II

"_Oui, madame_, thees is de place. One, two, t'ree island below Stuart

River. Thees is t'ree island."

As he spoke, Pierre Fontaine drove his pole against the bank and held the

stern of the boat against the current. This thrust the bow in, till a

nimble breed climbed ashore with the painter and made fast.

"One leel tam, madame, I go look see."

A chorus of dogs marked his disappearance over the edge of the bank, but

a minute later he was back again.

"_Oui, madame_, thees is de cabin. I mak investigation. No can find

mans at home. But him no go vaire far, vaire long, or him no leave dogs.

Him come queek, you bet!"

"Help me out, Pierre. I'm tired all over from the boat. You might have

made it softer, you know."

From a nest of furs amidships, Karen Sayther rose to her full height of

slender fairness. But if she looked lily-frail in her elemental

environment, she was belied by the grip she put upon Pierre's hand, by

the knotting of her woman's biceps as it took the weight of her body, by

the splendid effort of her limbs as they held her out from the

perpendicular bank while she made the ascent. Though shapely flesh

clothed delicate frame, her body was a seat of strength.

Still, for all the careless ease with which she had made the landing,

there was a warmer color than usual to her face, and a perceptibly extra

beat to her heart. But then, also, it was with a certain reverent

curiousness that she approached the cabin, while the Hush on her cheek

showed a yet riper mellowness.

"Look, see!" Pierre pointed to the scattered chips by the woodpile. "Him

fresh--two, t'ree day, no more."

Mrs. Sayther nodded. She tried to peer through the small window, but it

was made of greased parchment which admitted light while it blocked

vision. Failing this, she went round to the door, half lifted the rude

latch to enter, but changed her mind and let it fall back into place.

Then she suddenly dropped on one knee and kissed the rough-hewn

threshold. If Pierre Fontaine saw, he gave no sign, and the memory in

the time to come was never shared. But the next instant, one of the

boatmen, placidly lighting his pipe, was startled by an unwonted

harshness in his captain's voice.

"Hey! You! Le Goire! You mak'm soft more better," Pierre commanded.

"Plenty bearskin; plenty blanket. Dam!"

But the nest was soon after disrupted, and the major portion tossed up to

the crest of the shore, where Mrs. Sayther lay down to wait in comfort.

Reclining on her side, she looked out and over the wide-stretching Yukon.

Above the mountains which lay beyond the further shore, the sky was murky

with the smoke of unseen forest fires, and through this the afternoon sun

broke feebly, throwing a vague radiance to earth, and unreal shadows. To

the sky-line of the four quarters--spruce-shrouded islands, dark waters,

and ice-scarred rocky ridges--stretched the immaculate wilderness. No

sign of human existence broke the solitude; no sound the stillness. The

land seemed bound under the unreality of the unknown, wrapped in the

brooding mystery of great spaces.

Perhaps it was this which made Mrs. Sayther nervous; for she changed her

position constantly, now to look up the river, now down, or to scan the

gloomy shores for the half-hidden mouths of back channels. After an hour

or so the boatmen were sent ashore to pitch camp for the night, but

Pierre remained with his mistress to watch.

"Ah! him come thees tam," he whispered, after a long silence, his gaze

bent up the river to the head of the island.

A canoe, with a paddle flashing on either side, was slipping down the

current. In the stern a man's form, and in the bow a woman's, swung

rhythmically to the work. Mrs. Sayther had no eyes for the woman till

the canoe drove in closer and her bizarre beauty peremptorily demanded

notice. A close-fitting blouse of moose-skin, fantastically beaded,

outlined faithfully the well-rounded lines of her body, while a silken

kerchief, gay of color and picturesquely draped, partly covered great

masses of blue-black hair. But it was the face, cast belike in copper

bronze, which caught and held Mrs. Sayther's fleeting glance. Eyes,

piercing and black and large, with a traditionary hint of obliqueness,

looked forth from under clear-stencilled, clean-arching brows. Without

suggesting cadaverousness, though high-boned and prominent, the cheeks

fell away and met in a mouth, thin-lipped and softly strong. It was a

face which advertised the dimmest trace of ancient Mongol blood, a

reversion, after long centuries of wandering, to the parent stem. This

effect was heightened by the delicately aquiline nose with its thin

trembling nostrils, and by the general air of eagle wildness which seemed

to characterize not only the face but the creature herself. She was, in

fact, the Tartar type modified to idealization, and the tribe of Red

Indian is lucky that breeds such a unique body once in a score of

generations.

