eyes.
"Just a draw or two at the old pipe, An-ina," Steve said, with his
flicker of a smile that was full of gentleness. "Guess you can't know
the relief of being rid of the mask for awhile. The taste of every
breath I draw through it makes me well-nigh sick. Still, it's got to be.
It's that or quick death. And I'm not yearning to 'cash in' yet. There's
more than two weeks of it still. We brought a hell of a cargo of the
stuff. More than I guessed. I'd like to get through with it before
Marcel gets back with--this Keeko."
An-ina nodded. Something of her anxiety became absorbed by her tender
smile at the reference to Marcel and Keeko.
"The thaw him no come," she said. "Maybe him not find Keeko. Maybe it
long--heap long time. Oh, yes?"
Steve stood up and turned his back to the cook-stove. His sunken eyes
were reflective.
"No. The thaw's quit, and a sharp spell's closed down again," he said.
"He guessed the girl was coming up the river." He shook his head.
"There'll be no river open for weeks yet."
He passed across to the door and flung it open. Outside the night was
coldly bright, and the still air had a bitter snap in it. He remained
only a moment, then he closed the door again.
"We'll get no change till the next moon," he said as he returned.
"Anyway, I'll need to get things through before he comes. I don't want
the boy to take a hand in the packing. It's a big risk."
"Yes. Boss Steve take all risk. An-ina know." The woman sighed. "An-ina
mak' pack. Oh, no! Much big risk. She not mak' pack. So Boss Steve him
say. Boss Steve die all up bimeby. Leave An-ina. Leave him Marcel--an'
this Keeko. All mak' big weep. Oh, yes."
Steve's eyes smiled gently. He came over to the woman's side. One hand,
that seemed to have lost much of its muscular shape, rested gently on
her shoulder.
"Don't you just worry a thing, An-ina," he said. "Guess I know. When
Marcel gets back I'll be around all right. I reckon to get through
quick. That's why I work late into the night. After I get through, and
get quit of the masks, I'll eat good, and be as I was. I just get sick
with the dope on the mask, that's all. I'll get right on now."
He laid aside his pipe and passed out of the kitchen. And, as he went,
the woman's eyes gazed yearningly after him.
* * * * *
Steve had lit his lamp. It burned up. It flooded the great store-room
with its rank light. He watched it till it settled into full flame, half
his strong face hidden up under the mask saturated with its nauseating
"dope." Habit forced him to a swift upward glance at the three
ventilators in the roof. They were all set wide open. Then he glanced
round him surveying the work that occupied his working-day, and half the
night he would gladly have devoted to much-needed rest.
It was a curious scene. It was full of fascination in that it
represented the complete triumph which for so many years had been
withheld from him.
The great store-house, built with so much care and close study of its
purposes, and which had stood for so long empty, a pathetic expression
of man's hope deferred, was filled to its capacity. A greater part of
its shelving was groaning under bales of closely pressed Adresol in
hermetically-sealed wrappings, while the floor was piled with vast
quantities of the deadly plant awaiting the process that would render it
comparatively harmless to those who had yet to handle it.
In its raw, limp state the plant was unwholesome enough to look at. Its
pale foliage had something of the rubbery look of seaweed. But the
crushed blooms, oozing thick sap from their wounds, were something
almost evil for eyes that had knowledge behind them. Even in his most
triumphant mood Steve was not without a feeling of repulsion at the
sight. His mask held him impervious to the deadly fumes of the oozing
sap, but well enough he knew that, in such a presence, it was only that
ingenious contrivance that stood between him and swift death.
He turned to the window to see that it was secure. The door, too, he
tried to assure himself that it was shut tight. He was fearful lest the
heavy escaping fumes should reach those beyond. The ventilators were
built high, chimneys that carried the fumes well up into the night air,
where their diffusion was assured, leaving them robbed of their deadly
poison. But the window and door were dangerous outlets that needed close
watch.
