A MIDNIGHT MESSENGER
“My dear Helen, don’t you realize that my official position carries with
it a certain social obligation which it is our duty to discharge?”
“I suppose so, Uncle Arthur; but I would much rather stay at home.”
“Tut, tut! Go and have a good time.”
“Dancing doesn’t appeal to me any more. I left that sort of thing back
home. Now, if you would only come along--”
“No--I’m too busy. I must work to-night, and I’m not in a mood for such
things, anyhow.”
“You’re not well,” his niece said. “I have noticed it for weeks. Is it
hard work or are you truly ill? You’re nervous; you don’t eat; you’re
growing positively gaunt. Why--you’re getting wrinkles like an old man.”
She rose from her seat at the breakfast-table and went to him, smoothing
his silvered head with affection.
He took her cool hand and pressed it to his cheek, while the worry that
haunted him habitually of late gave way to a smile.
“It’s work, little girl--hard and thankless work, that’s all. This
country is intended for young men, and I’m too far along.” His eyes grew
grave again, and he squeezed her fingers nervously as though at the
thought. “It’s a terrible country--this---- I--I--wish we had never seen
it.”
“Don’t say that,” Helen cried, spiritedly. “Why, it’s glorious. Think of
the honor. You’re a United States judge and the first one to come here.
You’re making history--you’re building a State--people will read about
you.” She stooped and kissed him; but he seemed to flinch beneath her
caress.
“Of course I’ll go if you think I’d better,” she said, “though I’m not
fond of Alaskan society. Some of the women are nice, but the others--”
She shrugged her dainty shoulders. “They talk scandal all the time. One
would think that a great, clean, fresh, vigorous country like this would
broaden the women as it broadens the men--but it doesn’t.”
“I’ll tell McNamara to call for you at nine o’clock,” said the Judge as
he arose. So, later in the day she prepared her long unused finery to
such good purpose that when her escort called for her that evening he
believed her the loveliest of women.
Upon their arrival at the hotel he regarded her with a fresh access of
pride, for the function proved to bear little resemblance to a
mining-camp party. The women wore handsome gowns, and every man was in
evening dress. The wide hall ran the length of the hotel and was flanked
with boxes, while its floor was like polished glass and its walls
effectively decorated.
“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Helen as she first caught sight of it. “It’s
just like home.”
“I’ve seen quick-rising cities before,” he said, “but nothing like this.
Still, if these Northerners can build a railroad in a month and a city
in a summer, why shouldn’t they have symphony orchestras and Louis
Quinze ballrooms?”
“I know you’re a splendid dancer,” she said.
“You shall be my judge and jury. I’ll sign this card as often as I dare
without the certainty of violence at the hands of these young men, and
the rest of the time I’ll smoke in the lobby. I don’t care to dance with
any one but you.”
After the first waltz he left her surrounded by partners and made his
way out of the ballroom. This was his first relaxation since landing in
the North. It was well not to become a dull boy, he mused, and as he
chewed his cigar he pictured with an odd thrill, quite unusual with him,
that slender, gray-eyed girl, with her coiled mass of hair, her ivory
shoulders, and merry smile. He saw her float past to the measure of a
two-step, and caught himself resenting the thought of another man’s
enjoyment of the girl’s charms even for an instant.
“Hold on, Alec,” he muttered. “You’re too old a bird to lose your head.”
However, he was waiting for her before the time for their next dance.
She seemed to have lost a part of her gayety.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“Oh, yes!” she returned, brightly. “I’m having a delightful time.”
When he came for his third dance, she was more _distraite_ than ever. As
he led her to a seat they passed a group of women, among whom were Mrs.
Champian and others whom he knew to be wives of men prominent in the
town. He had seen some of them at tea in Judge Stillman’s house, and
therefore was astonished when they returned his greeting but ignored
Helen. She shrank slightly, and he realized that there was something
wrong; he could not guess what. Affairs of men he could cope with, but
the subtleties of women were out of his realm.
“What ails those people? Have they offended you?”
“I don’t know what it is. I have spoken to them, but they cut me.”
“Cut _you?_” he exclaimed.
“Yes.” Her voice trembled, but she held her head high. “It seems as
though all the women in Nome were here and in league to ignore me. It
dazes me--I do not understand.”
“Has anybody said anything to you?” he inquired, fiercely. “Any man, I
mean?”
“No, no! The men are kind. It’s the women.”
“Come--we’ll go home.”
“Indeed, we will not,” she said, proudly. “I shall stay and face it out.
I have done nothing to run away from, and I intend to find out what is
the matter.”
When he had surrendered her, at the beginning of the next dance,
McNamara sought for some acquaintance whom he might question. Most of
the men in Nome either hated or feared him, but he espied one that he
thought suited his purpose, and led him into a corner.
