THE DINNER AT REEVES'
With the rush of the _chechakos_ had come also the vanguard of big
business--keen-eyed engineers and bespectacled metallurgists,
accompanied by trusted agents of Wall Street, who upon advice of the
engineers and the metallurgists paid out money right and left for
options.
First over the pass in the spring came Reeves and Howson who struck into
the hills and, passing up the rich "gold in the grass roots" claims,
concentrated upon a creek of lesser promise. By the first of July, their
findings upon this creek justified the report to their principals in the
states that roused those officials of the newly organized Northern
Dredge Company from their stupor of watchful waiting into a cauldron of
volcanic activity.
Fowler, the little purchasing agent sat at his desk and for fourteen
straight hours dictated telegrams, pausing only to refer to pages of
neatly typed specifications, with the result that within twenty-four
hours upon many railroads carloads of freight began to move toward a
certain dock in Seattle at which was moored a tramp steamer waiting to
receive her cargo. A sawmill from the Washington forests, steel rails
and a dinky engine from Pittsburg, great dredges from Ohio, tools, iron,
cement from widely separated States and the crowning item of all, a
Mississippi River steamboat jerked bodily from the water and dismantled
ready to be put together in a matter of hours at the mouth of the Yukon.
Late in August that same steamboat, her decks and two barges piled high
with freight, nosed into the bank at Dawson and threw out her mooring
lines, while down her plank swarmed the Northern Company's skilled
artisans--swarmed also into the waiting arms of her husband, Reba
Reeves, wife of the Northern Dredge Company's chief engineer and general
manager of operation. Reeves led his wife to the little painted house
that he had bought and furnished, and turned his attention to the
problem of transporting his heavy outfit to the creek of his selection.
For a month thereafter he was on the works night and day, snatching his
sleep where he could, now and then at home, but more often upon the pile
of blankets and robes that he had thrown into a corner of the little
slab office on the bank of the creek. Early in October, upon one of his
flying visits, his wife reminded him that he had promised to send a man
down to bank the house for the winter.
"Don't see how I can spare a man right now, little girl," he answered,
"I'm hiring every man I can find that will handle a pick or a shovel, or
drive a nail, or carry a board. I've still got three miles of flume to
put in, and half a mile of railroad grade to finish--and the snow will
hit us any time now."
"You can't work your old dredges in the winter, anyhow, why don't you
wait till spring."
"When spring comes I want to be in shape to begin throwing out the
gravel the minute the ground thaws, and I don't want to be bothered
building flume and railroad."
"But, dearest, the floor is so cold. We can't live in this house in the
winter unless it is banked. All the neighbors have their houses banked
three or four feet high, and if the ground freezes we'll never get it
done."
Reeves' brow puckered into a frown: "That's right," he admitted, "Tell
you what I'll do, I'll come down Saturday afternoon and stay over Sunday
and bank it myself. Maybe I can find someone to help me. There's an old
tramp that lives in a cabin a piece back from the river. One of my
foremen has hired him three or four times, but he's no good--won't work
more than two or three days at a stretch--he's a drunkard, and can't
stay away from booze. Maybe, though, if I stay right on the job with him
till it's finished I can get a day's work out of him--anyway I'll try."
Of the books left by the Englishman, the one that interested Brent most
was a volume from which the title page had long since disappeared as had
the lettering upon its back, if indeed any had ever existed. It
contained what appeared to be semi-official reports upon the mineral
possibilities of the almost unexplored territory lying between the
Mackenzie and Back's Fish River, but more particularly upon the
Coppermine River and its tributaries. To these reports was added a
monograph which treated exhaustively of the expeditions of Hearne into
the North in search of gold, and also of the illfated expedition of old
Captain Knight. This book held a peculiar fascination for Brent, and he
read and reread it, poring over its contents by the hour as he dreamed
his foolish dreams of some day carrying on Hearne's explorations to
ultimate success.
Upon the night following the visit of Camillo Bill, Brent sat beside his
dirty table, with his stinking oil lamp drawn near, and his favorite
book held close to catch the sullen light that filtered through its
murky, smoke blackened chimney. This night the book held a new interest
for him. All along he had cherished the hope that when Camillo Bill
should turn back his claims, there would still be a goodly amount of
gold left in the gravel. But Camillo Bill said that the claims had
petered out--and Camillo Bill was square. All that was left for him to
do then was to hit for the Coppermine, and not so much for himself, for
he stood in honor bound to see that Camillo Bill lost nothing through
cashing those slips and markers upon his assurance that the claims were
worth a million.
