"Stronger 'n any two men--"
"God! It's--McGill!"
"I thought so, but I never saw him only once--that was in Circle. He's
changed now--got a beard. He said you done him a favor once. You're his
friend, ain't you?"
"I am."
"What's the trouble with him?" There was a pause. "You can tell me. He
put me and my five pardners in on his strike. I'm taking grub to him and
the others."
"Oh, it was about a woman, of course. It always is. Everybody here knows
the story. She was no good, except to look at. Feller named Barclay
brought her into the country, but Dan didn't know it, so he up and
marries her. She thought he had money, and when she found he was broke
like the rest of us she and Barclay began cuttin' up again. It was
rotten. I came near putting Barclay away, but figgered Dan wouldn't like
nobody to do his work, so I told him. He went out to clean the slate,
but found his wife was crazy about the skunk and always had been, so he
sent 'em away together. He done it for her sake, but he warned 'em to
stay off his trail, because no camp was big enough to hold all three of
'em. It was blizzardy, and what did the blame' fools do but get caught
ten miles below here. Cochrane brought 'em back that night on his sled.
McGill was here, right where you're standing, when they were lugged in.
When he seen Barclay he went after him again, figgerin', I suppose, that
God was disgusted with his proposition and had sent the feller back to
be finished."
"Good!" said the stranger. "And he got him, eh?"
"No! Barclay wasn't more 'n half dead, and the woman fell to beggin' for
his life again. She appealed to all of us. McGill must have loved her
more 'n we give him credit for, because when he saw that neither one of
'em was able to leave, he left instead. He walked right out of that door
into the wickedest storm we had that season, and we never seen him
again. Everybody thought he froze or the wolves got him. That was a year
ago last winter."
[Illustration: "Barclay wasn't more 'n half dead, and the woman fell to
beggin' for his life again."]
"What become of the woman?"
"Oh, her and Barclay left for Dawson on the first boat. I guess they saw
we didn't enjoy 'em here."
"And Barclay? Didn't nobody offer to bump him off?" The ragged stranger
was incredulous.
"No, we just left him and the woman alone. Most of us was kind of sorry
for her."
"Sorry? Why?"
"Well--" Hopper hesitated. "I don't think she exactly understood what
she was doin'. You know the first winter up here is hard on tenderfeet,
especially women. Most of 'em act mighty queer before they ca'm down.
She'd have come to herself if McGill had given her time."
"Hm-m! It's too late now." Both men nodded. "When 'll you leave for John
Daniels Creek?"
"When? _Now!_ I've got enough of this camp, and I'll have these
bar-fixtures packed in two hours."
* * * * *
McGill--or John Daniels, as he chose to call himself--saw his dream come
true. The first stampeders came in August; gaunt fellows worn by
sleepless days and nights during which they had fought the swift waters
and the fear of pursuit. They were followed by a tiny river boat, then
an A. C. packet, loaded heavy and carrying Hopper with his bar-fixtures
and fifteen barrels of whisky. She had been aground a hundred times and
had passed other stranded craft laden with men who cursed her as she
gained the lead. A city of tents sprang up on the flats; it changed to
one of cabins when the first snow flew. John Daniels Creek was overrun,
at nights its tortuous course was lit by glowing fires, smoke hung above
it constantly, it became pitted with prospect holes. Trails were broken
to adjoining creeks where similar scenes were enacted. But of all who
came, few saw, and almost none spoke to, John Daniels himself, for he
never went to town and there was no welcome at his cabin. Of course his
name was on every tongue, but he toiled underground by day and hid
himself by night. Sometimes Hopper, on his way to or from Number Four
Above, would stop over and spend an evening with him, but not often.
Meanwhile great ash-gray pay dumps grew upon Discovery, and there were
rumors of a fabulous bed-rock, inlaid with gold, but Daniels did all his
own sampling, so there was no way of verifying the reports. When the
spring sluicing was finished it was said that he had cleaned up half a
million.