“I want you to answer a question. No beating about the bush. Understand?
I’m blunt, and I want you to be.”
“All right.”
“Your wife has been entertained at Miss Chester’s house. I’ve seen her
there. To-night she refuses to speak to the girl. She cut her dead, and
I want to know what it’s about.”
“How should I know?”
“If you don’t know, I’ll ask you to find out.”
The other shook his head amusedly, at which McNamara flared up.
“I say you will, and you’ll make your wife apologize before she leaves
this hall, too, or you’ll answer to me, man to man. I won’t stand to
have a girl like Miss Chester cold-decked by a bunch of mining-camp
swells, and that goes as it lies.” In his excitement, McNamara reverted
to his Western idiom.
The other did not reply at once, for it is embarrassing to deal with a
person who disregards the conventions utterly, and at the same time has
the inclination and force to compel obedience. The boss’s reputation had
gone abroad.
“Well--er--I know about it in a general way, but of course I don’t go
much on such things. You’d better let it drop.”
“Go on.”
“There has been a lot of talk among the ladies about--well, er--the fact
is, it’s that young Glenister. Mrs. Champian had the next state-room to
them--er--him--I should say--on the way up from the States, and she saw
things. Now, as far as I’m concerned, a girl can do what she pleases,
but Mrs. Champian has her own ideas of propriety. From what my wife
could learn, there’s some truth in the story, too, so you can’t blame
her.”
With a word McNamara could have explained the gossip and made this man
put his wife right, forcing through her an elucidation of the silly
affair in such a way as to spare Helen’s feelings and cover the
busy-tongued magpies with confusion. Yet he hesitated. It is a wise
skipper who trims his sails to every breeze. He thanked his informant
and left him. Entering the lobby, he saw the girl hurrying towards him.
“Take me away, quick! I want to go home.”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
“Yes, let us go,” she panted, and when they were outside she walked so
rapidly that he had difficulty in keeping pace with her. She was silent,
and he knew better than to question, but when they arrived at her house
he entered, took off his overcoat, and turned up the light in the tiny
parlor. She flung her wraps over a chair, storming back and forth like a
little fury. Her eyes were starry with tears of anger, her face was
flushed, her hands worked nervously. He leaned against the mantel,
watching her through his cigar smoke.
“You needn’t tell me,” he said, at length. “I know all about it.”
“I am glad you do. I never could repeat what they said. Oh, it was
brutal!” Her voice caught and she bit her lip. “What made me ask them?
Why didn’t I keep still? After you left, I went to those women and faced
them. Oh, but they were brutal! Yet, why should I care?” She stamped her
slippered foot.
“I shall have to kill that man some day,” he said, flecking his cigar
ashes into the grate.
“What man?” She stood still and looked at him.
“Glenister, of course. If I had thought the story would ever reach you,
I’d have shut him up long ago.”
“It didn’t come from him,” she cried, hot with indignation. “He’s a
gentleman. It’s that cat, Mrs. Champian.”
He shrugged his shoulders the slightest bit, but it was eloquent, and
she noted it. “Oh, I don’t mean that he did it intentionally--he’s too
decent a chap for that--but anybody’s tongue will wag to a beautiful
girl! My lady Malotte is a jealous trick.”
“Malotte! Who is she?” Helen questioned, curiously.
He seemed surprised. “I thought every one knew who she is. It’s just as
well that you don’t.”
“I am sure Mr. Glenister would not talk of me.” There was a pause. “Who
is Miss Malotte?”
He studied for a moment, while she watched him. What a splendid figure
he made in his evening clothes! The cosey room with its shaded lights
enhanced his size and strength and rugged outlines. In his eyes was that
admiration which women live for. He lifted his bold, handsome face and
met her gaze.
“I had rather leave that for you to find out, for I’m not much at
scandal. I have something more important to tell you. It’s the most
important thing I have ever said to you, Helen.” It was the first time
he had used that name, and she began to tremble, while her eyes sought
the door in a panic. She had expected this moment, and yet was not
ready.
“Not to-night--don’t say it now,” she managed to articulate.
“Yes, this is a good time. If you can’t answer, I’ll come back
to-morrow. I want you to be my wife. I want to give you everything the
world offers, and I want to make you happy, girl. There’ll be no gossip
hereafter--I’ll shield you from everything unpleasant, and if there is
anything you want in life, I’ll lay it at your feet. I can do it.” He
lifted his massive arms, and in the set of his strong, square face was
the promise that she should have whatever she craved if mortal man could
give it to her--love, protection, position, adoration.
She stammered uncertainly till the humiliation and chagrin she had
suffered this night swept over her again. This town--this crude,
half-born mining-camp--had turned against her, misjudged her cruelly.