Dipping long strokes and strong, the girl, in concert with the man,

suddenly whirled the tiny craft about against the current and brought it

gently to the shore. Another instant and she stood at the top of the

bank, heaving up by rope, hand under hand, a quarter of fresh-killed

moose. Then the man followed her, and together, with a swift rush, they

drew up the canoe. The dogs were in a whining mass about them, and as

the girl stooped among them caressingly, the man's gaze fell upon Mrs.

Sayther, who had arisen. He looked, brushed his eyes unconsciously as

though his sight were deceiving him, and looked again.

"Karen," he said simply, coming forward and extending his hand, "I

thought for the moment I was dreaming. I went snow-blind for a time,

this spring, and since then my eyes have been playing tricks with me."

Mrs. Sayther, whose flush had deepened and whose heart was urging

painfully, had been prepared for almost anything save this coolly

extended hand; but she tactfully curbed herself and grasped it heartily

with her own.

"You know, Dave, I threatened often to come, and I would have, too,

only--only--"

"Only I didn't give the word." David Payne laughed and watched the

Indian girl disappearing into the cabin.

"Oh, I understand, Dave, and had I been in your place I'd most probably

have done the same. But I have come--now."

"Then come a little bit farther, into the cabin and get something to

eat," he said genially, ignoring or missing the feminine suggestion of

appeal in her voice. "And you must be tired too. Which way are you

travelling? Up? Then you wintered in Dawson, or came in on the last

ice. Your camp?" He glanced at the _voyageurs_ circled about the fire

in the open, and held back the door for her to enter.

"I came up on the ice from Circle City last winter," he continued, "and

settled down here for a while. Am prospecting some on Henderson Creek,

and if that fails, have been thinking of trying my hand this fall up the

Stuart River."

"You aren't changed much, are you?" she asked irrelevantly, striving to

throw the conversation upon a more personal basis.

"A little less flesh, perhaps, and a little more muscle. How did _you_

mean?"

But she shrugged her shoulders and peered I through the dim light at the

Indian girl, who had lighted the fire and was frying great chunks of

moose meat, alternated with thin ribbons of bacon.

"Did you stop in Dawson long?" The man was whittling a stave of

birchwood into a rude axe-handle, and asked the question without raising

his head.

"Oh, a few days," she answered, following the girl with her eyes, and

hardly hearing. "What were you saying? In Dawson? A month, in fact,

and glad to get away. The arctic male is elemental, you know, and

somewhat strenuous in his feelings."

"Bound to be when he gets right down to the soil. He leaves convention

with the spring bed at borne. But you were wise in your choice of time

for leaving. You'll be out of the country before mosquito season, which

is a blessing your lack of experience will not permit you to appreciate."

"I suppose not. But tell me about yourself, about your life. What kind

of neighbors have you? Or have you any?"

While she queried she watched the girl grinding coffee in the corner of a

flower sack upon the hearthstone. With a steadiness and skill which

predicated nerves as primitive as the method, she crushed the imprisoned

berries with a heavy fragment of quartz. David Payne noted his visitor's

gaze, and the shadow of a smile drifted over his lips.

"I did have some," he replied. "Missourian chaps, and a couple of

Cornishmen, but they went down to Eldorado to work at wages for a

grubstake."

Mrs. Sayther cast a look of speculative regard upon the girl. "But of

course there are plenty of Indians about?"

"Every mother's son of them down to Dawson long ago. Not a native in the

whole country, barring Winapie here, and she's a Koyokuk lass,--comes

from a thousand miles or so down the river."

Mrs. Sayther felt suddenly faint; and though the smile of interest in no

wise waned, the face of the man seemed to draw away to a telescopic

distance, and the tiered logs of the cabin to whirl drunkenly about. But

she was bidden draw up to the table, and during the meal discovered time

and space in which to find herself. She talked little, and that

principally about the land and weather, while the man wandered off into a

long description of the difference between the shallow summer diggings of

the Lower Country and the deep winter diggings of the Upper Country.

"You do not ask why I came north?" she asked. "Surely you know." They

had moved back from the table, and David Payne had returned to his axe-

handle. "Did you get my letter?"

"A last one? No, I don't think so. Most probably it's trailing around

the Birch Creek Country or lying in some trader's shack on the Lower

River. The way they run the mails in here is shameful. No order, no

system, no--"

"Don't be wooden, Dave! Help me!" She spoke sharply now, with an

assumption of authority which rested upon the past. "Why don't you ask

me about myself? About those we knew in the old times? Have you no

longer any interest in the world? Do you know that my husband is dead?"

