THE PROMISE OF DREAMS
Soldiers seized the young man, who made no offer at resistance, and the
room became a noisy riot. Crowds surged up from below, clamoring,
questioning, till some one at the head of the stairs shouted down:
“They’ve got Roy Glenister. He’s killed McNamara,” at which a murmur
arose that threatened to become a cheer.
Then one of the receiver’s faction called: “Let’s hang him. He killed
ten of our men last night.” Helen winced, but Stillman, roused to a sort
of malevolent courage, quieted the angry voices.
“Officer, hold these people back. I’ll attend to this man. The law’s in
my hands and I’ll make him answer.”
McNamara reared himself groaning from the floor, his right arm swinging
from the shoulder strangely loose and distorted, with palm twisted
outward, while his battered face was hideous with pain and defeat. He
growled broken maledictions at his enemy.
Roy, meanwhile, said nothing, for as the savage lust died in him he
realized that the whirling faces before him were the faces of his
enemies, that the Bronco Kid was still at large, and that his vengeance
was but half completed. His knees were bending, his limbs were like
leaden bars, his chest a furnace of coals. As he reeled down the lane of
human forms, supported by his guards, he came abreast of the girl and
her companion and paused, clearing his vision slowly.
“Ah, there you are!” he said, thickly, to the gambler, and began to
wrestle with his captors, baring his teeth in a grimace of painful
effort; but they held him as easily as though he were a child and drew
him forward, his body sagging limply, his face turned back over his
shoulder.
They had him near the door when Wheaton barred their way, crying: “Hold
up a minute--it’s all right, Roy--”
“Ay, Bill--it’s all right. We did our--best, but we were done by a
damned blackguard. Now he’ll send me up--but I don’t care. I broke
him--with my naked hands. Didn’t I, McNamara?” He mocked unsteadily at
the boss, who cursed aloud in return, glowering like an evil mask, while
Stillman ran up dishevelled and shrilly irascible.
“Take him away, I tell you! Take him to jail.”
But Wheaton held his place while the room centred its eyes upon him,
scenting some unexpected dénouement. He saw it, and in concession to a
natural vanity and dramatic instinct, he threw back his head and stuffed
his hands into his coat-pockets while the crowd waited. He grinned
insolently at the Judge and the receiver.
“This will be a day of defeats and disappointments to you, my friends.
That boy won’t go to jail because you will wear the shackles yourselves.
Oh, you played a shrewd game, you two, with your senators, your
politics, and your pulls; but it’s our turn now, and we’ll make you
dance for the mines you gutted and the robberies you’ve done and the men
you’ve ruined. Thank Heaven there’s _one_ honest court and I happened to
find it.” He turned to the strangers who had accompanied him from the
ship, crying, “Serve those warrants,” and they stepped forward.
The uproar of the past few minutes had brought men running from every
direction till, finding no room on the stairs, they had massed in the
street below while the word flew from lip to lip concerning this closing
scene of their drama, the battle at the Midas, the great fight
up-stairs, and the arrest by the ’Frisco deputies. Like Sindbad’s genie,
a wondrous tale took shape from the rumors. Men shouldered one another
eagerly for a glimpse of the actors, and when the press streamed out,
greeted it with volleys of questions. They saw the unconscious marshal
borne forth, followed by the old Judge, now a palsied wretch, slinking
beside his captor, a very shell of a man at whom they jeered. When
McNamara lurched into view, an image of defeat and chagrin, their voices
rose menacingly. The pack was turning and he knew it, but, though racked
and crippled, he bent upon them a visage so full of defiance and
contemptuous malignity that they hushed themselves, and their final
picture of him was that of a big man downed, but unbeaten to the last.
They began to cry for Glenister, so that when he loomed in the doorway,
a ragged, heroic figure, his heavy shock low over his eyes, his unshaven
face aggressive even in its weariness, his corded arms and chest bare
beneath the fluttering streamers, the street broke into wild cheering.
Here was a man of their own, a son of the Northland who labored and
loved and fought in a way they understood, and he had come into his due.
But Roy, dumb and listless, staggered up the street, refusing the help
of every man except Wheaton. He heard his companion talking, but grasped
only that the attorney gloated and gloried.
“We have whipped them, boy. We have whipped them at their own game.