The book settled slowly to Brent's lap, he poured a drink, and idly
turned its pages, as his drunken imagination pictured himself mushing at
the head of a dog team through those unknown wastes, and at the end of
the long trail finding gold, gold, gold. He turned to the inside of the
front cover and stared idly at the name penned many years ago. The ink
was faded and brown and the name almost illegible so that he had to turn
it aslant to follow the faint tracery. "Murdo MacFarlane, Lashing
Water," he read, "I wonder where Lashing Water is? And who was this
Murdo MacFarlane? And where is he now? Did he find Hearne's lost gold?
Or, did he--did he--?" A loud knock upon the door roused Brent from his
dreamy speculation.
"Come in!" he called, and turned to see Reeves standing in the doorway.
"Hello," greeted the intruder, plunging straight into the object of his
visit, "I'm up against it, and I wonder if you won't help me out." He
paused, and Brent waited for him to proceed, "I'm Reeves, of the
Northern Dredge Company, and I've got every available man in Dawson out
there on the works trying to finish three miles of flume and a half mile
of railroad before snow flies. I can't spare a man off the works, but
I've got to bank my house, so I decided to stay home myself tomorrow and
tackle it. If you'll help me, and if we get a good early start, I think
we can finish the job by night. I wouldn't care a rap if it were not for
my wife, she's from the South, and I'm afraid of those cold floors. What
do you say, will you do it? I'll pay you well."
"Yes," answered Brent, and he noticed that the other's eyes had strayed
in evident surprise to the pile of books upon the table among the dirty
dishes.
"All right, that's fine! What time can I expect you?"
"Daylight," answered Brent, "Will you have a drink?" he indicated the
bottle that stood beside the pile of books, but Reeves shook his head:
"No, thanks, I've got to tackle some work tonight that I've been putting
off for weeks. See you in the morning."
Seated once more in his chair with his book, Brent poured himself a
drink, "From the South," he whispered, and raising the murky glass to
his lips swallowed the liquor. His eyes closed and into his brain
floated a picture, dim and indistinct, at first, but gradually taking
definite form--a little town of wide, tree-shaded streets, a
weather-stained brick courthouse standing in the centre of a grassed
square, and facing it across the street a red brick schoolhouse. The
schoolhouse doors swung open and out raced a little boy swinging his
books on the end of a strap. He was a laughing, cleareyed little boy,
and he wore buckled slippers and black velvet nickers, and a wide collar
showed dazzling white against the black of the velvet jacket.
Other children followed, barefooted little boys whose hickory shirts,
many sizes too large for the little bodies, bulged grotesquely about
their "galluses," and little boys shod in stiff hot looking black shoes
and stockings, and little girls with tight-braided pig-tails hanging
down their backs, and short starched skirts, who watched with envious
eyes as the velvet clad boy ran across to the "hitch-rail" that flanked
the courthouse sidewalk, and mounted a stocky little "calico" Shetland
pony, and rode down the tree-shaded street at a furious gallop. On the
outskirts of the town the pony swerved of its own accord between two
upstanding stone posts and into a broad avenue that swept in graceful
curves between two rows of huge evergreens that led from the white
turnpike to a big brick house, the roof of whose broad gallery was
supported upon huge white pillars. Up the avenue raced the pony and up
the dozen steps that led to the gallery, just at the moment that the
huge bulk of a round-eyed colored "mammy" blocked the doorway of the
hall.
"Hyah, yo' rascal, yo'!" cried the outraged negress flourishing her
broom, "Git yo' circus hoss offen my clean gallery flo', fo' I bus' him
wide open wif dis, broom! Lawd sakes, efen Miss Callie see yo' hyah, she
gwine raise yo' ha'r fo' sho'! Yo' Ca'teh Brent, yo' _git_!" The broom
swished viciously--and Brent opened his eyes with a jerk. The first
fitful gusts of a norther were whipping about the eaves of his cabin,
and shivering slightly, he crawled into his bunk.
All the forenoon the two men worked side by side with pick and shovel
and wheelbarrow, piling the earth high above the baseboards of Reeves'
white painted house. Brent spoke little and he worked as, it seemed to
him, he had never worked before. The muscles of his back and arms and
fingers ached, and in his vitals was the gnawing desire for drink. But
he had brought no liquor with him, and he fought down the desire and
worked doggedly, filling the wheelbarrows as fast as Reeves could dump
them. At noon Reeves surveyed the work with satisfaction: "We've got
it!" he exclaimed, "We're a little more than half through, and none too
soon." The wind had blown steadily from the north, carrying with it
frequent flurries of snow. "We'll knock off now. Just step into the
house."