Daniels himself, huge, gaunt, gray-bearded, and silent, saw his gold
loaded aboard the first steamer and accompanied it to the
"outside"--this being his first trip to the States in ten years.
During his absence the new camp of Arcadia grew, for its fame had
spread. It changed from a formless cluster of log shacks to a small city
of sawed lumber and paint. One season had made the wilderness into a
frontier town, the next made of it a metropolis. With the current that
flowed thither from the distant camps came the scum of the north
country. Following the first tide of venturesome, strong-limbed men came
the weaklings, the maimed and crooked of body and soul, the parasites
and idlers. Among these there were women of the customary kind and a
number of men who lived upon their earnings. Barclay was one of them.
Arcadia was in the fullest riot of its growth when John Daniels
returned, late in the autumn. He had expected to find a change, but he
was unprepared for the startling transformation that greeted his eyes.
It stirred him deeply, for the town was his, he had made it, his hands
had given it life. He wondered if this could be his desolate
camping-place of two seasons before. Where was the melancholy forest?
the brooding silence? As he walked up the front street past the painted
stores the vigorous life and optimism of the place electrified him; he
heard laughter and music, the tinkle of pianos from the dance-halls, the
sounds of revelry. The air was filled with clamor, it was pungent with
smoke and with the manifold odors of a city. Everywhere was activity and
haste.
Of course the news of his return spread swiftly, for he was a personage,
but before the curious could mark him he had left for the creek that
bore his name, where a hundred men were preparing to drift out Discovery
pay-streak under his supervision. He remained there a month, during
which the first gray snows turned white and brought that peculiar
loneliness, that depression of spirit which marks the beginning of
winter.
Then one day he decided to go to town. The impulse surprised him, for he
had meant to shun the place, as always, but his summer in the world
outside had worked a change and something within him hungered for
companionship, the glare of lights, the sight of animated faces. Then,
too, he was curious to examine this town of his at closer range.
It was worth seeing, he decided proudly, during his inspection; it was a
splendid, healthy camp. He walked the front street, then prowled through
the regions behind. There were women in this part of Arcadia, and these
he regarded distrustfully, although he was more than once arrested by a
glimpse of some cozy home, and stood staring until warned by the frowns
of indignant housewives that his presence was suspicious. He remembered
another cabin like these--his own. He had never quite grown accustomed
to its white curtains and china dishes and similar delights, any more
than he had grown accustomed to the presence of that wonderful,
mysterious creature who had filled the place with light. It was all part
of another life, a bewildering dream too agreeable to last.
In the course of his wanderings, however, he came into a different
district, one which offended him sorely. Immediately behind the saloons
he found a considerable cluster of meaner shacks which were inhabited by
women and yet which were not homes. These gaudily curtained houses
huddled close together, as if for moral support or as if avoiding
contact with their surroundings; they crouched in the shelter of the
gilded dance-halls, seeking a sort of protection in one another's
disreputable company. From some of the windows haggard faces smiled at
Daniels, and he heard sounds of a merrymaking that were particularly
offensive at this hour. Until this moment he had regarded Arcadia with
fatherly pride, and had not dreamed it was wicked, hence this discovery
enraged him. He was not a sensitive man, having trod the frontier where
vice is naked, but something about the rotten core of this new community
sickened him. It reminded him of a child diseased.
And then, as if to point the comparison, he saw a child, a tiny, fat,
round-faced person leading a puppy by a string.
Now, women were strange to John Daniels, since there had been but one in
his life, and he had possessed her only briefly, but children were
mysterious, incomprehensible creatures; phenomena which excited at once
his awe and his amazement. They made him ill at ease; he had never
touched one, with the possible exception of an Indian papoose, now and
then, therefore his present meeting constituted an experience--almost an
adventure. It was a white child, too, and it gazed at him with the
disconcerting calmness of a full-grown person. Daniels was both
embarrassed and shocked at its presence in this locality. He hesitated,
then summoned his courage and said, timidly:
"Say, kid, ain't you lost?"
