Alan Holt was a man whom other men looked at twice. With women it was
different. He was, in no solitary sense of the word, a woman’s man. He
admired them in an abstract way, and he was ready to fight for them, or
die for them, at any time such a course became necessary. But his
sentiment was entirely a matter of common sense. His chivalry was born
and bred of the mountains and the open and had nothing in common with
the insincere brand which develops in the softer and more luxurious
laps of civilization. Years of aloneness had put their mark upon him.
Men of the north, reading the lines, understood what they meant. But
only now and then could a woman possibly understand. Yet if in any
given moment a supreme physical crisis had come, women would have
turned instinctively in their helplessness to such a man as Alan Holt.
He possessed a vein of humor which few had been privileged to discover.
The mountains had taught him to laugh in silence. With him a chuckle
meant as much as a riotous outburst of merriment from another, and he
could enjoy greatly without any noticeable muscular disturbance of his
face. And not always was his smile a reflection of humorous thought.
There were times when it betrayed another kind of thought more
forcefully than speech.
Because he understood fairly well and knew what he was, the present
situation amused him. He could not but see what an error in judgment
Miss Standish had made in selecting him, when compared with the
intoxicating thrill she could easily have aroused by choosing one of
the young engineers as a companion in her evening adventure. He
chuckled. And Mary Standish, hearing the smothered note of amusement,
gave to her head that swift little birdlike tilt which he had observed
once before, in the presence of Captain Rifle. But she said nothing. As
if challenged, she calmly took possession of his arm.
Halfway round the deck, Alan began to sense the fact that there was a
decidedly pleasant flavor to the whole thing. The girl’s hand did not
merely touch his arm; it was snuggled there confidently, and she was
necessarily so close to him that when he looked down, the glossy coils
of her hair were within a few inches of his face. His nearness to her,
together with the soft pressure of her hand on his arm, was a jolt to
his stoicism.
“It’s not half bad,” he expressed himself frankly. “I really believe I
am going to enjoy answering your questions, Miss Standish.”
“Oh!” He felt the slim, little figure stiffen for an instant. “You
thought—possibly—I might be dangerous?”
“A little. I don’t understand women. Collectively I think they are
God’s most wonderful handiwork. Individually I don’t care much about
them. But you—”
She nodded approvingly. “That is very nice of you. But you needn’t say
I am different from the others. I am not. All women are alike.”
“Possibly—except in the way they dress their hair.”
“You like mine?”
“Very much.”
He was amazed at the admission, so much so that he puffed out a huge
cloud of smoke from his cigar in mental protest.
They had come to the smoking-room again. This was an innovation aboard
the _Nome_. There was no other like it in the Alaskan service, with its
luxurious space, its comfortable hospitality, and the observation
parlor built at one end for those ladies who cared to sit with their
husbands while they smoked their after-dinner cigars.
“If you want to hear about Alaska and see some of its human make-up,
let’s go in,” he suggested. “I know; of no better place. Are you afraid
of smoke?”
“No. If I were a man, I would smoke.”
“Perhaps you do?”
“I do not. When I begin that, if you please, I shall bob my hair.”
“Which would be a crime,” he replied so earnestly that again he was
surprised at himself.
Two or three ladies, with their escorts, were in the parlor when they
entered. The huge main room, covering a third of the aft deck, was blue
with smoke. A score of men were playing cards at round tables. Twice as
many were gathered in groups, talking, while others walked aimlessly up
and down the carpeted floor. Here and there were men who sat alone. A
few were asleep, which made Alan look at his watch. Then he observed
Mary Standish studying the innumerable bundles of neatly rolled
blankets that lay about. One of them was at her feet. She touched it
with her toe.
“What do they mean?” she asked.
“We are overloaded,” he explained. “Alaskan steam-ships have no
steerage passengers as we generally know them. It isn’t poverty that
rides steerage when you go north. You can always find a millionaire or
two on the lower deck. When they get sleepy, most of the men you see in
there will unroll blankets and sleep on the floor. Did you ever see an
earl?”