Brent shook his head, "No, I'll slip over to the cabin. I'll be back by
the time you're through dinner."
Reeves, who had divined the man's need, stepped closer, "Come in, won't
you. I've got a little liquor that I brought from the outside. I think
you'll like it."
Without a word Brent followed him into the kitchen where Reeves set out
the bottle and a tumbler: "Just help yourself," he said, "I never use
it," and passed into the next room. Eagerly Brent poured himself half a
tumblerful and gulped it down, and as he returned the glass to the
table, he heard the voice of Reeves: "You don't mind if he eats with us
do you? He's worked mighty hard, and--" the sentence was interrupted by
a woman's voice:
"Why, certainly he will eat with us. See, the table's all set. I saw you
coming so I brought the soup in. Hurry before it gets cold." At the
man's words Brent's eyes had flashed a swift glance over his
disreputable garments. His lips had tightened at the corners, and as he
had waited for the expected protest, they had twisted into a cynical
smile. But at the woman's reply, the smile died from his lips, and he
took a furtive step toward the door, hesitated, and unconsciously his
shoulders stiffened, and a spark flickered for a moment in his muddy
eyes. Why not? It had been many a long day since he had sat at a table
with a woman--that kind of a woman. Like a flash came Reeves' words of
the night before. "She's from the South." If the man should really ask
him to sit at his table, why not accept--and carry it through in his own
way? The good liquor was taking hold. Brent swiftly dashed some more
into the glass and downed it at a swallow. Then Reeves stepped into the
room.
"You are to dine here," he announced, "we both of us need a good hot
meal, and a good smoke, and my wife has your place all laid at the
table."
"I thank you," answered Brent, "May I wash?" Reeves, who had expected an
awkward protest started at the words, and indicated the basin at the
sink. As Brent subjected his hands and face to a thorough scrubbing, and
carefully removed the earth from beneath his finger nails, Reeves eyed
him quizzically. Brent preceded his host into the dining room where Mrs.
Reeves waited, standing beside her chair.
Reeves stepped forward: "My wife, Mr.----," his voice trailed purposely,
but instead of mumbling a name, and acknowledging the introduction with
an embarrassed bob of the head, Brent smiled:
"Let us leave it that way, please. Mrs. Reeves, allow me," and stepping
swiftly to her chair he seated her with a courtly bow. He looked up to
see Reeves staring in open-mouthed amazement. Again, he smiled, and
stepped to his own place, not unmindful of the swift glance of surprise
that passed between husband and wife. After that surprises came fast.
Surprise at the ease and grace of manner with which he comported
himself, gave place to surprise and admiration at his deft maneuvering
of the conversation to things of the "outside"--to the literary and
theatrical successes of a few years back, and to the dozen and one
things that make dinner small talk. The Reeves' found themselves
consumed with curiosity as to this man with the drunkard's eye, the
unkempt beard, and the ragged clothing of a tramp, whose jests and quips
kept them in constant laughter. All through the meal Mrs. Reeves studied
him. There was something fine in the shape of the brow, in the thin,
well formed nose, in the occasional flash of the muddy eyes that held
her.
"You are from the South, aren't you?" she asked, during a pause in the
conversation.
Brent smiled. "Yes, far from the South--very far."
"I am from the South, too, and I love it," continued the woman, her eyes
upon the man's face. "From Plantersville, Tennessee--I've lived there
all my life." At the words Brent started perceptibly, and the hand that
held his coffee cup trembled violently so that part of the contents
splashed onto his napkin. When he returned the cup to its saucer it
rattled noisily.
The woman half rose from her chair: "_Carter Brent_!" she cried. And
Reeves, staring at his wife in astonishment, saw that tears glistened in
her eyes.
The next moment Brent had pulled himself together: "You win," he smiled,
regarding her curiously, "But, you will pardon me I'm sure. I've been
away a long time, and I'm afraid----"
"Oh, you wouldn't recognize me. I was only sixteen or seventeen when you
left Plantersville. You had been away at college, and you came home for
a month. I'm Reba Moorhouse----"
"Indeed I do remember you," laughed Brent, "Why you did me the honor to
dance with me at Colonel Pinkney's ball. But, tell me, how are your
mother and father and Fred and Emily? I suppose Doctor Moorhouse still
shoots his squirrels square in the eye, eh!"
"Mother died two years ago, and dad has almost given up his practice,"
she smiled, "So he'll have more time to shoot squirrels. Fred is in
college, and Emily married Charlie Harrow, and they bought the old
Melcher place out on the pike."