Arrested in their very door-yards--cited for contempt of court--that’s
what they are. They disobeyed those other writs, and so I got them.”
“I broke his arm,” muttered the miner.
“Yes, I saw you do it! Ugh! it was an awful thing. I couldn’t prove
conspiracy, but they’ll go to jail for a little while just the same, and
we have broken the ring.”
“It snapped at the shoulder,” the other continued, dully, “just like a
shovel handle. I felt it--but he tried to kill me and I had to do it.”
The attorney took Roy to his cabin and dressed his wounds, talking
incessantly the while, but the boy was like a sleep-walker, displaying
no elation, no excitement, no joy of victory. At last Wheaton broke out:
“Cheer up! Why, man, you act like a loser. Don’t you realize that we’ve
won? Don’t you understand that the Midas is yours? And the whole world
with it?”
“Won?” echoed the miner. “What do you know about it, Bill? The
Midas--the world--what good are they? You’re wrong. I’ve lost--yes--I’ve
lost everything she taught me, and by some damned trick of Fate she was
there to see me do it. Now, go away; I want to sleep.”
He sank upon the bed with its tangle of blankets and was unconscious
before the lawyer had covered him over.
There he lay like a dead man till late in the afternoon, when Dextry and
Slapjack came in from the hills, answering Wheaton’s call, and fell upon
him hungrily. They shook Roy into consciousness with joyous riot,
pommelling him with affectionate roughness till he rose and joined with
them stiffly. He bathed and rubbed the soreness from his muscles,
emerging physically fit. They made him recount his adventures to the
tiniest detail, following his description of the fight with absorbed
interest till Dextry broke into mournful complaint:
“I’d have give my half of the Midas to see you bust him. Lord, I’d have
screeched with soopreme delight at that.”
“Why didn’t you gouge his eyes out when you had him crippled?”
questioned Slapjack, vindictively. “I’d ’a’ done it.”
Dextry continued: “They tell me that when he was arrested he swore in
eighteen different languages, each one more refreshin’ly repulsive an’
vig’rous than the precedin’. Oh, I have sure missed a-plenty to-day,
partic’lar because my own diction is gettin’ run down an’ skim-milky of
late, showin’ sad lack of new idees. Which I might have assim’lated
somethin’ robustly original an’ expressive if I’d been here. No, sir; a
nose-bag full of nuggets wouldn’t have kept me away.”
“How did it sound when she busted?” insisted the morbid Simms, but
Glenister refused to discuss his combat.
“Come on, Slap,” said the old prospector, “let’s go down-town. I’m so
het up I can’t set still, an’ besides, mebbe we can get the story the
way it really happened, from somebody who ain’t bound an’ gagged an’
chloroformed by such unbecomin’ modesties. Roy, don’t never go into
vawdyville with them personal episodes, because they read about as
thrillin’ as a cook-book. Why, say, I’ve had the story of that fight
from four different fellers already, none of which was within four
blocks of the scrimmage, an’ they’re all diff’rent an’ all better ’n
your account.”
Now that Glenister’s mind had recovered some of its poise he realized
what he had done.
“I was a beast, an animal,” he groaned, “and that after all my striving.
I wanted to leave that part behind, I wanted to be worthy of her love
and trust even though I never won it, but at the first test I am found
lacking. I have lost her confidence, yes--and what is worse, infinitely
worse, I have lost my own. She’s always seen me at my worst,” he went
on, “but I’m not that kind at bottom, not that kind. I want to do what’s
right, and if I have another chance I will, I _know_ I will. I’ve been
tried too hard, that’s all.”
Some one knocked, and he opened the door to admit the Bronco Kid and
Helen.
“Wait a minute, old man,” said the Kid. “I’m here as a friend.” The
gambler handled himself with difficulty, offering in explanation:
“I’m all sewed up in bandages of one kind or another.”
“He ought to be in bed now, but he wouldn’t let me come alone, and I
could not wait,” the girl supplemented, while her eyes avoided
Glenister’s in strange hesitation.
“He wouldn’t _let_ you. I don’t understand.”
“I’m her brother,” announced the Bronco Kid. “I’ve known it for a long
time, but I--I--well, you understand I couldn’t let her know. All I can
say is, I’ve gambled square till the night I played you, and I was as
mad as a dervish then, blaming you for the talk I’d heard. Last night I
learned by chance about Struve and Helen and got to the road-house in
time to save her. I’m sorry I didn’t kill him.” His long white fingers
writhed about the arm of his chair at the memory.
