It was thus, with a note of something inevitable in his voice, that
Stampede brought Alan back solidly to earth. There was a practical and
awakening inspiration in the manner of the little red-whiskered man’s
invitation.
“I’ve been a damn fool,” he confessed. “And I’m waiting.”
The word was like a key opening a door through which a flood of things
began to rush in upon Alan. There were other fools, and evidently he
had been one. His mind went back to the _Nome_. It seemed only a few
hours ago—only yesterday—that the girl had so artfully deceived them
all, and he had gone through hell because of that deception. The
trickery had been simple, and exceedingly clever because of its
simplicity; it must have taken a tremendous amount of courage, now that
he clearly understood that at no time had she wanted to die.
“I wonder,” he said, “why she did a thing like that?”
Stampede shook his head, misunderstanding what was in Alan’s mind. “I
couldn’t keep her back, not unless I tied her to a tree.” And he added,
“The little witch even threatened to shoot me!”
A flash of exultant humor filled his eyes. “Begin, Alan. I’m waiting.
Go the limit.”
“For what?”
“For letting her ride over me, of course. For bringing her up. For not
shufflin’ her in the bush. You can’t take it out of _her_ hide, can
you?”
He twisted his red whiskers, waiting for an answer. Alan was silent.
Mary Standish was leading the way up out of a dip in the tundra a
quarter of a mile away, with Nawadlook and Keok close behind her. They
trotted up a low ridge and disappeared.
“It’s none of my business,” persisted Stampede, “but you didn’t seem to
expect her—”
“You’re right,” interrupted Alan, turning toward his pack. “I didn’t
expect her. I thought she was dead.”
A low whistle escaped Stampede’s lips. He opened his mouth to speak and
closed it again. Alan observed him as he slipped the pack over his
shoulders. Evidently his companion did not know Mary Standish was the
girl who had jumped overboard from the _Nome_, and if she had kept her
secret, it was not his business just now to explain, even though he
guessed that Stampede’s quick wits would readily jump at the truth. A
light was beginning to dispel the little man’s bewilderment as they
started toward the Range. He had seen Mary Standish frequently aboard
the _Nome_; a number of times he had observed her in Alan’s company,
and he knew of the hours they had spent together in Skagway. Therefore,
if Alan had believed her dead when they went ashore at Cordova, a few
hours after the supposed tragedy, it must have been she who jumped into
the sea. He shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of his failure to
discover this amazing fact in his association with Mary Standish.
“It beats the devil!” he exclaimed suddenly.
“It does,” agreed Alan.
Cold, hard reason began to shoulder itself inevitably against the
happiness that possessed him, and questions which he had found no
interest in asking when aboard ship leaped upon him with compelling
force. Why was it so tragically important to Mary Standish that the
world should believe her dead? What was it that had driven her to
appeal to him and afterward to jump into the sea? What was her
mysterious association with Rossland, an agent of Alaska’s deadliest
enemy, John Graham—the one man upon whom he had sworn vengeance if
opportunity ever came his way? Over him, clubbing other emotions with
its insistence, rode a demand for explanations which it was impossible
for him to make. Stampede saw the tense lines in his face and remained
silent in the lengthening twilight, while Alan’s mind struggled to
bring coherence and reason out of a tidal wave of mystery and doubt.
Why had she come to _his_ cabin aboard the _Nome_? Why had she played
him with such conspicuous intent against Rossland, and why—in the
end—had she preceded him to his home in the tundras? It was this
question which persisted, never for an instant swept aside by the
others. She had not come because of love for him. In a brutal sort of
way he had proved that, for when he had taken her in his arms, he had
seen distress and fear and a flash of horror in her face. Another and
more mysterious force had driven her.