Brent hesitated a moment: "And--and--my father--have you seen him
lately?"
"Yes, indeed! General Brent and Dad are still the greatest of cronies.
He hasn't changed a bit since I can first remember him. Old Uncle Jake
still drives him to the bank at nine o'clock each morning, he still eats
his dinners at the Planter's Hotel, and then makes his rounds of the
lumber yard, and the coal yard, and the tobacco warehouse, or else Uncle
Jake drives him out to inspect some of his farms, and back home at four
o'clock. No, to all appearances, the General hasn't changed--but, dad
says there is a change in the last two or three years. He--he--would
give everything he owns just to hear from--you."
Brent was silent for a moment: "But, he must not hear--yet. I'll make
another strike, one of these days--and then-----"
"Did you make a strike?" asked Reeves.
Brent nodded. "Yes, I was on the very peak of the first stampede. Did
you, by chance, ever hear of Ace-In-The-Hole?"
Reeves smiled: "Yes--notorious gambler, wasn't he? Were you here when he
was? Made a big strike, somewhere, and then gambled away ten or twenty
million, didn't he, and then--I never did hear what became of him."
Brent smiled: "Yes, he made a strike. Then, I suppose, he was just what
you said--a notorious gambler--his losses were grossly exaggerated, they
were not over two millions at the outside."
"A mere trifle," laughed Reeves, "What ever became of him."
"Just at this moment he is seated at a dining table, talking with a
generous host, and a most charming hostess----"
"Are _you_ Ace-In-The-Hole?"
"So designated upon the Yukon," smiled Brent.
Mrs. Reeves leaned suddenly forward: "Oh, why don't you--why don't you
brace up? Let liquor alone, and----"
Brent interrupted her with a wave of the hand: "Theoretically a very
good suggestion," he smiled, "But, practically--it won't work.
Personally, I do not think I drink enough to hurt me any--but we will
waive that point--if I do, it is my own fault." He was about to add that
he was as good a man as he ever was, but something saved him that
sophistry, and when he looked into the face of his hostess his muddy
eyes twinkled humorously. "At least," he said, "I have succeeded in
eliminating one fault--I have not gambled in quite some time."
"And you never will gamble again?"
Brent laughed: "I didn't say that. However I see very little chance of
doing so in the immediate future."
"Promise me that you never will?" she asked, "You might, at least,
promise me that, if you won't give up the other."
"What assurance would you have that I would keep my promise?" parried
the man.
Quick as a flash came the reply, "The word of a Brent!"
Unconsciously the man's shoulders straightened: He hesitated a moment
while he regarded the woman gravely: "Yes," he said, "I will promise you
that, if it will please you, 'Upon the word of a Brent.'" He turned
abruptly to Reeves, "We had better be getting at that job again, or we
won't finish it before dark," he said, and with a bow to Mrs. Reeves,
"You will excuse us, I know." The woman nodded and as her husband was
about to follow Brent from the room she detained him.
"Who is he?" asked Reeves, as the door closed behind him.
"Who is he!" exclaimed his wife, "Why he's Carter Brent! The very last
of the Brents! Anyone in the South can tell you what that means. They're
the bluest of the blue bloods. His father, the old General, owns the
bank, and about everything else that's worth owning in Plantersville,
and half the county besides! And oh, it's a shame! A shame! We've got
to do something! You've got to do something! He's a mining engineer,
too. I recognized him before he told me, and when I mentioned
Plantersville, did you see his hand tremble? I was sure then. Oh, can't
you give him a position?"
Reeves considered: "Why, yes, I could use a good mining engineer.
But--he's too far gone. He couldn't stay away from the booze. I don't
think there's any use trying."
"There is, I tell you! The blood is there--and when the blood is there
it is _never_ too late! Didn't you notice the air with which he gave me
his promise not to gamble 'Upon the word of a Brent.' He would die
before he would break that promise--you see."
"But--he wouldn't promise to let liquor alone. The gambling--in his
circumstances is more or less a joke."
"But, when he gets on his feet again it won't be a joke!" she insisted.
"You mark my words, he is going to make good. I can _feel_ it. And that
is why I got him to promise not to gamble. If you can make him promise
to let liquor alone you can depend on it he will let it alone. You'll
try--won't you dear?"
"Yes, little girl, I'll try," smiled Reeves, kissing his young wife,
"But I'll tell you beforehand, you are a good deal more sanguine of
success than I am." And he passed out and joined Brent who was busily
loading a wheelbarrow.