He felt it his duty to make explanations now that he had brought her
in, and directed her attention to the third table on their left. Three
men were seated at this table.
“The man facing us, the one with a flabby face and pale mustache, is an
earl—I forget his name,” he said. “He doesn’t look it, but he is a real
sport. He is going up to shoot Kadiak bears, and sleeps on the floor.
The group beyond them, at the fifth table, are Treadwell mining men,
and that fellow you see slouched against the wall, half asleep, with
whiskers nearly to his waist, is Stampede Smith, an old-time partner of
George Carmack, who discovered gold on Bonanza Creek in Ninety-six. The
thud of Carmack’s spade, as it hit first pay, was the ‘sound heard
round the world,’ Miss Standish. And the gentleman with crumpled
whiskers was the second-best man at Bonanza, excepting Skookum Jim and
Taglish Charlie, two Siwah Indians who were with Carmack when the
strike was made. Also, if you care for the romantic, he was in love
with Belinda Mulrooney, the most courageous woman who ever came into
the north.”
“Why was she courageous?”
“Because she came alone into a man’s land, without a soul to fight for
her, determined to make a fortune along with the others. And she did.
As long as there is a Dawson sour-dough alive, he will remember Belinda
Mulrooney.”
“She proved what a woman could do, Mr. Holt.”
“Yes, and a little later she proved how foolish a woman can be, Miss
Standish. She became the richest woman in Dawson. Then came a man who
posed as a count, Belinda married him, and they went to Paris. _Finis_,
I think. Now, if she had married Stampede Smith over there, with his
big whiskers—”
He did not finish. Half a dozen paces from them a man had risen from a
table and was facing them. There was nothing unusual about him, except
his boldness as he looked at Mary Standish. It was as if he knew her
and was deliberately insulting her in a stare that was more than
impudent in its directness. Then a sudden twist came to his lips; he
shrugged his shoulders slightly and turned away.
Alan glanced swiftly at his companion. Her lips were compressed, and
her cheeks were flaming hotly. Even then, as his own blood boiled, he
could not but observe how beautiful anger made her.
“If you will pardon me a moment,” he said quietly, “I shall demand an
explanation.”
Her hand linked itself quickly through his arm.
“Please don’t,” she entreated. “It is kind of you, and you are just the
sort of man I should expect to resent a thing like that. But it would
be absurd to notice it. Don’t you think so?”
In spite of her effort to speak calmly, there was a tremble in her
voice, and Alan was puzzled at the quickness with which the color went
from her face, leaving it strangely white.
“I am at your service,” he replied with a rather cold inclination of
his head. “But if you were my sister, Miss Standish, I would not allow
anything like that to go unchallenged.”
He watched the stranger until he disappeared through a door out upon
the deck.
“One of John Graham’s men,” he said. “A fellow named Rossland, going up
to get a final grip on the salmon fishing, I understand. They’ll choke
the life out of it in another two years. Funny what this filthy stuff
we call money can do, isn’t it? Two winters ago I saw whole Indian
villages starving, and women and little children dying by the score
because of this John Graham’s money. Over-fishing did it, you
understand. If you could have seen some of those poor little devils,
just skin and bones, crying for a rag to eat—”
Her hand clutched at his arm. “How could John Graham—do that?” she
whispered.
He laughed unpleasantly. “When you have been a year in Alaska you won’t
ask that question, Miss Standish. _How_? Why, simply by glutting his
canneries and taking from the streams the food supply which the natives
have depended upon for generations. In other words, the money he
handles represents the fish trust—and many other things. Please don’t
misunderstand me. Alaska needs capital for its development. Without it
we will not only cease to progress; we will die. No territory on the
face of the earth offers greater opportunities for capital than Alaska
does today. Ten thousand fortunes are waiting to be made here by men
who have money to invest.