The joy in him was a living flame even as this realization pressed upon
him. He was like a man who had found life after a period of something
that was worse than death, and with his happiness he felt himself
twisted upon an upheaval of conflicting sensations and half convictions
out of which, in spite of his effort to hold it back, suspicion began
to creep like a shadow. But it was not the sort of suspicion to cool
the thrill in his blood or frighten him, for he was quite ready to
concede that Mary Standish was a fugitive, and that her flight from
Seattle had been in the face of a desperate necessity. What had
happened aboard ship was further proof, and her presence at his range a
final one. Forces had driven her which it had been impossible for her
to combat, and in desperation she had come to him for refuge. She had
chosen him out of all the world to help her; she believed in him; she
had faith that with him no harm could come, and his muscles tightened
with sudden desire to fight for her.
In these moments he became conscious of the evening song of the tundras
and the soft splendor of the miles reaching out ahead of them. He
strained his eyes to catch another glimpse of the mounted figures when
they came up out of hollows to the clough-tops, but the lacy veils of
evening were drawing closer, and he looked in vain. Bird-song grew
softer; sleepy cries rose from the grasses and pools; the fire of the
sun itself died out, leaving its radiance in a mingling of vivid rose
and mellow gold over the edge of the world. It was night and yet day,
and Alan wondered what thoughts were in the heart of Mary Standish.
What had driven her to the Range was of small importance compared with
the thrilling fact that she was just ahead of him. The mystery of her
would be explained tomorrow. He was sure of that. She would confide in
him. Now that she had so utterly placed herself under his protection,
she would tell him what she had not dared to disclose aboard the
_Nome_. So he thought only of the silvery distance of twilight that
separated them, and spoke at last to Stampede.
“I’m rather glad you brought her,” he said.
“I didn’t bring her,” protested Stampede. “She _came_.” He shrugged his
shoulders with a grunt. “And furthermore I didn’t manage it. She did
that herself. She didn’t come with me. I came with _her_.”
He stopped and struck a match to light his pipe. Over the tiny flame he
glared fiercely at Alan, but in his eyes was something that betrayed
him. Alan saw it and felt a desire to laugh out of sheer happiness. His
keen vision and sense of humor were returning.
“How did it happen?”
Stampede puffed loudly at his pipe, then took it from his mouth and
drew in a deep breath.
“First I remember was the fourth night after we landed at Cordova.
Couldn’t get a train on the new line until then. Somewhere up near
Chitina we came to a washout. It didn’t rain. You couldn’t call it
that, Alan. It was the Pacific Ocean falling on us, with two or three
other oceans backing it up. The stage came along, horses swimming,
coach floating, driver half drowned in his seat. I was that hungry I
got in for Chitina. There was one other climbed in after me, and I
wondered what sort of fool he was. I said something about being starved
or I’d have hung to the train. The other didn’t answer. Then I began to
swear. I did, Alan. I cursed terrible. Swore at the Government for
building such a road, swore at the rain, an’ I swore at myself for not
bringin’ along grub. I said my belly was as empty as a shot-off
cartridge, and I said it good an’ loud. I was mad. Then a big flash of
lightning lit up the coach. Alan, it was _her_ sittin’ there with a box
in her lap, facing me, drippin’ wet, her eyes shining—and she was
smiling at me! Yessir, _smiling_.”
Stampede paused to let the shock sink in. He was not disappointed.
Alan stared at him in amazement. “The fourth night—after—” He caught
himself. “Go on, Stampede!”
“I began hunting for the latch on the door, Alan. I was goin’ to sneak
out, drop in the mud, disappear before the lightnin’ come again. But it
caught me. An’ there she was, undoing the box, and I heard her saying
she had plenty of good stuff to eat. An’ she called me Stampede, like
she’d known me all her life, and with that coach rolling an’ rocking
and the thunder an’ lightning an’ rain piling up against each other
like sin, she came over and sat down beside me and began to feed me.
