That night, in Olaf’s cabin, Alan put himself back on the old track
again. He made no effort to minimize the tragedy that had come into his
life, and he knew its effect upon him would never be wiped away, and
that Mary Standish would always live in his thoughts, no matter what
happened in the years to come. But he was not the sort to let any part
of himself wither up and die because of a blow that had darkened his
mental visions of things. His plans lay ahead of him, his old ambitions
and his dreams of achievement. They seemed pulseless and dead now, but
he knew it was because his own fire had temporarily burned out. And he
realized the vital necessity of building it up again. So he first wrote
a letter to Ellen McCormick, and in this placed a second
letter—carefully sealed—which was not to be opened unless they found
Mary Standish, and which contained something he had found impossible to
put into words in Sandy’s cabin. It was trivial and embarrassing when
spoken to others, but it meant a great deal to him. Then he made the
final arrangements for Olaf to carry him to Seward in the _Norden_, for
Captain Rifle’s ship was well on her way to Unalaska. Thought of
Captain Rifle urged him to write another letter in which he told
briefly the disappointing details of his search.
He was rather surprised the next morning to find he had entirely
forgotten Rossland. While he was attending to his affairs at the bank,
Olaf secured information that Rossland was resting comfortably in the
hospital and had not one chance in ten of dying. It was not Alan’s
intention to see him. He wanted to hear nothing he might have to say
about Mary Standish. To associate them in any way, as he thought of her
now, was little short of sacrilege. He was conscious of the change in
himself, for it was rather an amazing upsetting of the original Alan
Holt. That person would have gone to Rossland with the deliberate and
businesslike intention of sifting the matter to the bottom that he
might disprove his own responsibility and set himself right in his own
eyes. In self-defense he would have given Rossland an opportunity to
break down with cold facts the disturbing something which his mind had
unconsciously built up. But the new Alan revolted. He wanted to carry
the thing away with him, he wanted it to live, and so it went with him,
uncontaminated by any truths or lies which Rossland might have told
him.
They left Cordova early in the afternoon, and at sunset that evening
camped on the tip of a wooded island a mile or two from the mainland.
Olaf knew the island and had chosen it for reasons of his own. It was
primitive and alive with birds. Olaf loved the birds, and the cheer of
their vesper song and bedtime twitter comforted Alan. He seized an ax,
and for the first time in seven months his muscles responded to the
swing of it. And Ericksen, old as his years in the way of the north,
whistled loudly and rumbled a bit of crude song through his beard as he
lighted a fire, knowing the medicine of the big open was getting its
hold on Alan again. To Alan it was like coming to the edge of home once
more. It seemed an age, an infinity, since he had heard the sputtering
of bacon in an open skillet and the bubbling of coffee over a bed of
coals with the mysterious darkness of the timber gathering in about
him. He loaded his pipe after his chopping, and sat watching Olaf as he
mothered the half-baked bannock loaf. It made him think of his father.
A thousand times the two must have camped like this in the days when
Alaska was new and there were no maps to tell them what lay beyond the
next range.
Olaf felt resting upon him something of the responsibility of a doctor,
and after supper he sat with his back to a tree and talked of the old
days as if they were yesterday and the day before, with tomorrow always
the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow which he had pursued for
thirty years. He was sixty just a week ago this evening, he said, and
he was beginning to doubt if he would remain on the beach at Cordova
much longer. Siberia was dragging him—that forbidden world of adventure
and mystery and monumental opportunity which lay only a few miles
across the strait from the Seward Peninsula. In his enthusiasm he
forgot Alan’s tragedy. He cursed Cossack law and the prohibitory
measures to keep Americans out. More gold was over there than had ever
been dreamed of in Alaska; even the mountains and rivers were unnamed;
and he was going if he lived another year or two—going to find his
fortune or his end in the Stanovoi Mountains and among the Chukchi
tribes. Twice he had tried it since his old comrade had died, and twice
he had been driven out. The next time he would know how to go about it,
and he invited Alan to go with him.
There was a thrill in this talk of a land so near, scarcely a night
ride across the neck of Bering Sea, and yet as proscribed as the sacred
plains of Tibet. It stirred old desires in Alan’s blood, for he knew
that of all frontiers the Siberian would be the last and the greatest,
and that not only men, but nations, would play their part in the
breaking of it. He saw the red gleam of firelight in Olaf’s eyes.