“Isn’t he dead?” Glenister inquired.
“No. The doctors have brought him in and he’ll get well. He’s like half
the men in Alaska--here because the sheriffs back home couldn’t shoot
straight. There’s something else. I’m not a good talker, but give me
time and I’ll manage it so you’ll understand. I tried to keep Helen from
coming on this errand, but she said it was the square thing and she
knows better than I. It’s about those papers she brought in last spring.
She was afraid you might consider her a party to the deal, but you
don’t, do you?” He glared belligerently, and Roy replied, with fervor:
“Certainly not. Go on.”
“Well, she learned the other day that those documents told the whole
story and contained enough proof to break up this conspiracy and convict
the Judge and McNamara and all the rest, but Struve kept the bundle in
his safe and wouldn’t give it up without a price. That’s why she went
away with him---- She thought it was right, and--that’s all. But it
seems Wheaton had succeeded in another way. Now, I’m coming to the
point. The Judge and McNamara are arrested for contempt of court and
they’re as good as convicted; you have recovered your mine, and these
men are disgraced. They will go to jail--”
“Yes, for six months, perhaps,” broke in the other, hotly, “but what
does that amount to? There never was a bolder crime consummated nor one
more cruelly unjust. They robbed a realm and pillaged its people, they
defiled a court and made Justice a wanton, they jailed good men and sent
others to ruin; and for this they are to suffer--how? By a paltry fine
or a short imprisonment, perhaps, by an ephemeral disgrace and the loss
of their stolen goods. Contempt of court is the accusation, but you
might as well convict a murderer for breach of the peace. We’ve thrown
them off, it’s true, and they won’t trouble us again, but they’ll never
have to answer for their real infamy. That will go unpunished while
their lawyers quibble over technicalities and rules of court. I guess
it’s true that there isn’t any law of God or man north of Fifty-three;
but if there is justice south of that mark, those people will answer for
conspiracy and go to the penitentiary.”
“You make it hard for me to say what I want to. I am almost sorry we
came, for I am not cunning with words, and I don’t know that you’ll
understand,” said the Bronco Kid, gravely. “We looked at it this way;
you have had your victory, you have beaten your enemies against odds,
you have recovered your mine, and they are disgraced. To men like them
that last will outlive and outweigh all the rest; but the Judge is our
uncle and our blood runs in his veins. He took Helen when she was a baby
and was a father to her in his selfish way, loving her as best he knew
how. And she loves him.”
“I don’t quite understand you,” said Roy.
And then Helen spoke for the first time eagerly, taking a packet from
her bosom as she began:
“This will tell the whole wretched story, Mr. Glenister, and show the
plot in all its vileness. It’s hard for me to betray my uncle, but this
proof is yours by right to use as you see fit, and I can’t keep it.”
“Do you mean that this evidence will show all that? And you’re going to
give it to me because you think it is your duty?”
“It belongs to you. I have no choice. But what I came for was to plead
and to ask a little mercy for my uncle, who is an old, old man, and very
weak. This will kill him.”
He saw that her eyes were swimming while the little chin quivered ever
so slightly and her pale cheeks were flushed. There rose in him the old
wild desire to take her in his arms, a yearning to pillow her head on
his shoulder and kiss away the tears, to smooth with tender caress the
wavy hair, and bury his face deep in it till he grew drunk with the
madness of her. But he knew at last for whom she really pleaded.
So he was to forswear this vengeance, which was no vengeance after all,
but in verity a just punishment. They asked him--a man--a man’s man--a
Northman--to do this, and for what? For no reward, but on the contrary
to insure himself lasting bitterness. He strove to look at the
proposition calmly, clearly, but it was difficult. If only by freeing
this other villain as well as her uncle he would do a good to her, then
he would not hesitate. Love was not the only thing. He marvelled at his
own attitude; this could not be his old self debating thus. He had asked
for another chance to show that he was not the old Roy Glenister; well,
it had come, and he was ready.
Roy dared not look at Helen any more, for this was the hardest moment he
had ever lived.