"Indeed, I am sorry. How long--"

"David!" She was ready to cry with vexation, but the reproach she threw

into her voice eased her.

"Did you get any of my letters? You must have got some of them, though

you never answered."

"Well, I didn't get the last one, announcing, evidently, the death of

your husband, and most likely others went astray; but I did get some.

I--er--read them aloud to Winapie as a warning--that is, you know, to

impress upon her the wickedness of her white sisters. And I--er--think

she profited by it. Don't you?"

She disregarded the sting, and went on. "In the last letter, which you

did not receive, I told, as you have guessed, of Colonel Sayther's death.

That was a year ago. I also said that if you did not come out to me, I

would go in to you. And as I had often promised, I came."

"I know of no promise."

"In the earlier letters?"

"Yes, you promised, but as I neither asked nor answered, it was

unratified. So I do not know of any such promise. But I do know of

another, which you, too, may remember. It was very long ago." He

dropped the axe-handle to the floor and raised his head. "It was so very

long ago, yet I remember it distinctly, the day, the time, every detail.

We were in a rose garden, you and I,--your mother's rose garden. All

things were budding, blossoming, and the sap of spring was in our blood.

And I drew you over--it was the first--and kissed you full on the lips.

Don't you remember?"

"Don't go over it, Dave, don't! I know every shameful line of it. How

often have I wept! If you only knew how I have suffered--"

"You promised me then--ay, and a thousand times in the sweet days that

followed. Each look of your eyes, each touch of your hand, each syllable

that fell from your lips, was a promise. And then--how shall I

say?--there came a man. He was old--old enough to have begotten you--and

not nice to look upon, but as the world goes, clean. He had done no

wrong, followed the letter of the law, was respectable. Further, and to

the point, he possessed some several paltry mines,--a score; it does not

matter: and he owned a few miles of lands, and engineered deals, and

clipped coupons. He--"

"But there were other things," she interrupted, "I told you.

Pressure--money matters--want--my people--trouble. You understood the

whole sordid situation. I could not help it. It was not my will. I was

sacrificed, or I sacrificed, have it as you wish. But, my God! Dave, I

gave you up! You never did _me_ justice. Think what I have gone

through!"

"It was not your will? Pressure? Under high heaven there was no thing

to will you to this man's bed or that."

"But I cared for you all the time," she pleaded.

"I was unused to your way of measuring love. I am still unused. I do

not understand."

"But now! now!"

"We were speaking of this man you saw fit to marry. What manner of man

was he? Wherein did he charm your soul? What potent virtues were his?

True, he had a golden grip,--an almighty golden grip. He knew the odds.

He was versed in cent per cent. He had a narrow wit and excellent

judgment of the viler parts, whereby he transferred this man's money to

his pockets, and that man's money, and the next man's. And the law

smiled. In that it did not condemn, our Christian ethics approved. By

social measure he was not a bad man. But by your measure, Karen, by

mine, by ours of the rose garden, what was he?"

"Remember, he is dead."

"The fact is not altered thereby. What was he? A great, gross, material

creature, deaf to song, blind to beauty, dead to the spirit. He was fat

with laziness, and flabby-cheeked, and the round of his belly witnessed

his gluttony--"

"But he is dead. It is we who are now--now! now! Don't you hear? As

you say, I have been inconstant. I have sinned. Good. But should not

you, too, cry _peccavi_? If I have broken promises, have not you? Your

love of the rose garden was of all time, or so you said. Where is it

now?"

"It is here! now!" he cried, striking his breast passionately with

clenched hand. "It has always been."

"And your love was a great love; there was none greater," she continued;

"or so you said in the rose garden. Yet it is not fine enough, large

enough, to forgive me here, crying now at your feet?"

The man hesitated. His mouth opened; words shaped vainly on his lips.

She had forced him to bare his heart and speak truths which he had hidden

from himself. And she was good to look upon, standing there in a glory

of passion, calling back old associations and warmer life. He turned

away his head that he might not see, but she passed around and fronted

him.

"Look at me, Dave! Look at me! I am the same, after all. And so are

you, if you would but see. We are not changed."

Her hand rested on his shoulder, and his had half-passed, roughly, about

her, when the sharp crackle of a match startled him to himself. Winapie,

alien to the scene, was lighting the slow wick of the slush lamp. She

appeared to start out against a background of utter black, and the flame,

flaring suddenly up, lighted her bronze beauty to royal gold.