“But John Graham does not represent the type we want. He is a
despoiler, one of those whose only desire is to turn original resource
into dollars as fast as he can, even though those operations make both
land and water barren. You must remember until recently the government
of Alaska as manipulated by Washington politicians was little better
than that against which the American colonies rebelled in 1776. A hard
thing for one to say about the country he loves, isn’t it? And John
Graham stands for the worst—he and the money which guarantees his
power.
“As a matter of fact, big and legitimate capital is fighting shy of
Alaska. Conditions are such, thanks to red-tapeism and bad politics,
that capital, big and little, looks askance at Alaska and cannot be
interested. Think of it, Miss Standish! There are thirty-eight separate
bureaus at Washington operating on Alaska, five thousand miles away. Is
it a wonder the patient is sick? And is it a wonder that a man like
John Graham, dishonest and corrupt to the soul, has a fertile field to
work in?
“But we are progressing. We are slowly coming out from under the shadow
which has so long clouded Alaska’s interests. There is now a growing
concentration of authority and responsibility. Both the Department of
the Interior and the Department of Agriculture now realize that Alaska
is a mighty empire in itself, and with their help we are bound to go
ahead in spite of all our handicaps. It is men like John Graham I fear.
Some day—”
Suddenly he caught himself. “There—I’m talking politics, and I should
entertain you with pleasanter and more interesting things,” he
apologized. “Shall we go to the lower decks?”
“Or the open air,” she suggested. “I am afraid this smoke is upsetting
me.”
He could feel the change in her and did not attribute it entirely to
the thickness of the air. Rossland’s inexplicable rudeness had
disturbed her more deeply than she had admitted, he believed.
“There are a number of Thlinkit Indians and a tame bear down in what we
should ordinarily call the steerage. Would you like to see them?” he
asked, when they were outside. “The Thlinkit girls are the prettiest
Indian women in the world, and there are two among those below who
are—well—unusually good-looking, the Captain says.”
“And he has already made me acquainted with them,” she laughed softly.
“Kolo and Haidah are the girls. They are sweet, and I love them. I had
breakfast with them this morning long before you were awake.”
“The deuce you say! And that is why you were not at table? And the
morning before—”
“You noticed my absence?” she asked demurely.
“It was difficult for me not to see an empty chair. On second thought,
I think the young engineer called my attention to it by wondering if
you were ill.”
“Oh!”
“He is very much interested in you, Miss Standish. It amuses me to see
him torture the corners of his eyes to look at you. I have thought it
would be only charity and good-will to change seats with him.”
“In which event, of course, your eyes would not suffer.”
“Probably not.”
“Have they ever suffered?”
“I think not.”
“When looking at the Thlinkit girls, for instance?”
“I haven’t seen them.”
She gave her shoulders a little shrug.
“Ordinarily I would think you most uninteresting, Mr. Holt. As it is I
think you unusual. And I rather like you for it. Would you mind taking
me to my cabin? It is number sixteen, on this deck.”
She walked with her fingers touching his arm again. “What is your
room?” she asked.
“Twenty-seven, Miss Standish.”
“This deck?”
“Yes.”
Not until she had said good night, quietly and without offering him her
hand, did the intimacy of her last questions strike him. He grunted and
lighted a fresh cigar. A number of things occurred to him all at once,
as he slowly made a final round or two of the deck. Then he went to his
cabin and looked over papers which were going ashore at Juneau. These
were memoranda giving an account of his appearance with Carl Lomen
before the Ways and Means Committee at Washington.
It was nearly midnight when he had finished. He wondered if Mary
Standish was asleep. He was a little irritated, and slightly amused, by
the recurring insistency with which his mind turned to her. She was a
clever girl, he admitted. He had asked her nothing about herself, and
she had told him nothing, while he had been quite garrulous. He was a
little ashamed when he recalled how he had unburdened his mind to a
girl who could not possibly be interested in the political affairs of
John Graham and Alaska. Well, it was not entirely his fault. She had
fairly catapulted herself upon him, and he had been decent under the
circumstances, he thought.
