Not until early twilight came with the deep shadows of the western
mountains, and the _Nome_ was churning slowly back through the narrow
water-trails to the open Pacific, did the significance of that
afternoon fully impress itself upon Alan. For hours he had surrendered
himself to an impulse which he could not understand, and which in
ordinary moments he would not have excused. He had taken Mary Standish
ashore. For two hours she had walked at his side, asking him questions
and listening to him as no other had ever questioned him or listened to
him before. He had shown her Skagway. Between the mountains he pictured
the wind-racked cañon where Skagway grew from one tent to hundreds in a
day, from hundreds to thousands in a week; he visioned for her the old
days of romance, adventure, and death; he told her of Soapy Smith and
his gang of outlaws, and side by side they stood over Soapy’s sunken
grave as the first somber shadows of the mountains grew upon them.
But among it all, and through it all, she had asked him about
_himself_. And he had responded. Until now he did not realize how much
he had confided in her. It seemed to him that the very soul of this
slim and beautiful girl who had walked at his side had urged him on to
the indiscretion of personal confidence. He had seemed to feel her
heart beating with his own as he described his beloved land under the
Endicott Mountains, with its vast tundras, his herds, and his people.
There, he had told her, a new world was in the making, and the glow in
her eyes and the thrilling something in her voice had urged him on
until he forgot that Rossland was waiting at the ship’s gangway to see
when they returned. He had built up for her his castles in the air, and
the miracle of it was that she had helped him to build them. He had
described for her the change that was creeping slowly over Alaska, the
replacement of mountain trails by stage and automobile highways, the
building of railroads, the growth of cities where tents had stood a few
years before. It was then, when he had pictured progress and
civilization and the breaking down of nature’s last barriers before
science and invention, that he had seen a cloud of doubt in her gray
eyes.
And now, as they stood on the deck of the _Nome_ looking at the white
peaks of the mountains dissolving into the lavender mist of twilight,
doubt and perplexity were still deeper in her eyes, and she said:
“I would always love tents and old trails and nature’s barriers. I envy
Belinda Mulrooney, whom you told me about this afternoon. I hate cities
and railroads and automobiles, and all that goes with them, and I am
sorry to see those things come to Alaska. And I, too, hate this
man—John Graham!”
Her words startled him.
“And I want you to tell me what he is doing—with his money—now.” Her
voice was cold, and one little hand, he noticed, was clenched at the
edge of the rail.
“He has stripped Alaskan waters of fish resources which will never be
replaced, Miss Standish. But that is not all. I believe I state the
case well within fact when I say he has killed many women and little
children by robbing the inland waters of the food supplies upon which
the natives have subsisted for centuries. I know. I have seen them
die.”
It seemed to him that she swayed against him for an instant.
“And that—is all?”
He laughed grimly. “Possibly some people would think it enough, Miss
Standish. But the tentacles of his power are reaching everywhere in
Alaska. His agents swarm throughout the territory, and Soapy Smith was
a gentleman outlaw compared with these men and their master. If men
like John Graham are allowed to have their way, in ten years greed and
graft will despoil what two hundred years of Rooseveltian conservation
would not be able to replace.”
She raised her head, and in the dusk her pale face looked up at the
ghost-peaks of the mountains still visible through the thickening gloom
of evening. “I am glad you told me about Belinda Mulrooney,” she said.
“I am beginning to understand, and it gives me courage to think of a
woman like her. She could fight, couldn’t she? She could make a man’s
fight?”
“Yes, and did make it.”
“And she had no money to give her power. Her last dollar, you told me,
she flung into the Yukon for luck.”
“Yes, at Dawson. It was the one thing between her and hunger.”
She raised her hand, and on it he saw gleaming faintly the single ring
which she wore. Slowly she drew it from her finger.
“Then this, too, for luck—the luck of Mary Standish,” she laughed
softly, and flung the ring into the sea.
She faced him, as if expecting the necessity of defending what she had
done. “It isn’t melodrama,” she said. “I mean it. And I believe in it.
I want something of mine to lie at the bottom of the sea in this
gateway to Skagway, just as Belinda Mulrooney wanted her dollar to rest
forever at the bottom of the Yukon.”
She gave him the hand from which she had taken the ring, and for a
moment the warm thrill of it lay in his own. “Thank you for the
wonderful afternoon you have given me, Mr. Holt. I shall never forget
it. It is dinner time. I must say good night.”
He followed her slim figure with his eyes until she disappeared. In
returning to his cabin he almost bumped into Rossland. The incident was
irritating. Neither of the men spoke or nodded, but Rossland met Alan’s
look squarely, his face rock-like in its repression of emotion. Alan’s
impression of the man was changing in spite of his prejudice. There was
a growing something about him which commanded attention, a certainty of
poise which could not be mistaken for sham. A scoundrel he might be,
but a cool brain was at work inside his head—a brain not easily
disturbed by unimportant things, he decided. He disliked the man. As an
agent of John Graham Alan looked upon him as an enemy, and as an
acquaintance of Mary Standish he was as much of a mystery as the girl
herself. And only now, in his cabin, was Alan beginning to sense the
presence of a real authority behind Rossland’s attitude.