Finally he passed to the far end of the room where his lamp stood on the
bench beside the baling machine, and the rolls of curious-looking cloth,
almost like oilskin, or some rubber-proofed material, and the large
vessel of sealing solution with its brush for application sticking up in
it. And forthwith he set to work at the scales upon which he measured
his quantities. The organization of it all was perfect. It was Steve
through and through, and his calm method seemed to rob the whole process
of any sense of danger.
But Steve was sick. He knew it. He knew it was a race between his
condition and the completion of the work. He was living in an atmosphere
of contending poisons, breathing one to nullify the effects of the
other. There were moments when he wondered how long his body could
endure the struggle which he knew must go on to the end, whatever that
end might be.
His determination remained unweakening. He knew that An-ina had become
aware of his condition, and it only made him the more urgent that his
task should be completed before Marcel's return. Whatever happened
Marcel must not be permitted to participate in the danger. So, for all
his appearance of calm, he worked with a feverish energy in the deadly
atmosphere.
Whatever Steve's bodily condition mentally he was fully alert. It even
seemed as if his bodily weakness stimulated the clear activity of his
mental powers. Working through the long hours of voiceless solitude he
held under almost microscopic review every aspect of the situation his
final triumph had created. Everything must fall out--provided his sick
body endured--just as he had calculated. There was only one thing that
disturbed the perfect smoothness of the road that lay open before him.
It was the story he had listened to from the lips of An-ina. It was
Marcel, and this girl with the Indian name of--"Keeko."
The thought was in his mind now. He was uneasy. The whole possibility of
Marcel's encountering such a woman in Unaga had seemed so absurdly
remote. A white girl! And yet An-ina had assured him it was true, and
the manner of her assurance left it impossible for him to doubt.
Who was this Keeko? How came she in those far remotenesses which he knew
Marcel hunted? He could not think, unless--His searching mind offered
him only one solution. It seemed remote enough. It even seemed
extravagant. Lorson Harris was the evil genius he had to fear. And he
sought to connect him with the mystery of it all. Was this Keeko some
Delilah seeking to betray the secret he had fought to retain so long?
Had she discovered Marcel for the sole purpose of serving Lorson Harris?
Was she one of those beautiful lost souls haunting the vice-ridden
shores of Seal Bay? It was just possible. There were such women, clever
enough, hardy enough to accomplish such a task. It looked like the only
solution of the mystery. And he smiled to himself as he thought of the
tender soul who had told him the story of it all with such appreciation
of its romance.
He realized only too well the fascination such a woman must exercise
over a boy of Marcel's years. He would be clay in her hands. Chivalrous,
honourable, unsuspicious, what an easy prey he must prove! It was too
pitifully easy once the woman discovered him. But even with this
realization he was by no means dismayed. He remembered poignantly that
An-ina had assured him that Marcel would bring the woman to the fort.
Well, if that happened Lorson Harris was by no means likely to have
things all his own way. He, Steve, had learned his lesson of women, and
was not likely to----
Steve was in the act of bearing down upon the lever of the baling
machine. He paused, with the lever pressed only half way home. He stood
listening, his bent figure unmoving. There was a sound beyond the door.
It might have been the sound of a snowfall from the roof above him. It
might have found its source in many things. Yet it was unusual enough to
hold the man listening acutely.
Presently, as there was no repetition of it, he dismissed the matter. He
was always fearful of possible approach. A moment's thoughtlessness on
the part of An-ina, on the part of his Indians, and the mischief would
be done. Even there was always the risk of Marcel's return, and the
attraction of the light of the lamp through the window. He dared not for
his own sake bar the door. There was always the risk of his mask failing
him.
He completed his operation. The oozing weed was compressed, and the
binding cords made fast. Then the lever was raised, and the sticky mass
was passed on to the outspread sheet for its final packing.