He put out his light and stood with his face at the open port-hole.
Only the soft throbbing of the vessel as she made her way slowly
through the last of the Narrows into Frederick Sound came to his ears.
The ship, at last, was asleep. The moon was straight overhead, no
longer silhouetting the mountains, and beyond its misty rim of light
the world was dark. Out of this darkness, rising like a deeper shadow,
Alan could make out faintly the huge mass of Kupreanof Island. And he
wondered, knowing the perils of the Narrows in places scarcely wider
than the length of the ship, why Captain Rifle had chosen this course
instead of going around by Cape Decision. He could feel that the land
was more distant now, but the _Nome_ was still pushing ahead under slow
bell, and he could smell the fresh odor of kelp, and breathe deeply of
the scent of forests that came from both east and west.
Suddenly his ears became attentive to slowly approaching footsteps.
They seemed to hesitate and then advanced; he heard a subdued voice, a
man’s voice—and in answer to it a woman’s. Instinctively he drew a step
back and stood unseen in the gloom. There was no longer a sound of
voices. In silence they walked past his window, clearly revealed to him
in the moonlight. One of the two was Mary Standish. The man was
Rossland, who had stared at her so boldly in the smoking-room.
Amazement gripped Alan. He switched on his light and made his final
arrangements for bed. He had no inclination to spy upon either Mary
Standish or Graham’s agent, but he possessed an inborn hatred of fraud
and humbug, and what he had seen convinced him that Mary Standish knew
more about Rossland than she had allowed him to believe. She had not
lied to him. She had said nothing at all—except to restrain him from
demanding an apology. Evidently she had taken advantage of him, but
beyond that fact her affairs had nothing to do with his own business in
life. Possibly she and Rossland had quarreled, and now they were making
up. Quite probable, he thought. Silly of him to think over the matter
at all.
So he put out his light again and went to bed. But he had no great
desire to sleep. It was pleasant to lie there, flat on his back, with
the soothing movement of the ship under him, listening to the musical
thrum of it. And it was pleasant to think of the fact that he was going
home. How infernally long those seven months had been, down in the
States! And how he had missed everyone he had ever known—even his
enemies!
He closed his eyes and visualized the home that was still thousands of
miles away—the endless tundras, the blue and purple foothills of the
Endicott Mountains, and “Alan’s Range” at the beginning of them. Spring
was breaking up there, and it was warm on the tundras and the southern
slopes, and the pussy-willow buds were popping out of their coats like
corn from a hopper.
He prayed God the months had been kind to his people—the people of the
range. It was a long time to be away from them, when one loved them as
he did. He was sure that Tautuk and Amuk Toolik, his two chief
herdsmen, would care for things as well as himself. But much could
happen in seven months. Nawadlook, the little beauty of his distant
kingdom, was not looking well when he left. He was worried about her.
The pneumonia of the previous winters had left its mark. And Keok, her
rival in prettiness! He smiled in the darkness, wondering how Tautuk’s
sometimes hopeless love affair had progressed. For Keok was a little
heart-breaker and had long reveled in Tautuk’s sufferings. An archangel
of iniquity, Alan thought, as he grinned—but worth any man’s risk of
life, if he had but a drop of brown blood in him! As for his herds,
they had undoubtedly fared well. Ten thousand head was something to be
proud of—
Suddenly he drew in his breath and listened. Someone was at his door
and had paused there. Twice he had heard footsteps outside, but each
time they had passed. He sat up, and the springs of his berth made a
sound under him. He heard movement then, a swift, running movement—and
he switched on his light. A moment later he opened the door. No one was
there. The long corridor was empty. And then—a distance away—he heard
the soft opening and closing of another door.
It was then that his eyes saw a white, crumpled object on the floor. He
picked it up and reentered his room. It was a woman’s handkerchief. And
he had seen it before. He had admired the pretty laciness of it that
evening in the smoking-room. Rather curious, he thought, that he should
now find it at his door.