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THE TRIUMPH OF JOHN KARS
A Story of the Yukon
by
RIDGWELL CULLUM
Author of
"The Golden Woman," "The Son of His Father," "The Way of the Strong,"
"The Men Who Wrought"
With Frontispiece in Colors
[Frontispiece: The defenders were reduced to four.]
A. L. Burt Company
Publishers -------- New York
Copyright, 1917, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
All rights reserved
Contents
I. AT FORT MOWBRAY
II. THE MISSION OF ST. AGATHA
III. THE LETTER
IV. ON BELL RIVER
V. IN THE NIGHT
VI. JOHN KARS
VII. AT SNAKE RIVER LANDING
VIII. TWO MEN OF THE NORTH
IX. MURRAY TELLS HIS STORY
X. THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
XI. THE SECRET OF THE GORGE
XII. DR. BILL DISPENSES AID AND ARGUMENT
XIII. THE FALL TRADE
XIV. ARRIVALS IN THE NIGHT
XV. FATHER JOSÉ PROBES
XVI. A MAN AND A MAID
XVII. A NIGHT IN LEAPING HORSE
XVIII. ON THE NORTHERN SEAS
XIX. AT THE GRIDIRON
XX. THE "ONLOOKERS" AGAIN
XXI. DR. BILL INVESTIGATES
XXII. IN THE SPRINGTIME
XXIII. THE DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN
XXIV. THE FIRST STREAK OF DAWN
XXV. THE OUT-WORLD
XXVI. THE DEPUTATION
XXVII. THE BATTLE OF BELL RIVER
XXVIII. THE HARVEST OF BATTLE
XXIX. THE LAP OF THE GODS
XXX. THE END OF THE TERROR
XXXI. THE CLOSE OF THE LONG TRAIL
XXXII. THE SUMMER OF LIFE
The Triumph of John Kars
CHAPTER I
AT FORT MOWBRAY
Murray McTavish was seated at a small table, green-baized, littered
with account-books and a profusion of papers. But he was not regarding
these things. Instead, his dark, intelligent eyes were raised to the
smallish, dingy window in front of him, set in its deep casing of
centuries-old logs. Nor was the warm light shining in his eyes
inspired by the sufficiently welcome sunlight beyond. His gaze was
entirely absorbed by a fur-clad figure, standing motionless in the open
jaws of the gateway of the heavily timbered stockade outside.
It was the figure of a young woman. A long coat of beaver skin, and a
cap of the same fur pressed down low over her ruddy brown hair, held
her safe from the bitter chill of the late semi-arctic fall. She, too,
was absorbed in the scene upon which she was gazing.
Her soft eyes, so gray and gentle, searched the distance. The hills,
snow-capped and serrated. The vast incline of ancient glacier, rolling
backwards and upwards in discolored waves from the precipitate opposite
bank of Snake River. The woods, so darkly overpowering as the year
progressed towards its old age. The shaking tundra, treacherous and
hideous with rank growths of the summer. The river facets of broken
crags awaiting the cloak of winter to conceal their crude nakedness.
Then the trail, so slight, so faint. The work of sleds and moccasined
feet through centuries of native traffic, with the occasional variation
of the hard shod feet of the white adventurer.
She knew it all by heart. She read it all with the eyes of one who has
known no other outlook since first she opened them upon the world.
Yes, she knew it all. But that which she did not know she was seeking
now. Beyond all things, at that moment, she desired to penetrate some
of the secrets that lay beyond her grim horizon.
Her brows were drawn in a slight frown. The questions she was asking
peeped out of the depths of her searching eyes. And they were the
questions of a troubled mind.
A step sounded behind her, but she did not turn. A moment later the
voice of Murray McTavish challenged her.
"Why?"
The brief demand was gentle enough, yet it contained a sort of playful
irony, which, at the moment, Jessie Mowbray resented. She turned.
There was impatience in the eyes which confronted him. She regarded
him steadily.
"Why? It's always _why_--with you, when feelings get the better of me.
Maybe you never feel dread, or doubt, or worry. Maybe you never feel
anything--human. Say, you're a man and strong. I'm just a woman,
and--and he's my father. He's overdue by six weeks. He's not back
yet, and we've had no word from him all summer."
Her impatience became swallowed up by her anxiety again. The appeal of
her manner, her beauty were not lost upon the man.
"So you stand around looking at the trail he needs to come over,
setting up a fever of trouble for yourself figgering on the traps and
things nature's laid out for us folk beyond those hills. Guess that's
a woman sure."
Hot, impatient words rose to the girl's lips, but she choked them back.
"I can't argue it," she cried, a little desperately. "Father should
have been back six weeks ago. You know that. He isn't back. Well?"
"Allan and I have run this old post ten years," Murray said soberly.
"In those ten years there's not been a single time that Allan's hit the
northern trail on a trade when he's got back to time by many
weeks--generally more than six. It don't seem to me I've seen his
little girl standing around same as she's doing now--ever before."
The girl drew her collar up about her neck. The gesture was a mere
desire for movement.
"I guess I've never felt as I do now," she said miserably.
"How?"
The girl's words came in a sudden passionate rush.
"Oh, it's no use!" she cried. "You wouldn't understand. You're a good
partner. You're a big man on the trail. Guess there's no bigger men
on the trail than you and father--unless it's John Kars. But you all
fight with hard muscle. You figure out the sums as you see them. You
don't act as women do when they don't know. I've got it all here," she
added, pressing her fur mitted hands over her bosom, her face flushed
and her eyes shining with emotion. "I know, I feel there's something
amiss. I've never felt this way before. Where is he? Where did he go
this time? He never tells us. You never tell us. We don't know.
Can't help be sent? Can't I go with an outfit and search for him?"