He was not curious. All his life he had lived too near the raw edge of
practical things to dissipate in gossipy conjecture. He cared nothing
about the relationship between Mary Standish and Rossland except as it
involved himself, and the situation had become a trifle too delicate to
please him. He could see no sport in an adventure of the kind it
suggested, and the possibility that he had been misjudged by both
Rossland and Mary Standish sent a flush of anger into his cheeks. He
cared nothing for Rossland, except that he would like to wipe him out
of existence with all other Graham agents. And he persisted in the
conviction that he thought of the girl only in a most casual sort of
way. He had made no effort to discover her history. He had not
questioned her. At no time had he intimated a desire to intrude upon
her personal affairs, and at no time had she offered information about
herself, or an explanation of the singular espionage which Rossland had
presumed to take upon himself. He grimaced as he reflected how
dangerously near that hazard he had been—and he admired her for the
splendid judgment she had shown in the matter. She had saved him the
possible alternative of apologizing to Rossland or throwing him
overboard!
There was a certain bellicose twist to his mind as he went down to the
dining salon, an obstinate determination to hold himself aloof from any
increasing intimacy with Mary Standish. No matter how pleasing his
experience had been, he resented the idea of being commandeered at
unexpected moments. Had Mary Standish read his thoughts, her bearing
toward him during the dinner hour could not have been more satisfying.
There was, in a way, something seductively provocative about it. She
greeted him with the slightest inclination of her head and a cool
little smile. Her attitude did not invite spoken words, either from him
or from his neighbors, yet no one would have accused her of deliberate
reserve.
Her demure unapproachableness was a growing revelation to him, and he
found himself interested in spite of the new law of self-preservation
he had set down for himself. He could not keep his eyes from stealing
glimpses at her hair when her head was bowed a little. She had smoothed
it tonight until it was like softest velvet, with rich glints in it,
and the amazing thought came to him that it would be sweetly pleasant
to touch with one’s hand. The discovery was almost a shock. Keok and
Nawadlook had beautiful hair, but he had never thought of it in this
way. And he had never thought of Keok’s pretty mouth as he was thinking
of the girl’s opposite him. He shifted uneasily and was glad Mary
Standish did not look at him in these moments of mental unbalance.
When he left the table, the girl scarcely noticed his going. It was as
if she had used him and then calmly shuttled him out of the way. He
tried to laugh as he hunted up Stampede Smith. He found him, half an
hour later, feeding a captive bear on the lower deck. It was odd, he
thought, that a captive bear should be going north. Stampede explained.
The animal was a pet and belonged to the Thlinkit Indians. There were
seven, getting off at Cordova. Alan observed that the two girls watched
him closely and whispered together. They were very pretty, with large,
dark eyes and pink in their cheeks. One of the men did not look at him
at all, but sat cross-legged on the deck, with his face turned away.
With Stampede he went to the smoking-room, and until a late hour they
discussed the big range up under the Endicott Mountains, and Alan’s
plans for the future. Once, early in the evening, Alan went to his
cabin to get maps and photographs. Stampede’s eyes glistened as his
mind seized upon the possibilities of the new adventure. It was a vast
land. An unknown country. And Alan was its first pioneer. The old
thrill ran in Stampede’s blood, and its infectiousness caught Alan, so
that he forgot Mary Standish, and all else but the miles that lay
between them and the mighty tundras beyond the Seward Peninsula. It was
midnight when Alan went to his cabin.
He was happy. Love of life swept in an irresistible surge through his
body, and he breathed in deeply of the soft sea air that came in
through his open port from the west. In Stampede Smith he had at last
found the comradeship which he had missed, and the responsive note to
the wild and half-savage desires always smoldering in his heart. He
looked out at the stars and smiled up at them, and his soul was filled
with an unspoken thankfulness that he was not born too late. Another
generation and there would be no last frontier. Twenty-five years more
and the world would lie utterly in the shackles of science and
invention and what the human race called progress.
So God had been good to him. He was helping to write the last page in
that history which would go down through the eons of time, written in
the red blood of men who had cut the first trails into the unknown.
After him, there would be no more frontiers. No more mysteries of
unknown lands to solve. No more pioneering hazards to make. The earth
would be tamed. And suddenly he thought of Mary Standish and of what
she had said to him in the dusk of evening. Strange that it had been
_her_ thought, too—that she would always love tents and old trails and
nature’s barriers, and hated to see cities and railroads and
automobiles come to Alaska. He shrugged his shoulders. Probably she had
guessed what was in his own mind, for she was clever, very clever.
A tap at his door drew his eyes from the open watch in his hand. It was
a quarter after twelve o’clock, an unusual hour for someone to be
tapping at his door.
It was repeated—a bit hesitatingly, he thought. Then it came again,
quick and decisive. Replacing his watch in his pocket, he opened the
door.
It was Mary Standish who stood facing him.
He saw only her eyes at first, wide-open, strange, frightened eyes. And
then he saw the pallor of her face as she came slowly in, without
waiting for him to speak or give her permission to enter. And it was
Mary Standish herself who closed the door, while he stared at her in
stupid wonderment—and stood there with her back against it, straight
and slim and deathly pale.
“May I come in?” she asked.
“My God, you’re in!” gasped Alan. “_You’re in_.”