"YOU ARE WHITE!"
"So! my beauty!" grinned the Captain, "Fer once in his life Claw didn't
lie. An' ye didn't wait fer us to go an' git ye--jest come right to us
nice as ye please--an' saved me a keg o' rum." He rose with an evil
leer. "An' now git up an' make yerself to home--an' long as ye do as I
say, an' don't git yer back up, you an' me'll git along fine."
Frantic with terror the girl essayed to rise, but her snowshoes impeded
her movements, so with trembling fingers she loosened the thongs and,
leaping to her feet, backed into a corner, and stared in wide-eyed
horror first at the Captain, then at Claw, the sight of whom caused her
to shrink still further against the wall.
The man sneered: "Know me, eh? Rec'lect the time, over to the mission I
tried to persuade you to make the trip to Dawson with me do you? Well, I
made up my mind I'd git you. Tried to buy you offen the squaw an' she
like to tore me to pieces. I'd of kidnapped you then, if it hadn't be'n
fer the Mounted. But I've got you now--got you an' sold you to him," he
grinned, pointing to the Captain. "An' yer lucky, at that. Let me make
you acquainted with Cap Jinkins. 'Tain't every breed girl gits to be
mistress of a ship like the _Belva Lou_."
Her eyes blazing with anger, she pointed a trembling finger at Claw:
"Stand away from that door! Let me go!"
"Oh, jest like that!" mocked the man. "If he says let you go, it's all
right with me, pervided he comes acrost with the balance of the dust."
The Captain laughed, and turning to the Dog Rib, he ordered: "Slip out
to the sled an' git a bottle o' rum, an' we'll all have a little drink."
For the first time Snowdrift noticed the presence of the Indian.
"Yondo!" she screamed, "This is your work! You devil!" and beside
herself with rage and terror, she snatched a knife from the table and
leaped upon him like a panther.
"Git back there!" cried Claw, leveling his revolver.
Quick as a flash, the Captain knocked up the gun, pinioned the girl's
arms from behind, and stood glaring over her shoulder at Claw: "Put up
that gun, damn ye! An' look out who yer pullin' it on!"
"By God, that's my Injun! I ain't through with him, yet, an' there ain't
no damn jade kin carve him up in under my nose."
"An' this here's my woman, too. An' there ain't no damn hooch runner kin
pull a gun on her, neither!"
"Ain't no harm done," conciliated Claw, "An' I guess they ain't no call
to fight over 'em. How about that drink?"
"Git it!" ordered the Captain, and as the cowering Dog Rib slunk from
the room, he snatched the knife from the pinioned hand of the girl and
hurled it under the bunk:
"An', now you hell-cat!" he rasped, pushing her from him, "You set to
an' git supper! An' don't go tryin' no more monkey business, er I'll
break ye in two! They seems to be grub enough here without usin' none of
my own," he added, eying the supplies ranged along the opposite wall,
"Who owns this shack, anyhow?"
"Carter Brent owns it," cried the girl, drawing herself erect and
glaring into the man's eyes. It was as though the very mention of his
name, nerved her to defiance. "And when he returns, he will kill you
both--kill you! Do you hear?"
"It's a lie!" roared Claw, then paused, abruptly. "I wonder--maybe it is
his shack. He come straight from the Yukon, an' that accounts fer the
burnin' in."
"Know him?" asked the Captain.
"Know him!" growled Claw, "Yes, I know him--an' so do you. That's
Ace-In-The-Hole's real name."
"The hell it is!" cried the Captain, and laughed uproariously. "So
that's the way the wind blows! An' the breed's be'n livin' here with
him! Things is sure comin' my way! That's most too good to be true--an'
you misrepresentin' her to be a virgin, fresh from a school--ho, ho,
ho!"
"What'd you mean?" snarled Claw, "How was I to know----"
"Whether ye know'd, er whether ye didn't, it didn't make no
difference--I win either way."
"What d'you mean?" Claw repeated.
"You know what I mean," sneered the Captain, truculently, "Secondhand
goods--half price--see?"
"You mean I don't git my other five hundred?" yelled Claw jerking the
revolver from his holster and levelling at the Captain's head, "Is that
what ye mean?"
Surprised at the suddenness of the action, the Captain was caught off
guard, and he stood blinking foolishly into the mouth of the gun:
"Well," he faltered, moistening his lips with his tongue, "Mebbe we
might kind o' talk it over."
"The only talkin' over you'll git out of me, is to come acrost with the
five hundred," sneered Claw.