The women were envious, clacking scandal-mongers, all of them, who would
ostracize her and make her life in the Northland a misery, make her an
outcast with nothing to sustain her but her own solitary pride. She
could picture her future clearly, pitilessly, and see herself standing
alone, vilified, harassed in a thousand cutting ways, yet unable to run
away, or to explain. She would have to stay and face it, for her life
was bound up here during the next few years or so, or as long as her
uncle remained a judge. This man would free her. He loved her; he
offered her everything. He was bigger than all the rest combined. They
were his playthings, and they knew it. She was not sure that she loved
him, but his magnetism was overpowering, and her admiration intense. No
other man she had ever known compared with him, except Glenister--Bah!
The beast! He had insulted her at first; he wronged her now.
“Will you be my wife, Helen?” the man repeated, softly.
She dropped her head, and he strode forward to take her in his arms,
then stopped, listening. Some one ran up on the porch and hammered
loudly at the door. McNamara scowled, walked into the hall, and flung
the portal open, disclosing Struve.
“Hello, McNamara! Been looking all over for you. There’s the deuce to
pay!” Helen sighed with relief and gathered up her cloak, while the hum
of their voices reached her indistinctly. She was given plenty of time
to regain her composure before they appeared. When they did, the
politician spoke, sourly:
“I’ve been called to the mines, and I must go at once.”
“You bet! It may be too late now. The news came an hour ago, but I
couldn’t find you,” said Struve. “Your horse is saddled at the office.
Better not wait to change your clothes.”
“You say Voorhees has gone with twenty deputies, eh? That’s good. You
stay here and find out all you can.”
“I telephoned out to the Creek for the boys to arm themselves and throw
out pickets. If you hurry you can get there in time. It’s only midnight
now.”
“What is the trouble?” Miss Chester inquired, anxiously.
“There’s a plot on to attack the mines to-night,” answered the lawyer.
“The other side are trying to seize them, and there’s apt to be a
fight.”
“You mustn’t go out there,” she cried, aghast. “There will be
bloodshed.”
“That’s just why I _must_ go,” said McNamara. “I’ll come back in the
morning, though, and I’d like to see you alone. Good-night!” There was a
strange, new light in his eyes as he left her. For one unversed in
woman’s ways he played the game surprisingly well, and as he hurried
towards his office he smiled grimly into the darkness.
“She’ll answer me to-morrow. Thank you, Mr. Glenister,” he said to
himself.
Helen questioned Struve at length, but gained nothing more than that
secret-service men had been at work for weeks and had to-day unearthed
the fact that Vigilantes had been formed. They had heard enough to make
them think the mines would be jumped again to-night, and so had given
the alarm.
“Have you hired spies?” she asked, incredulously.
“Sure. We had to. The other people shadowed us, and it’s come to a point
where it’s life or death to one side or the other. I told McNamara we’d
have bloodshed before we were through, when he first outlined the
scheme--I mean when the trouble began.”
She wrung her hands. “That’s what uncle feared before we left Seattle.
That’s why I took the risks I did in bringing you those papers. I
thought you got them in time to avoid all this.”
Struve laughed a bit, eying her curiously.
“Does Uncle Arthur know about this?” she continued.
“No, we don’t let him know anything more than necessary; he’s not a
strong man.”
“Yes, yes. He’s not well.” Again the lawyer smiled. “Who is behind this
Vigilante movement?”
“We think it is Glenister and his New Mexican bandit partner. At least
they got the crowd together.” She was silent for a time.
“I suppose they really think they own those mines.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But they don’t, do they?” Somehow this question had recurred to her
insistently of late, for things were constantly happening which showed
there was more back of this great, fierce struggle than she knew. It
was impossible that injustice had been done the mine-owners, and yet
scattered talk reached her which was puzzling. When she strove to follow
it up, her acquaintances adroitly changed the subject. She was baffled
on every side. The three local newspapers upheld the court. She read
them carefully, and was more at sea than ever. There was a disturbing
undercurrent of alarm and unrest that caused her to feel insecure, as
though standing on hollow ground.
“Yes, this whole disturbance is caused by those two. Only for them we’d
be all right.”
“Who is Miss Malotte?”
He answered, promptly: “The handsomest woman in the North, and the most
dangerous.”
“In what way? Who is she?”
“It’s hard to say who or what she is--she’s different from other women.
She came to Dawson in the early days--just came--we didn’t know how,
whence, or why, and we never found out. We woke up one morning and there
she was. By night we were all jealous, and in a week we were most of us
drivelling idiots. It might have been the mystery or, perhaps, the
competition. That was the day when a dance-hall girl could make a
homestake in a winter or marry a millionaire in a month, but she never
bothered. She toiled not, neither did she spin on the waxed floors, yet
Solomon in all his glory would have looked like a tramp beside her.”
“You say she is dangerous?”