For all the cloth was spread, however, and the bundle was set in place
Steve hesitated before enfolding it. The disturbing sound still haunted
him curiously. He could never resist the dread of the deadly atmosphere
of the room. It needed only one breath--moments one might count upon the
fingers of a hand. The thought occurred to him to risk all and bar the
door. But it remained only a thought. He forced himself to continue his
work like a man who recognizes the weakness prompting him.
He folded the cloth about the bale and reached for the solution brush.
But the brush remained where it was. Distinct on the still night air
came the sound of a footstep. It was too heavy for An-ina. It had
nothing of Indian moccasins in it. It was the heavy footstep of a man, a
white man. Marcel!
Steve swung about in an agony of apprehension. But for once in his life
his forethought had failed him. He was too late. There was the swift
opening and shutting of the door and a man stood inside the room with
his back against it. But it was not Marcel. A heavy gun was thrusting
forward, and the muzzle of it was covering Steve's body. Helpless,
impotent, the man who had taken and survived every chance the Northern
world could offer him, stood like any weakling awaiting the shot that
must rob him of life in the hour of his triumph.
Steve stared wide-eyed. The man was no taller than himself. He was
white, and above his fur clothing was a dark, brutish face with eyes of
almost Indian blackness. For a moment they shone fiercely in the
lamplight. They were alive with demoniac purpose. A purpose he had come
so many weary miles to fulfil. Then, in a moment, the whole picture
changed with the rapidity of a kaleidoscope.
The ferocious purpose in the black eyes faded to a ghastly terror. The
lids widened, and the eyeballs rolled upwards. A voiceless gasp escaped
through wide open lips, where a moment before they had been firm set
with murderous intent. The out-held gun-arm dropped, and the weapon
clattered heavily to the ground. The man reeled. He tottered forward.
Then, with a sigh, a deep drawn sigh, his knees gave under him and he
plunged face downwards amongst the litter of the Adresol whose secret he
had come to steal. The deadly drug had done its work.
* * * * *
Steve passed down the room. He came to a stand beside the body of the
man, fallen with its face buried amidst the bruised and oozing Adresol.
His features were lost in the very heart of a limply spread white bloom.
It was as though he were seeking to intake the very dregs of the poison
with which the air was laden.
Steve stooped. Seizing the heavy body in his strong arms he dragged it
clear of the weed, and laid it upon its back. Then he stood up and gazed
down from behind his mask upon the lifeless face that gazed sightlessly
up at him.
In those long, silent, contemplative moments memory leapt back, bridging
the weary years. There was neither passion nor pity in his heart. It
was almost as if all feeling had passed from him, absorbed in a deep
curiosity at the signs which the years had set upon a once handsome
face. Even in death they remained. And only a dreadful pallor robbed it
of the deeper signs which debauchery had impressed.
Yes. Death had been merciful in that it had restored the features to
something of their early good looks. Those good looks, which, backed by
the subtle tongue of the seducer, had been sufficient to attract the
weak vessel of a foolish woman's heart from the path of virtue that had
been marked out for it.
Oh, yes. Steve recognized that ghastly, lifeless face. And just for one
moment he hoped that as Death secured its stranglehold the dead creature
had recognized his. He wondered.
"Garstaing! Hervey Garstaing!"
The words sounded faintly in the heavy atmosphere. It was Steve's voice
hushed to something like a whisper. It was a passionless whisper. There
was neither contempt nor hatred in it. Neither was there a shadow of
pity.
He turned back to the lamp. He picked it up, and brought it towards the
door. The body of his would-be murderer lay sprawled across the floor
barring his way. He thrust out a foot and pushed it aside. Then he
passed on.
Without one backward glance he turned out the light, and, passing out,
made fast the door and removed his dreadful mask.
But, for a while at least, he did not return to the woman who was
awaiting him. He moved on to the great gateway of the stockade. Then he
leant against one of the gate-posts and stood breathing the pure, cold
night air, while his thoughts drifted back over a hundred scenes,
which, until that moment, had remained deep buried in the back cells of
memory. He was thinking hard, wondering and searching, striving to probe
the full meaning of the man's attack.