"Ye know damn well I ain't got no five hundred with me. Wait till we git
to the _Belva Lou_."
"I'll wait, all right--but not till we git to the _Belva Lou_. Me an'
the girl will wait on shore, in sight of the _Belva Lou_, while you go
out an' git the money an' fetch it back--an' you'll come back _alone_
with it. An' what's more--you ain't ahead nothin' on the rum, neither.
'Cause I'm goin' to slip down to the Injun camp in about five minutes,
an' the rum goes along. I'll be back by daylight, an' instead of the
rum, I'll have all the fur--an' everything else them Dog Ribs has got.
An' I'll git square with that damn squaw fer jerkin' that handful of
whiskers out of me, too."
"That's all right, Johnnie," assured the Captain, still with his eyes on
the black muzzle of the gun. "Take the rum along--only, we'd ort to
split half an' half on that fur."
"Half an' half, hell! You got what you come after, ain't you? An' if I
kin pick up an honest dollar on the side, that ain't no reason I should
split it with you, is it? I'll jest leave you two to git acquainted
while I slip down to the camp."
"Go ahead," grinned the Captain, "An' don't hurry back, we'll wait."
"Yer damn right you'll wait!" retorted Claw, "I'll have the dogs." In
the doorway he paused, "An', by the way, Cap. Don't open that door till
I git out of range--see?"
The moment the door closed behind Claw, the Captain placed his back
against it and turned to the girl: "Git to work now an' git supper!
We're goin' to hit the back-trail inside an' hour. We kin pack what grub
we'll need, an' we'll git most a hull night's start, cause he'll be busy
with them Injuns till mornin'."
Snowdrift confronted him with blazing eyes: At the words her blood
seemed to freeze within her, leaving her cold and numb with horror. She
had heard of the coastal traffic in winter wives, but always it had
seemed to her a thing vague and unreal. But now the full hideousness of
it stood revealed to her. She herself, at that very moment stood
trapped, bought and sold--absolutely in the power of the two bearded
beasts, who in the very loathsomeness of their filthy minds, discussed
her as they would discuss a piece of merchandise, bargained and haggled
over the price of her living body! A single ray of hope had dawned in
her breast as the men began to quarrel. If they would only come to
blows, and to grip-lock in their rage, she might be able to seize a
weapon, or better still dash from the room. Once in the scrub, she could
easily elude them. But the hope died when Claw covered the Captain with
his gun. And with the hope died also the numbing terror. A strange,
unnatural calm took possession of her. There was still one way out--and
she would seek that way. As the two men stood facing each other, she had
caught a glimpse of the blade of the knife that lay where the Captain
had thrown it, beneath the edge of the bunk. Stealthily her moccasined
foot had reached out and slid it toward her, and as the door opened upon
Claw's departure, she had stooped swiftly and recovered it. She would
plunge the blade into her own heart--no, better, she would attack the
Captain now that they were alone, and either kill him, or by the very
fury of her onslaught, would force him to kill her. So with the knife
concealed by her folded arms, her eyes blazed defiance:
"I'll never cook your supper! You dog! You unspeakable devil! I'll kill
you first--or you'll kill me!"
"Kill ye, eh?" sneered the man, "Well, I might, at that, if I didn't
have five hundred good dollars tied up in ye. Guess they ain't much
danger of me killin' ye till I get my money back, one way er
another--an' I guess they ain't no one knows that no better'n what you
do. An' as fer killin' _me_," he laughed, "You look spunky 'nough
to--but I'm hard to kill--it's be'n tried."
"I've warned you!" cried the girl, "And I'll kill you!"
"Git to work! Damn ye!" snarled the Captain, "yer losin' time! You cook
that supper, er by God I'll make ye wisht I had killed ye! I'll tame ye!
I'll show ye who's boss! Mebbe you won't be so pretty when I git through
with ye--but ye'll be tame!"
The innermost thought of her brain found voice in words, "Oh, if he were
here!"
"Hollerin' fer yer man, eh," taunted the Captain, "Ye ain't his'n now,
yer mine--an' he won't come cause he's dead----"
"Dead!" The word shrieked from the lips of the tortured girl, "No, no,
no!"
"Yes, yes, yes," mocked the man, "He's dead an' froze hard as a capstan
bar, somewheres upon the sea ice, an' his Injun, too. Got dead drunk
upon the _Belva Lou_, an' started fer shore in the big storm--an' he
never got there. So ye might's well make the best of it with me. An'
I'll treat ye right if ye give me what I want. An' if ye don't give it,
I'll take it--an' it'll be the worse fer you."