“And if we don’t go in first from _this side_, Alan, the yellow fellows
will come out some day from _that,”_ rumbled the old sour-dough,
striking his pipe in the hollow of his hand. “And when they do, they
won’t come over to us in ones an’ twos an’ threes, but in millions.
That’s what the yellow fellows will do when they once get started, an’
it’s up to a few Alaska Jacks an’ Tough-Nut Bills to get their feet
planted first on the other side. Will you go?”
Alan shook his head. “Some day—but not now.” The old flash was in his
eyes and he was seeing the fight ahead of him again—the fight to do his
bit in striking the shackles of misgovernment from Alaska and rousing
the world to an understanding of the menace which hung over her like a
smoldering cloud. “But you’re right about the danger,” he said. “It
won’t come from Japan to California. It will pour like a flood through
Siberia and jump to Alaska in a night. It isn’t the danger of the
yellow man alone, Olaf. You’ve got to combine that with Bolshevism, the
menace of blackest Russia. A disease which, if it crosses the little
neck of water and gets hold of Alaska, will shake the American
continent to bed-rock. It may be a generation from now, maybe a
century, but it’s coming sure as God makes light—if we let Alaska go
down and out. And my way of preventing it is different from yours.”
He stared into the fire, watching the embers flare up and die. “I’m not
proud of the States,” he went on, as if speaking to something which he
saw in the flames. “I can’t be, after the ruin their unintelligent
propaganda and legislation have brought upon Alaska. But they’re our
salvation and conditions are improving. I concede we have factions in
Alaska and we are not at all unanimous in what we want. It’s going to
be largely a matter of education. We can’t take Alaska down to the
States—we’ve got to bring them up to us. We must make a large part of a
hundred and ten million Americans understand. We must bring a million
of them up here before that danger-flood we speak of comes beyond the
Gulf of Anadyr. It’s God’s own country we have north of Fifty-eight,
Olaf. And we have ten times the wealth of California. We can care for a
million people easily. But bad politics and bad judgment both here in
Alaska and at Washington won’t let them come. With coal enough under
our feet to last a thousand years, we are buying fuel from the States.
We’ve got billions in copper and oil, but can’t touch them. We should
have some of the world’s greatest manufacturing plants, but we can not,
because everything up here is locked away from us. I repeat that isn’t
conservation. If they had applied a little of it to the salmon
industry—but they didn’t. And the salmon are going, like the buffalo of
the plains.
“The destruction of the salmon shows what will happen to us if the bars
are let down all at once to the financial banditti. Understanding and
common sense must guard the gates. The fight we must win is to bring
about an honest and reasonable adjustment, Olaf. And that fight will
take place right here—in Alaska—and not in Siberia. And if we don’t
win—”
He raised his eyes from the fire and smiled grimly into Olaf’s bearded
face.
“Then we can count on that thing coming across the neck of sea from the
Gulf of Anadyr,” he finished. “And if it ever does come, the people of
the States will at last face the tragic realization of what Alaska
could have meant to the nation.”
The force of the old spirit surged uppermost in Alan again, and after
that, for an hour or more, something lived for him in the glow of the
fire which Olaf kept burning. It was the memory of Mary Standish, her
quiet, beautiful eyes gazing at him, her pale face taking form in the
lacy wisps of birch-smoke. His mind pictured her in the flame-glow as
she had listened to him that day in Skagway, when he had told her of
this fight that was ahead. And it pleased him to think she would have
made this same fight for Alaska if she had lived. It was a thought
which brought a painful thickening in his breath, for always these
visions which Olaf could not see ended with Mary Standish as she had
faced him in his cabin, her back against the door, her lips trembling,
and her eyes softly radiant with tears in the broken pride of that last
moment of her plea for life.
He could not have told how long he slept that night. Dreams came to him
in his restless slumber, and always they awakened him, so that he was
looking at the stars again and trying not to think. In spite of the
grief in his soul they were pleasant dreams, as though some gentle
force were at work in him subconsciously to wipe away the shadows of
tragedy. Mary Standish was with him again, between the mountains at
Skagway; she was at his side in the heart of the tundras, the sun in
her shining hair and eyes, and all about them the wonder of wild roses
and purple iris and white seas of sedge-cotton and yellow-eyed daisies,
and birds singing in the gladness of summer. He heard the birds. And he
heard the girl’s voice, answering them in her happiness and turning
that happiness from the radiance of her eyes upon him. When he awoke,
it was with a little cry, as if someone had stabbed him; and Olaf was
building a fire, and dawn was breaking in rose-gleams over the
mountains.