“Well, there was the young nobleman, in the winter of ’98, Dane, I
think--fine family and all that--big, yellow-haired boy. He wanted to
marry her, but a faro-dealer shot him. Then there was Rock, of the
mounted police, the finest officer in the service. He was cashiered. She
knew he was going to pot for her, but she didn’t seem to care--and there
were others. Yet, with it all, she is the most generous person and the
most tender-hearted. Why, she has fed every ‘stew bum’ on the Yukon, and
there isn’t a busted prospector in the country who wouldn’t swear by
her, for she has grubstaked dozens of them. I was horribly in love with
her myself. Yes, she’s dangerous, all right--to everybody but
Glenister.”
“What do you mean?”
“She had been across the Yukon to nurse a man with scurvy, and coming
back she was caught in the spring break-up. I wasn’t there, but it seems
this Glenister got her ashore somehow when nobody else would tackle the
job. They were carried five miles down-stream in the ice-pack before he
succeeded.”
“What happened then?”
“She fell in love with him, of course.”
“And he worshipped her as madly as all the rest of you, I suppose,” she
said, scornfully.
“That’s the peculiar part. She hypnotized him at first, but he ran away,
and I didn’t hear of him again till I came to Nome. She followed him,
finally, and last week evened up her score. She paid him back for saving
her.”
“I haven’t heard about it.”
He detailed the story of the gambling episode at the Northern saloon,
and concluded: “I’d like to have seen that ‘turn,’ for they say the
excitement was terrific. She was keeping cases, and at the finish
slammed her case-keeper shut and declared the bet off because she had
made a mistake. Of course they couldn’t dispute her, and she stuck to
it. One of the by-standers told me she lied, though.”
“So, in addition to his other vices, Mr. Glenister is a reckless
gambler, is he?” said Helen, with heat. “I am proud to be indebted to
such a character. Truly this country breeds wonderful species.”
“There’s where you’re wrong,” Struve chuckled. “He’s never been known to
bet before.”
“Oh, I’m tired of these contradictions!” she cried, angrily. “Saloons,
gambling-halls, scandals, adventuresses! Ugh! I hate it! I _hate_ it!
Why did I ever come here?”
“Those things are a part of every new country. They were about all we
had till this year. But it is women like you that we fellows need, Miss
Helen. You can help us a lot.” She did not like the way he was looking
at her, and remembered that her uncle was up-stairs and asleep.
“I must ask you to excuse me now, for it’s late and I am very tired.”
The clock showed half-past twelve, so, after letting him out, she
extinguished the light and dragged herself wearily up to her room. She
removed her outer garments and threw over her bare shoulders a negligée
of many flounces and bewildering, clinging looseness. As she took down
her heavy braids, the story of Cherry Malotte returned to her
tormentingly. So Glenister had saved _her_ life also at risk of his own.
What a very gallant cavalier he was, to be sure! He should bear a coat
of arms--a dragon, an armed knight, and a fainting maiden. “I succor
ladies in distress--handsome ones,” should be the motto on his shield.
“The handsomest woman in the North,” Struve had said. She raised her
eyes to the glass and made a mouth at the petulant, tired reflection
there. She pictured Glenister leaping from floe to floe with the hungry
river surging and snapping at his feet, while the cheers of the crowd on
shore gave heart to the girl crouching out there. She could see him
snatch her up and fight his way back to safety over the plunging
ice-cakes with death dragging at his heels. What a strong embrace he
had! At this she blushed and realized with a shock that while she was
mooning that very man might be fighting hand to hand in the darkness of
a mountain-gorge with the man she was going to marry.
A moment later some one mounted the front steps below and knocked
sharply. Truly this was a night of alarms. Would people never cease
coming? She was worn out, but at the thought of the tragedy abroad and
the sick old man sleeping near by, she lit a candle and slipped
down-stairs to avoid disturbing him. Doubtless it was some message from
McNamara, she thought, as she unchained the door.
As she opened it, she fell back amazed while it swung wide and the
candle flame flickered and sputtered in the night air. Roy Glenister
stood there, grim and determined, his soft, white Stetson pulled low,
his trousers tucked into tan half-boots, in his hand a Winchester rifle.
Beneath his corduroy coat she saw a loose cartridge-belt, yellow with
shells, and the nickelled flash of a revolver. Without invitation he
strode across the threshold, closing the door behind him.
“Miss Chester, you and the Judge must dress quickly and come with me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Vigilantes are on their way here to hang him. Come with me to my
house where I can protect you.”
She laid a trembling hand on her bosom and the color died out of her
face, then at a slight noise above they both looked up to see Judge
Stillman leaning far over the banister. He had wrapped himself in a
dressing-gown and now gripped the rail convulsively, while his features
were blanched to the color of putty and his eyes were wide with terror,
though puffed and swollen from sleep. His lips moved in a vain endeavor
to speak.