The girl scarcely heard the words. Brent was dead. Her whole world--the
world that was just beginning to unfold its beauties and its
possibilities to her--to hold promise of the wondrous happiness of which
she had read and dreamed, but had never expected to realize--her whole
world had suddenly come crashing about her--Brent was dead, and--like a
flame of fire the thought flashed across her brain--the man responsible
for his death stood before her, and was even now threatening her with a
fate a thousand times worse than death.
With a wild scream, animal-like, terrifying in its fury, the girl sprang
upon the man like a tiger. He saw the flash of the knife blade in the
air, and warding off the blow with his arm, felt the bite and the hot
rip of it as it tore into his shoulder. With a yell of pain and rage he
struck blindly out, and his fist sent the girl crashing against the
table. The force of the impact jarred the chimney from the little oil
bracket-lamp, and the light suddenly dimmed to a red flaring half-gloom.
Like a flash the girl recovered herself, and again she flew at the man
whose hand gripped the butt of his revolver. Again he struck out to ward
the blow, and by the merest accident the barrel of the heavy gun struck
the wrist of the hand that held the knife hurling it from her grasp,
while at the same time his foot tripped her and she crashed heavily to
the floor. Before she could get up, the man was upon her, cursing,
panting hot fury. Kicking, striking out, clawing like a wild cat, the
girl managed to tear herself from his grasp, but as she regained her
feet, a huge hand fastened in the neck of her shirt. There was a moment
of terrific strain as she pulled to free herself, holding to the
stanchion of the bunk for support, then with a loud ripping sound the
garment, and the heavy woolen undershirt beneath gave way, and the girl,
stripped bare to the waist, stood panting with the table interposed
between herself and the man who rose slowly to his feet. At the sight of
her, half naked in the dimly wavering light of the flaring wick flame,
his look suddenly shifted from mad fury to bestial desire. Deliberately
he picked up the knife from the floor, and without taking his eyes from
the girl opened the door and tossed it out into the snow. Then he
returned the revolver to its holster and stared gloatingly at the white
breasts that rose and fell convulsively, as the breath sobbed from the
girl's lungs. And as she looked into his devouring eyes, abysmal terror
once more seized hold of her, for the loathsome desire in those eyes
held more of horror than had their blaze of fury.
The man moistened his thick lips, smacking them in anticipation, and as
he slowly advanced to the table, his foot struck an object that felt
soft and yielding to the touch, yet when he sought to brush it aside, it
was heavy. He glanced down, and the next instant stooped swiftly and
picked up Brent's sack of dust, which the girl had carried inside her
shirt. For an instant, greed supplanted the lust in his eyes, and he
laughed. Long and loud, he laughed, while the girl, pumping the air into
her lungs, gained strength with every second. "So here's where he left
his dust, is it? It's too good to be true! I pay five hundred fer the
girl instead of a thousan', an' all the dust, that Claw'll be up
scratchin' the gravel around Bloody Falls fer next summer. I guess
that's poor--five hundred clean cash profit, an' the girl besides!"
The sight of Brent's gold in the man's foul clutch was too much for
Snowdrift, and the next instant a billet of stovewood crashed against
the wall within an inch of his head. With a low growl, he dropped the
sack to the floor and started around the table. In vain the girl cast
wildly about for some weapon, as, keeping the table between them, she
milled round and round the room. In vain she tried each time she passed
it, to wrench open the door. But always the man was too quick for her,
and when finally, he pushed the table against it, she once more found
herself cornered this time without a weapon, and half dead from fatigue.
Slowly, deliberately, the man advanced upon her. When he reached out
and touched her bare arm with a thick fingered, hairy hand, she shrieked
aloud, and redoubled the fury of her attack, clawing and striking at his
face. But, her onslaught was futile. He easily warded off her tiring
efforts. Closer and closer he pressed, his eyes aglitter with the fever
of lust, his thick lips twisted into a gloating grin, until his arms
closed slowly about her waist and his body pressed hers backward onto
the bunk.
* * * * *
Joe Pete wanted to camp, but Brent would have none of it. The storm
thickened. The wind increased in fury, buffeting them about, and causing
the dogs to whine and cringe in the harness until it became necessary to
fasten a leash to the leader to prevent their bolting. Hopelessly lost
though they were, Brent insisted upon pushing on. "The land lies this
way," he kept saying, "and we'll strike it somewhere along the coast."