"You see, it is impossible," he groaned, thrusting the fair-haired woman

gently from him. "It is impossible," he repeated. "It is impossible."

"I am not a girl, Dave, with a girl's illusions," she said softly, though

not daring to come back to him. "It is as a woman that I understand. Men

are men. A common custom of the country. I am not shocked. I divined

it from the first. But--ah!--it is only a marriage of the country--not a

real marriage?"

"We do not ask such questions in Alaska," he interposed feebly.

"I know, but--"

"Well, then, it is only a marriage of the country--nothing else."

"And there are no children?"

"No."

"Nor--"

"No, no; nothing--but it is impossible."

"But it is not." She was at his side again, her hand touching lightly,

caressingly, the sunburned back of his. "I know the custom of the land

too well. Men do it every day. They do not care to remain here, shut

out from the world, for all their days; so they give an order on the P.

C. C. Company for a year's provisions, some money in hand, and the girl

is content. By the end of that time, a man--" She shrugged her

shoulders. "And so with the girl here. We will give her an order upon

the company, not for a year, but for life. What was she when you found

her? A raw, meat-eating savage; fish in summer, moose in winter,

feasting in plenty, starving in famine. But for you that is what she

would have remained. For your coming she was happier; for your going,

surely, with a life of comparative splendor assured, she will be happier

than if you had never been."

"No, no," he protested. "It is not right."

"Come, Dave, you must see. She is not your kind. There is no race

affinity. She is an aborigine, sprung from the soil, yet close to the

soil, and impossible to lift from the soil. Born savage, savage she will

die. But we--you and I--the dominant, evolved race--the salt of the

earth and the masters thereof! We are made for each other. The supreme

call is of kind, and we are of kind. Reason and feeling dictate it. Your

very instinct demands it. That you cannot deny. You cannot escape the

generations behind you. Yours is an ancestry which has survived for a

thousand centuries, and for a hundred thousand centuries, and your line

must not stop here. It cannot. Your ancestry will not permit it.

Instinct is stronger than the will. The race is mightier than you. Come,

Dave, let us go. We are young yet, and life is good. Come."

Winapie, passing out of the cabin to feed the dogs, caught his attention

and caused him to shake his head and weakly to reiterate. But the

woman's hand slipped about his neck, and her cheek pressed to his. His

bleak life rose up and smote him,--the vain struggle with pitiless

forces; the dreary years of frost and famine; the harsh and jarring

contact with elemental life; the aching void which mere animal existence

could not fill. And there, seduction by his side, whispering of

brighter, warmer lands, of music, light, and joy, called the old times

back again. He visioned it unconsciously. Faces rushed in upon him;

glimpses of forgotten scenes, memories of merry hours; strains of song

and trills of laughter--

"Come, Dave, Come. I have for both. The way is soft." She looked about

her at the bare furnishings of the cabin. "I have for both. The world

is at our feet, and all joy is ours. Come! come!"

She was in his arms, trembling, and he held her tightly. He rose to his

feet . . . But the snarling of hungry dogs, and the shrill cries of

Winapie bringing about peace between the combatants, came muffled to his

ear through the heavy logs. And another scene flashed before him. A

struggle in the forest,--a bald-face grizzly, broken-legged, terrible;

the snarling of the dogs and the shrill cries of Winapie as she urged

them to the attack; himself in the midst of the crush, breathless,

panting, striving to hold off red death; broken-backed, entrail-ripped

dogs howling in impotent anguish and desecrating the snow; the virgin

white running scarlet with the blood of man and beast; the bear,

ferocious, irresistible, crunching, crunching down to the core of his

life; and Winapie, at the last, in the thick of the frightful muddle,

hair flying, eyes flashing, fury incarnate, passing the long hunting

knife again and again--Sweat started to his forehead. He shook off the

clinging woman and staggered back to the wall. And she, knowing that the

moment had come, but unable to divine what was passing within him, felt

all she had gained slipping away.

"Dave! Dave!" she cried. "I will not give you up! I will not give you

up! If you do not wish to come, we will stay. I will stay with you. The

world is less to me than are you. I will be a Northland wife to you. I

will cook your food, feed your dogs, break trail for you, lift a paddle

with you. I can do it. Believe me, I am strong."

Nor did he doubt it, looking upon her and holding her off from him; but

his face had grown stern and gray, and the warmth had died out of his

eyes.