“You ask this for your uncle, but what of--of the other fellow? You must
know that if one goes free so will they both; they can’t be separated.”
“It’s almost too much to ask,” the Kid took up, uncertainly. “But don’t
you think the work is done? I can’t help but admire McNamara, and
neither can you--he’s been too good an enemy to you for
that--and--and--he loves Helen.”
“I know--I know,” said Glenister, hastily, at the same time stopping an
unintelligible protest from the girl. “You’ve said enough.” He
straightened his slightly stooping shoulders and looked at the unopened
package wearily, then slipped the rubber band from it, and, separating
the contents, tore them up--one by one--tore them into fine bits without
hurry or ostentation, and tossed the fragments away, while the woman
began to sob softly, the sound of her relief alone disturbing the
silence. And so he gave her his enemy, making his offer gamely,
according to his code.
“You’re right--the work is done. And now, I’m very tired.”
They left him standing there, the glory of the dying day illumining his
lean, brown features, the vision of a great loneliness in his weary
eyes.
He did not rouse himself till the sky before him was only a curtain of
steel, pencilled with streaks of soot that lay close down above the
darker sea. Then he sighed and said, aloud:
“So this is the end, and I gave him to her with these hands”--he held
them out before him curiously, becoming conscious for the first time
that the left one was swollen and discolored and fearfully painful. He
noted it with impersonal interest, realizing its need of medical
attention--so left the cabin and walked down into the city. He
encountered Dextry and Simms on the way, and they went with him, both
flowing with the gossip of the camp.
“Lord, but you’re the talk of the town,” they began. “The curio hunters
have commenced to pull Struve’s office apart for souvenirs, and the
Swedes want to run you for Congress as soon as ever we get admitted as a
State. They say that at collar-an’-elbow holts you could lick any of
them Eastern senators and thereby rastle out a lot of good legislation
for us cripples up here.”
“Speakin’ of laws goes to show me that this here country is gettin’ too
blamed civilized for a white man,” said Simms, pessimistically, “and now
that this fight is ended up it don’t look like there would be anything
doin’ fit to claim the interest of a growed-up person for a long while.
I’m goin’ west.”
“West! Why, you can throw a stone into Bering Strait from here,” said
Roy, smiling.
“Oh, well, the world’s round. There’s a schooner outfittin’ for
Sibeery--two years’ cruise. Me an’ Dex is figgerin’ on gettin’ out
towards the frontier fer a spell.”
“Sure!” said Dextry. “I’m beginnin’ to feel all cramped up hereabouts
owin’ to these fillymonarch orchestras an’ French restarawnts and such
discrepancies of scenery. They’re puttin’ a pavement on Front Street and
there’s a shoe-shinin’ parlor opened up. Why, I’d like to get where I
could stretch an’ holler without disturbin’ the pensiveness of some dude
in a dress suit. Better come along, Roy; we can sell out the Midas.”
“I’ll think it over,” said the young man.
The night was bright with a full moon when they left the doctor’s
office. Roy, in no mood for the exuberance of his companions, parted
from them, but had not gone far before he met Cherry Malotte. His head
was low and he did not see her till she spoke.
“Well, boy, so it’s over at last!”
Her words chimed so perfectly with his thoughts that he replied: “Yes,
it’s all over, little girl.”
“You don’t need my congratulations--you know me too well for that. How
does it feel to be a winner?”
“I don’t know. I’ve lost.”
“Lost what?”
“Everything--except the gold-mine.”
“Everything except--I see. You mean that she--that you have asked her
and she won’t?” He never knew the cost at which she held her voice so
steady.
“More than that. It’s so new that it hurts yet, and it will continue to
hurt for a long time, I suppose--but to-morrow I am going back to my
hills and my valleys, back to the Midas and my work, and try to begin
all over. For a time I’ve wandered in strange paths, seeking new gods,
as it were, but the dazzle has died out of my eyes and I can see true
again. She isn’t for me, although I shall always love her. I’m sorry I
can’t forget easily, as some do. It’s hard to look ahead and take an
interest in things. But what about you? Where shall you go?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter--now.” The dusk hid her white,
set face and she spoke monotonously. “I am going to see the Bronco Kid.
He sent for me. He’s ill.”
“He’s not a bad sort,” said Roy. “And I suppose he’ll make a new start,
too.”