The child continued to stare at him in unaffected wonder, leaving him
painfully conscious of his absurd size and forbidding appearance. He
feared that once it had overcome its first amazement it would begin to
cry and thus cover him with ignominy. But, happily for him, the puppy
experienced none of its owner's doubts and uncertainties; it flattened
its round stomach, thumped its soft paws upon the sidewalk, then
approached the giant in a delirious series of wobbly leaps, wiggling an
eloquent, if awkward, declaration of friendship.
"Fine dog-team you're driving, sonny!" Daniels smiled, congratulating
himself upon an admirable display of wit, only to realize with a start
that he had made a mistake. Some sixth sense informed him that this was
not a boy. It was a humiliating error.
"Say, missie, you--you don't belong here. You're plumb off your trail.
That's a cinch!" He cast a worried glance over his shoulder and saw a
hideous blanched face smile at him between a pair of red curtains. He
glared back at the woman, and his cheeks grew hot. Meanwhile the little
girl continued her unwinking examination.
She wore a ridiculous fur parka, scarcely larger than Daniels's cap, and
tiny mukluks that made her legs look shorter and fatter than they were.
Her mittens were the littlest things he had ever seen and he was
regarding them wonderingly when she amazed him by approaching and laying
one in his hand.
Now, this frank and full declaration of friendship reduced Daniels to a
helpless condition; he had never been more troubled in his life. He was
vaguely frightened, and yet he thrilled in an unaccountable manner at
the touch. He was half minded to withdraw his hand from his glove and
retreat, leaving it in her possession, but thought again of these evil
surroundings, and of the responsibility that had devolved upon him with
her surrender. In the midst of his dumbness the young lady burst into a
bubbling and intimate recital of her adventures, which doubtless would
have been perfectly intelligible to her mother, but which left the
discoverer of John Daniels Creek floundering for a translation.
He concealed his disgraceful ignorance by an easy assumption of
understanding. He nodded, he winked, he grinned. He eyed the
infinitesimal hand that lay in his, then gingerly removed his own glove
the better to safeguard its treasure, whereupon the small mitten
promptly closed over one of his big knuckled fingers. Daniels gasped and
held his digit as rigid as a pick-handle. Escape was no longer possible.
Having finished her recital the tot burst into a funny gurgle which
plainly established a deep and undying intimacy between them, then, like
all maidens who have pledged their affections, she made plain her
readiness to accompany her protector to the end of the world.
But the puppy held back and delayed progress as effectively as a ship's
anchor, so, fearing to exert too great a strain upon his extended
finger, Daniels gave the animal bodily into her embrace. One short arm
encircled the dog's neck, whereupon, as if by habit, it limply resigned
itself to misery. The three went slowly out of that sin-ridden place,
the man dazed and delighted, the child loquacious and trustful, the
puppy with lolling tongue and legs protruding stiffly.
Daniels had mastered many dialects in his time, from Chinook to Pidgin
English, but to save himself he could make nothing out of this language.
Some words were plain, but they were lost in a bubbling flow of strange,
moist, lisping articulations that left the general meaning obscure.
She answered all his questions eagerly, fully, and he acknowledged:
"She knows what she's sayin', all right, but I'm as rattled as a
tenderfoot."
Nevertheless he derived a preposterous delight from this experience,
until he realized that they were wandering aimlessly. Then thoughts of a
possible encounter with a distracted parent filled him with such dismay
that he appealed to the first woman he met.
"Lady! If you know where this baby lives--"
"Certainly I know."
"Then take her home. Her mother'll think I'm a kidnapper." Daniels
perspired at the thought.
The woman laughingly accepted the responsibility of a full explanation,
but as she lifted the child it turned up its face to Daniels, quite as a
matter of course. The rosebud lips awaited him, yet he did not
understand. He inquired, blankly:
"_Now_ what does she want?"
"A kiss. Don't you, dearie?"
"God'lmighty!" breathed the man. Then he lowered his bearded face.