Then he would appeal to the Indian who would venture no opinion
whatever, frankly admitting he was lost, and always counseling the
making of a camp. Finally, when darkness came they did camp, merely
digging into the snow; and tossing blanket and robes and a little food
into the pit, crawled in and drew the tarpaulin over them.
Brent slept little that first night. Over and over again he tried to
reason out the course, and between times he lay hugging tightly his
bottle of hooch. "I wouldn't lose you for a million," he muttered, as
each tortured nerve of his body cried out for stimulant, and the little
brain devils added their urge, and with sophistry and cunning excuse
sought to undermine his resolve. "Just one drink." "You need it." "Taper
off gradually." "It's medicine." But to the insidious suggestions of the
brain devils he turned a deaf ear, and with clenched teeth, gripped his
bottle. "I'll never want you--never need you any more than I do this
night," he whispered into the dark. "Right now I'd give half my life for
one big swig--but my life isn't mine to give now. It's hers--_hers_, do
you hear! It's her fight that I'm fighting, now--and, by God, she's
going to win!"
In the morning, despite the protest of Joe Pete, Brent pushed on. The
storm had increased in fury, and it was with difficulty they kept their
feet. Toward noon, both knew that they had gained land of some kind, for
the terrain became rolling, and in places even hilly.
"We ain' goin' right fer de mountaine," shouted the Indian, with his
lips close to Brent's ear. "Dey an' no leetle hill dere till we com' to
de ridge."
"I don't care," yelled Brent, "We're heading south, and that's the main
thing. We can hit for the river when the storm stops."
The third day was a repetition of the second, except that the hills
became higher and more numerous, but entirely unlike the ridge formation
of the Copper Mountains. That night the storm wore itself out, and the
morning of the fourth day dawned bright and clear, with a wind blowing
strongly.
"Well, where are we?" asked Brent, as he and Joe Pete ascended a nearby
hillock to take observation of their surroundings.
For a long time the Indian studied the horizon, nor did he speak until
every degree of the arc had been subjected to minute scrutiny.
"I'm t'ink, we com' too mooch far wes'," he observed, "I'm t'ink, we
better strike eas', 'bout wan day, tomor'."
"Tomorrow!" cried Brent. "Why not today--now?"
The Indian pointed to the dogs. "Too mooch tired out. Too mooch no good.
We got to res' today. Mebbe-so, travel tomor'!"
A glance at the dogs convinced Brent, anxious as he was to push on, that
it would be useless to try it, for the dogs were in a pitiable condition
from the three day fight with the storm. He wanted to make up a pack and
push on alone, but the Indian dissuaded him.
"S'pose com' nudder beeg snow? W'at you do den, eh? You git los'. You
trail git cover up. I kin no fin'. Dat better you wait." And wait they
did, though Brent fretted and chafed the whole day through.
The following morning they started toward the southeast, shaping their
course by a far-distant patch of timber that showed as a dark spot on
the dazzling snow. The ground was broken and hard to travel, and their
progress was consequently slow. At noon they cut a dog loose, and later
another, the released animals limping along behind as best they could.
At noon of their seventh day of travel, the eighth after the storm,
Brent, who was in the lead, halted suddenly and pointed to a small lake
that lay a mile or more to the southward.
"I know that lake!" he cried, "It's the one where Snowdrift killed a
caribou! The river is six or seven miles east of here, and we'll strike
it just below our cabin."
"You sure 'bout dat'?." asked the Indian. "De dogs, w'at you call, all
in. I ain' lak' we mak mor' travel we kin help."
"Yes--sure," exclaimed Brent, "I couldn't be mistaken. There is the
point where we ate lunch--that broken spruce leaning against those two
others."
"Dat good lan' mark," the Indian agreed, "I ain' t'ink you wrong now."
Joyously, Brent led off to the eastward. The pace was woefully slow, for
of the seven dogs, only three remained, and the men were forced to work
at pulling the sled. "We ought to make the cabin a little after dark,"
he figured, "And then--I'll grab a bite to eat and hit out for
Snowdrift. Wonder if she's looking for me yet? Wonder if she's been
thinking about me? It's--let's see--this is the nineteenth
day--nineteen days since I've seen her--and it seems like nineteen
years! I hate to tell her I didn't make a strike. And worst of all I
hate to tell her about--what happened on the _Belva Lou_. But, I'll come
clean. I will tell her--and I'll show her the bottle--and thank God I
didn't pull the cork! And I never will pull it, now. I learned something
out there in the snow--learned what a man can do." He grinned as he
thought of Claw and the Captain of the _Belva Lou_, searching the Copper
Mountains for his camp, so they could kill him and steal his dust. Then
the grin hardened into a straight-lipped frown as he planned the
vengeance that was to be his when they came after the girl.