She did that, Alan—_fed_ me. When the lightning fired up, I could see
her eyes shining and her lips smilin’ as if all that hell about us made
her happy, and I thought she was plumb crazy. Before I knew it she was
telling me how you pointed me out to her in the smoking-room, and how
happy she was that I was goin’ her way. _Her_ way, mind you, Alan, not
_mine._ And that’s just the way she’s kept me goin’ up to the minute
you hove in sight back there in the cottonwoods!”
He lighted his pipe again. “Alan, how the devil did she know I was
hitting the trail for your place?”
“She didn’t,” replied Alan.
“But she did. She said that meeting with me in the coach was the
happiest moment of her life, because _she_ was on her way up to your
range, and I’d be such jolly good company for her. ‘Jolly good’—them
were the words she used! When I asked her if you knew she was coming
up, she said no, of course not, and that it was going to be a grand
surprise. Said it was possible she’d buy your range, and she wanted to
look it over before you arrived. An’ it seems queer I can’t remember
anything more about the thunder and lightning between there and
Chitina. When we took the train again, she began askin’ a million
questions about you and the Range and Alaska. Soak me if you want to,
Alan—but everything I knew she got out of me between Chitina and
Fairbanks, and she got it in such a sure-fire nice way that I’d have
eat soap out of her hand if she’d offered it to me. Then, sort of sly
and soft-like, she began asking questions about John Graham—and I woke
up.”
“John Graham!” Alan repeated the name.
“Yes, John Graham. And I had a lot to tell. After that I tried to get
away from her. But she caught me just as I was sneakin’ aboard a
down-river boat, and cool as you please—with her hand on my arm—she
said she wasn’t quite ready to go yet, and would I please come and help
her carry some stuff she was going to buy. Alan, it ain’t a lie what
I’m going to tell you! She led me up the street, telling me what a
wonderful idea she had for surprisin’ _you_. Said she knew you would
return to the Range by the Fourth of July and we sure must have some
fireworks. Said you was such a good American you’d be disappointed if
you didn’t have ’em. So she took me in a store an’ bought it out. Asked
the man what he’d take for everything in his joint that had powder in
it. Five hundred dollars, that was what she paid. She pulled a silk
something out of the front of her dress with a pad of hundred-dollar
bills in it an inch think. Then she asked _me_ to get them firecrackers
’n’ wheels ’n’ skyrockets ’n’ balloons ’n’ other stuff down to the
boat, and she asked me just as if I was a sweet little boy who’d be
tickled to death to do it!”
In the excitement of unburdening himself of a matter which he had borne
in secret for many days, Stampede did not observe the effect of his
words upon his companion. Incredulity shot into Alan’s eyes, and the
humorous lines about his mouth vanished when he saw clearly that
Stampede was not drawing upon his imagination. Yet what he had told him
seemed impossible. Mary Standish had come aboard the _Nome_ a fugitive.
All her possessions she had brought with her in a small hand-bag, and
these things she had left in her cabin when she leaped into the sea.
How, then, could she logically have had such a sum of money at
Fairbanks as Stampede described? Was it possible the Thlinkit Indian
had also become her agent in transporting the money ashore on the night
she played her desperate game by making the world believe she had died?
And was this money—possibly the manner in which she had secured it in
Seattle—the cause of her flight and the clever scheme she had put into
execution a little later?
He had been thinking crime, and his face grew hot at the sin of it. It
was like thinking it of another woman, who was dead, and whose name was
cut under his father’s in the old cottonwood tree.
Stampede, having gained his wind, was saying: “You don’t seem
interested, Alan. But I’m going on, or I’ll bust. I’ve got to tell you
what happened, and then if you want to lead me out and shoot me, I
won’t say a word. I say, curse a firecracker anyway!”
“Go on,” urged Alan. “I’m interested.”