He was trembling when the strangers had gone; he felt those moist baby
lips against his and the sensation almost overcame him. He didn't like
the woman's appearance, but she seemed tender-hearted and--there was no
better way of insuring the safety of his little charge than to give her
over.
But that kiss! It remained upon his lips more fragrant, more holy than
anything he had ever conceived. It left him conscious of his own
uncleanliness and shortcomings.
Still in a daze, he looked down at his index finger, which remained
rigid; it was blue with the cold, but he felt nothing except the clasp
of a tiny woolen mitt.
"_Well!_" he exploded. "I--don't _seem_ to be dreaming. She liked
me--she must of--or she wouldn't of kissed me. She sure did, and I--God!
I'd trade Discovery for another one."
He felt no further interest in Arcadia; he thought only of the child and
the amazing adventure that had come to him; he could think of nothing
else during the afternoon. More than once he touched his lips timidly
with his tongue and bared his hand to stare at his big finger.
When he had dined that evening he began a leisurely round of the saloons
and gambling-halls, pausing in each to invite every one to drink, as
befitted a man of wealth. He played, more or less, without knowing
whether he won or lost, for his thoughts were directed in other and
stranger channels.
The Elite was the most pretentious place of amusement in Arcadia and it
was running full blast when he strolled in, late that night. The show
was over in the theater, but a dance was going on. Beyond the people at
the gambling-tables he saw swiftly moving figures and heard the caller's
shouts through the rhythmic beat of the orchestra.
He looked on with some interest until he could engage the attention of a
bartender, then said:
"Call everybody up for a drink."
When the fellow eyed him distrustfully he explained:
"I'm John Daniels."
He was amused at the instant, almost ludicrous change of expression, and
at the alacrity with which the crowd responded to his invitation. They
stampeded, the games were deserted, the "sleepers" roused themselves,
even the dancers came trooping forth with his name upon their lips. The
music ended discordantly and the musicians followed them. The long bar
was lined six deep by people who elbowed one another for a glimpse of
the famous John Daniels. Those who succeeded beheld a huge,
grim-featured man, bearded to the cheek-bones, who seemed deaf to their
remarks and heedless of their stares. His hair was long and gray, his
eyes were small and bright and hard; he looked like a Mormon elder.
It took time to serve such an assemblage, and during the delay Daniels
stood motionless, vaguely resenting this curiosity. When the bartender
said "All set!" he raised his glass and exclaimed, "Drink hearty!"
As the glass left his lips his eyes ran down the bar and along the bank
of faces, clear to the end, where the dance-hall girls had squeezed
themselves in. There they rested, and widened.
His hand fell heavily, crushing the glass beneath it, for facing him,
clinging to the rail as if about to fall, stood his wife. Their eyes met
fairly. Daniels saw in hers the first flaming light of recognition, then
that expression of deathly terror that he remembered; he felt the floor
sinking, saw the near-by figures whirling, heard the clamor die.
After his first start not a muscle of his face moved, but his eyes began
slowly to search through the crowd as if for some one, and, seeing that,
she understood. With a hand to her throat she groped her way blindly out
of the crush, then made for the rear, but her knees forsook her and she
paused, leaning against the wall. It never occurred to her that she
might escape.
She knew without looking when he came toward her. He spoke in an
emotionless tone, saying, "Come!" and she followed, half
swooning--followed him up the stairs to the curtained boxes that ran
round the gallery.
When they were alone, she faced him, managing to utter: "So! _You_--are
John Daniels! They said you were dead."
She expected some violence--death, perhaps, but he only looked at her
silently with an expression she could not read. She felt she must
scream. She swayed, her eyes were filmed with terror.
"Well! Why don't you do it, McGill? Why don't you--?" she cried,
hysterically.
"Where is Barclay?" he inquired.
"He's here--somewhere. We came three weeks ago--We--I didn't know--"
He saw that she was not the woman he had known: she was frail, broken;
her fluttering hands were thin and bloodless; she had no spirit.
"So! He's got you working, eh? You're one of these--_rustlers_!"
"I had to do something. All I know is stage work."
"This ain't stage work!"