"They won't be in any hurry about starting up river," he argued,
"They'll hunt for me for a week. Then, when they do come--I'll kill 'em
as I would kill so many mad dogs. I hate to shoot a man from ambush--but
there's two of 'em, and I don't dare to take a chance. If they should
get me--" he shuddered at the thought, and pressed on.
As he swung onto the river, a sharp cry escaped him and he stooped in
the darkness to stare at a trail in the snow.
The cry brought Joe Pete to his side. "Those tracks!" rasped Brent,
"When were they made? And who made 'em?"
The Indian stooped close and examined the trail. "Two--t'ree mans, an' a
team," he muttered, "An' wan man dat Godam Johnnie Claw!"
"How do you know?" cried Brent, "How old are they?" And leaping to the
sled, he cut the pack thongs with one sweep of his knife and grabbed up
his rifle.
"I know dem track--seen um on Mackenzie. B'en gon' 'bout two t'ree
hour!"
"Bring on the outfit!" Brent called over his shoulder, and the Indian
stared in surprise as he watched the man strike out on the trail in
great leaping strides.
The distance to the cabin was a scant mile, and Brent covered it without
slackening his pace. At the foot of the bank, he noted with relief that
the trail swung upward to his own cabin. If they had stopped, there was
yet time. His first glance had detected no light in the window, but as
he looked again, he saw that a peculiar dull radiance filtered through
the oiled parchment that served as a glass. Cautiously he maneuvered up
the bank, and made his way to the cabin, mentally debating with himself
whether to burst in upon the occupants and chance a surprise, or to lie
in wait till they came out. He stood in the shelter of the meat _cache_
weighing his chances, when suddenly from beyond the log walls came the
sound of a woman's scream--loud--shrill--terrible, it sounded, cutting
the black silence of the night. What woman? There could be only
one--with a low cry that sounded in his own ears like the snarl of a
beast, he dropped the rifle and sprang against the door. It flew inward
and for a second Brent could see nothing in the murky interior of the
room. There was a sound from the bunk and, through the smoke haze he
made out the face of the Captain of the _Belva Lou_. As the man sprang
erect, their bodies met with an impact that carried them to the floor.
Brent found himself on top, and the next instant his fingers were
twisting, biting into a hairy throat with a grip that crushed and tore.
In his blind fury he was only half-conscious that heavy fists were
battering at his face. Beneath him the body of the Captain lashed and
struggled. The man's tongue lolled from his open mouth, and from beneath
the curled lips came hoarse wheezing gasps, and great gulping strangling
gurgles. A wave of exultation seized Brent as he realized that the thing
that writhed and twisted in his grasp was the naked throat of a man.
Vaguely he became conscious that above him hovered a white shape, and
that the shape was calling his name, in strange quavering tones. He
tightened his grip. There was a wild spasmodic heaving of the form
beneath him--and the form became suddenly still. But Brent did not
release his grasp. Instead he twisted and ground his fingers deeper and
deeper into the flesh that yielded now, and did not writhe. With his
face held close, he glared like a beast into the face of the man beneath
him--a horrible face with its wide-sprung jaws exposing the slobbered
tongue, the yellow snag-like teeth, the eyes, back-rolled until only the
whites showed between the wide-staring lids, and the skin fast purpling
between the upper beard and the mottled thatch of hair.
A hand fell upon his shoulder, and glancing up he saw Snowdrift and
realized that she was urging him to rise. As in a dream he caught the
gleam of white shoulders, and saw that one bare arm clasped a fragment
of torn shirt to her breast. He staggered to his feet, gave one glance
into the girl's eyes, and with a wild, glad cry caught her to him and
pressed her tight against his pounding heart.
A moment later she struggled from his embrace. She flushed deeply as his
eyes raised from her shoulders to meet her own. He was speaking, and at
the words her heart leaped wildly.
"It's a lie!" he cried, "You are not a breed! I knew it! I knew it! My
darling--you are white--as white as I am! Old Wananebish is not your
mother! Do you hear? _You are white!_"