The man's smile had died out. His big eyes, strange, big dark eyes,
avoided the girl's. They turned towards the desolate, sunlit horizon.
His reply was delayed as though he were seeking what best to say.
The girl waited with what patience she could summon. She was born and
bred to the life of this fierce northern world, where women look to
their men for guidance, where they are forced to rely upon man's
strength for life itself.
She gazed upon the round profile, awaiting that final word which she
felt must be given. Murray McTavish was part of the life she lived on
the bitter heights of the Yukon territory. In her mind he was a
fixture of the fort which years since had been given her father's name.
He was a young man, a shade on the better side of thirty-five, but he
possessed none of the features associated with the men of the trail.
His roundness was remarkable, and emphasized by his limited stature.
His figure was the figure of a middle-aged merchant who has spent his
life in the armchair of a city office. His neck was short and fat.
His face was round and full. The only feature he possessed which
lifted him out of the ruck of the ordinary was his eyes. These were
unusual enough. There was their great size, and a subtle glowing fire
always to be discovered in the large dark pupils. They gave the man a
suggestion of tremendous passionate impulse. One look at them and the
insignificant, the commonplace bodily form was forgotten. An
impression of flaming energy supervened. The man's capacity for
effort, physical or mental, for emotion, remained undoubted.
But Jessie Mowbray was too accustomed to the man to dwell on these
things, to notice them. His easy, smiling, good-natured manner was the
man known to the inhabitants of Fort Mowbray, and the Mission of St.
Agatha on the Snake River.
The man's reply came at last. It came seriously, earnestly.
"I can't guess how this notion's got into you, Jessie," he said, his
eyes still dwelling on the broken horizon. "Allan's the hardest man in
the north--not even excepting John Kars, who's got you women-folk
mesmerized. Allan's been traipsing this land since two years before
you were born, and that is more than twenty years ago. There's not a
hill, or valley, or river he don't know like a school kid knows its
alphabet. Not an inch of this devil's playground for nigh a range of
three hundred miles. There isn't a trouble on the trail he's not been
up against, and beat every time. And now--why, now he's got a right
outfit with him, same as always, you're worrying. Say, there's only
one thing I can figger to beat Allan Mowbray on the trail. It would
need to be Indians, and a biggish outfit of them. Even then I'd bet my
last nickel on him." He shook his head with decision. "No, I guess
he'll be right along when his work's through."
"And his work?"
The girl's tone was one of relief. Murray's confidence was infectious
in spite of her instinctive fears.
The man shrugged his fleshy shoulders under his fur-lined pea-jacket.
"Trade, I guess. We're not here for health. Allan don't fight the
gods of the wilderness or the legion of elemental devils who run this
desert for the play of it. No, this country breeds just one race.
First and last we're wage slaves. Maybe we're more wage slaves north
of 60 degrees than any dull-witted toiler taking his wage by the hour,
and spending it at the end of each week. We're slaves of the big
money, and every man, and many of the women, who cross 60 degrees are
ready to stake their souls as well as bodies, if they haven't already
done so, for the yellow dust that's to buy the physic they'll need to
keep their bodies alive later when they've turned their backs on a
climate that was never built for white men."
Then the seriousness passed for smiling good-nature. It was the look
his round face was made for. It was the manner the girl was accustomed
to.
"Guess this country's a pretty queer book to read," he went on. "And
there aren't any pictures to it, either. Most of us living up here
have opened its covers, and some of us have read. But I guess Allan's
read deeper than any of us. I'd say he's read deeper even than John
Kars. It's for that reason I sold my interests in Seattle an' joined
him ten years ago in the enterprise he'd set up here. It's been tough,
but it's sure been worth it," he observed reflectively. "Yep. Sure it
has." He sighed in a satisfied way. Then his smile deepened, and the
light in his eyes glowed with something like enthusiasm. "Think of it.
You can trade right here just how you darn please. You can make your
own laws, and abide by 'em or break 'em just as you get the notion.
Think of it, we're five hundred miles, five hundred miles of fierce
weather, and the devil's own country, from the coast. We're three
hundred miles from the nearest law of civilization. And, as for
newspapers and the lawmakers, they're fifteen hundred miles of tempest
and every known elemental barrier away. We're kings in our own
country--if we got the nerve. And we don't need to care a whoop so the
play goes on. Can you beat it? No. And Allan knows it all--all.
He's the only man who does--for all your John Kars. I'm glad. Say,
Jessie, it's dead easy to face anything if you feel--just glad."
As he finished speaking the eyes which had held the girl were turned
towards the gray shadows eastward. He was gazing out towards that far
distant region of the Mackenzie River which flowed northwards to empty
itself into the ice-bound Arctic Ocean. But he was not thinking of the
river.
Jessie was relieved at her escape from his masterful gaze. But she was
glad of his confidence and unquestioned strength. It helped her when
she needed help, and some of her shadows had been dispelled.
"I s'pose it's as you say," she returned without enthusiasm. "If my
daddy's safe that's all I care. Mother's good. I just love her.
And--Alec, he's a good boy. I love my mother and my brother. But
neither of them could ever replace my daddy. Yes, I'll be glad for him
to get back. Oh, so glad. When--when d'you think that'll be?"
"When his work's through."
"I must be patient. Say, I wish I'd got nerve."
The man laughed pleasantly.
"Guess what a girl needs is for her men-folk to have nerve," he said.
"I don't know 'bout your brother Alec, but your father--well, he's got
it all."
The girl's eyes lit.
"Yes," she said simply. Then, with a glance westwards at the dying
daylight, she went on: "We best get down to the Mission. Supper'll be
waiting."
Murray nodded.
"Sure. We'll get right along."