“I got ’em on the boat,” continued Stampede viciously. “And she with me
every minute, smiling in that angel way of hers, and not letting me out
of her sight a flick of her eyelash, unless there was only one hole to
go in an’ come out at. And then she said she wanted to do a little
shopping, which meant going into every shack in town and buyin’
something, an’ I did the lugging. At last she bought a gun, and when I
asked her what she was goin’ to do with it, she said, ‘Stampede, that’s
for you,’ an’ when I went to thank her, she said: ‘No, I don’t mean it
that way. I mean that if you try to run away from me again I’m going to
fill you full of holes.’ She said that! Threatened me. Then she bought
me a new outfit from toe to summit—boots, pants, shirt, hat _and_ a
necktie! And I didn’t say a word, not a word. She just led me in an’
bought what she wanted and made me put ’em on.”
Stampede drew in a mighty breath, and a fourth time wasted a match on
his pipe. “I was getting used to it by the time we reached Tanana,” he
half groaned. “Then the hell of it begun. She hired six Indians to tote
the luggage, and we set out over the trail for your place. ‘You’re
goin’ to have a rest, Stampede,’ she says to me, smiling so cool and
sweet like you wanted to eat her alive. ‘All you’ve got to do is show
us the way and carry the bums.’ ‘Carry the what?’ I asks. ‘The bums,’
she says, an’ then she explains that a bum is a thing filled with
powder which makes a terrible racket when it goes off. So I took the
bums, and the next day one of the Indians sprained a leg, and dropped
out. He had the firecrackers, pretty near a hundred pounds, and we
whacked up his load among us. I couldn’t stand up straight when we
camped. We had crooks in our backs every inch of the way to the Range.
And _would_ she let us cache some of that junk? Not on your life she
wouldn’t! And all the time while they was puffing an’ panting them
Indians was worshipin’ her with their eyes. The last day, when we
camped with the Range almost in sight, she drew ’em all up in a circle
about her and gave ’em each a handful of money above their pay. ‘That’s
because I love you,’ she says, and then she begins asking them funny
questions. Did they have wives and children? Were they ever hungry? Did
they ever know about any of their people starving to death? And just
_why_ did they starve? And, Alan, so help me thunder if them Indians
didn’t talk! Never heard Indians tell so much. And in the end she asked
them the funniest question of all, asked them if they’d heard of a man
named John Graham. One of them had, and afterward I saw her talking a
long time with him alone, and when she come back to me, her eyes were
sort of burning up, and she didn’t say good night when she went into
her tent. That’s all, Alan, except—”
“Except what, Stampede?” said Alan, his heart throbbing like a drum
inside him.
Stampede took his time to answer, and Alan heard him chuckling and saw
a flash of humor in the little man’s eyes.
“Except that she’s done with everyone on the Range just what she did
with me between Chitina and here,” he said. “Alan, if she wants to say
the word, why, _you_ ain’t boss any more, that’s all. She’s been there
ten days, and you won’t know the place. It’s all done up in flags,
waiting for you. She an’ Nawadlook and Keok are running everything but
the deer. The kids would leave their mothers for her, and the men—” He
chuckled again. “Why, the men even go to the Sunday school she’s
started! I went. Nawadlook sings.”
For a moment he was silent. Then he said in a subdued voice, “Alan,
you’ve been a big fool.”
“I know it, Stampede.”
“She’s a—a flower, Alan. She’s worth more than all the gold in the
world. And you could have married her. I know it. But it’s too late
now. I’m warnin’ you.”
“I don’t quite understand, Stampede. Why is it too late?”
“Because she likes me,” declared Stampede a bit fiercely. “I’m after
her myself, Alan. You can’t butt in now.”
“Great Scott!” gasped Alan. “You mean that Mary Standish—”
“I’m not talking about Mary Standish,” said Stampede. “It’s Nawadlook.
If it wasn’t for my whiskers—”
His words were broken by a sudden detonation which came out of the pale
gloom ahead of them. It was like the explosion of a cannon a long
distance away.
“One of them cussed bums,” he explained. “That’s why they hurried on
ahead of us, Alan. _She_ says this Fourth of July celebration is going
to mean a lot for Alaska. Wonder what she means?”
“I wonder,” said Alan.