"I will pay off Pierre and the boatmen, and let them go. And I will stay

with you, priest or no priest, minister or no minister; go with you, now,

anywhere! Dave! Dave! Listen to me! You say I did you wrong in the

past--and I did--let me make up for it, let me atone. If I did not

rightly measure love before, let me show that I can now."

She sank to the floor and threw her arms about his knees, sobbing. "And

you _do_ care for me. You _do_ care for me. Think! The long years I

have waited, suffered! You can never know!" He stooped and raised her

to her feet.

"Listen," he commanded, opening the door and lifting her bodily outside.

"It cannot be. We are not alone to be considered. You must go. I wish

you a safe journey. You will find it tougher work when you get up by the

Sixty Mile, but you have the best boatmen in the world, and will get

through all right. Will you say good-by?"

Though she already had herself in hand, she looked at him hopelessly.

"If--if--if Winapie should--" She quavered and stopped.

But he grasped the unspoken thought, and answered, "Yes." Then struck

with the enormity of it, "It cannot be conceived. There is no

likelihood. It must not be entertained."

"Kiss me," she whispered, her face lighting. Then she turned and went

away.

* * * * *

"Break camp, Pierre," she said to the boatman, who alone had remained

awake against her return. "We must be going."

By the firelight his sharp eyes scanned the woe in her face, but he

received the extraordinary command as though it were the most usual thing

in the world. "_Oui, madame_," he assented. "Which way? Dawson?"

"No," she answered, lightly enough; "up; out; Dyea."

Whereat he fell upon the sleeping _voyageurs_, kicking them, grunting,

from their blankets, and buckling them down to the work, the while his

voice, vibrant with action, shrilling through all the camp. In a trice

Mrs. Sayther's tiny tent had been struck, pots and pans were being

gathered up, blankets rolled, and the men staggering under the loads to

the boat. Here, on the banks, Mrs. Sayther waited till the luggage was

made ship-shape and her nest prepared.

"We line up to de head of de island," Pierre explained to her while

running out the long tow rope. "Den we tak to das back channel, where de

water not queek, and I t'ink we mak good tam."

A scuffling and pattering of feet in the last year's dry grass caught his

quick ear, and he turned his head. The Indian girl, circled by a

bristling ring of wolf dogs, was coming toward them. Mrs. Sayther noted

that the girl's face, which had been apathetic throughout the scene in

the cabin, had now quickened into blazing and wrathful life.

"What you do my man?" she demanded abruptly of Mrs. Sayther. "Him lay on

bunk, and him look bad all the time. I say, 'What the matter, Dave? You

sick?' But him no say nothing. After that him say, 'Good girl Winapie,

go way. I be all right bimeby.' What you do my man, eh? I think you

bad woman."

Mrs. Sayther looked curiously at the barbarian woman who shared the life

of this man, while she departed alone in the darkness of night.

"I think you bad woman," Winapie repeated in the slow, methodical way of

one who gropes for strange words in an alien tongue. "I think better you

go way, no come no more. Eh? What you think? I have one man. I Indian

girl. You 'Merican woman. You good to see. You find plenty men. Your

eyes blue like the sky. Your skin so white, so soft."

Coolly she thrust out a brown forefinger and pressed the soft cheek of

the other woman. And to the eternal credit of Karen Sayther, she never

flinched. Pierre hesitated and half stepped forward; but she motioned

him away, though her heart welled to him with secret gratitude. "It's

all right, Pierre," she said. "Please go away."

He stepped back respectfully out of earshot, where he stood grumbling to

himself and measuring the distance in springs.

"Um white, um soft, like baby." Winapie touched the other cheek and

withdrew her hand. "Bimeby mosquito come. Skin get sore in spot; um

swell, oh, so big; um hurt, oh, so much. Plenty mosquito; plenty spot. I

think better you go now before mosquito come. This way," pointing down

the stream, "you go St. Michael's; that way," pointing up, "you go Dyea.

Better you go Dyea. Good-by."

And that which Mrs. Sayther then did, caused Pierre to marvel greatly.

For she threw her arms around the Indian girl, kissed her, and burst into

tears.

"Be good to him," she cried. "Be good to him."

Then she slipped half down the face of the bank, called back "Good-by,"

and dropped into the boat amidships. Pierre followed her and cast off.

He shoved the steering oar into place and gave the signal. Le Goire

lifted an old French _chanson_; the men, like a row of ghosts in the dim

starlight, bent their backs to the tow line; the steering oar cut the

black current sharply, and the boat swept out into the night.