“Perhaps,” said she, gazing far out over the gloomy ocean. “It all
depends.” After a moment, she added, “What a pity that we can’t all
sponge off the slate and begin afresh and--forget.”
“It’s part of the game,” said he. “I don’t know why it’s so, but it is.
I’ll see you sometimes, won’t I?”
“No, boy--I think not.”
“I believe I understand,” he murmured; “and perhaps it’s better so.” He
took her two soft hands in his one good right and kissed them. “God
bless you and keep you, dear, brave little Cherry.”
She stood straight and still as he melted into the shadows, and only the
moonlight heard her pitiful sob and her hopeless whisper:
“Good-bye, my boy, my boy.”
He wandered down beside the sea, for his battle was not yet won, and
until he was surer of himself he could not endure the ribaldry and
rejoicing of his fellows. A welcome lay waiting for him in every public
place, but no one there could know the mockery of it, no one could gauge
the desolation that was his.
The sand, wet, packed, and hard as a pavement, gave no sound to his
careless steps; and thus it was that he came silently upon the one woman
as she stood beside the silver surf. Had he seen her first he would have
slunk past in the landward shadows; but, recognizing his tall form, she
called and he came, while it seemed that his lungs grew suddenly
constricted, as though bound about with steel hoops. The very pleasure
of her sight pained him. He advanced eagerly, and yet with hesitation,
standing stiffly aloof while his heart fluttered and his tongue grew
dumb. At last she saw his bandages and her manner changed abruptly.
Coming closer she touched them with caressing fingers.
“It’s nothing--nothing at all,” he said, while his voice jumped out of
all control. “When are you--going away?”
“I do not know--not for some time.”
He had supposed she would go to-morrow with her uncle and--the other, to
be with them through their travail.
With warm impetuosity she began: “It was a noble thing you did to-day.
Oh, I am glad and proud.”
“I prefer you to think of me in that way, rather than as the wild beast
you saw this morning, for I was mad, perfectly mad with hatred and
revenge, and every wild impulse that comes to a defeated man. You see, I
had played and lost, played and lost, again and again, till there was
nothing left. What mischance brought you there? It was a terribly brutal
thing, but you can’t understand.”
“But I _can_ understand. I do. I know all about it now. I know the wild
rage of desperation; I know the exultation of victory; I know what hate
and fear are now. You told me once that the wilderness had made you a
savage, and I laughed at it just as I did when you said that my contact
with big things would teach me the truth, that we’re all alike, and that
those motives are in us all. I see now that you were right and I was
very simple. I learned a great deal last night.”
“I have learned much also,” said he. “I wish you might teach me more.”
“I--I--don’t think I could teach you any more,” she hesitated.
He moved as though to speak, but held back and tore his eyes away from
her.
“Well,” she inquired, gazing at him covertly.
“Once, a long time ago, I read a Lover’s Petition, and ever since
knowing you I have made the constant prayer that I might be given the
purity to be worthy the good in you, and that you might be granted the
patience to reach the good in me--but it’s no use. But at least I’m glad
we have met on common ground, as it were, and that you understand, in a
measure. The prayer could not be answered; but through it I have found
myself and--I have known you. That last is worth more than a king’s
ransom to me. It is a holy thing which I shall reverence always, and
when you go you will leave me lonely except for its remembrance.”
“But I am not going,” she said. “That is--unless--”
Something in her voice swept his gaze back from the shimmering causeway
that rippled seaward to the rising moon. It brought the breath into his
throat, and he shook as though seized by a great fear.
“Unless--what?”
“Unless you want me to.”
“Oh, God! don’t play with me!” He flung out his hand as though to stop
her while his voice died out to a supplicating hoarseness. “I can’t
stand that.”
“Don’t you see? Won’t you see?” she asked. “I was waiting here for the
courage to go to you since you have made it so very hard for me--my
pagan.” With which she came close to him, looking upward into his face,
smiling a little, shrinking a little, yielding yet withholding, while
the moonlight made of her eyes two bottomless, boundless pools, dark
with love, and brimming with the promise of his dreams.
THE END
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
courage and our Colts=> courage and our Colt’s {pg 30}
The Colts may go=> The Colt’s may go {pg 30}
buckled his Colts=> buckled his Colt’s {pg 231}