Having crossed the high barrens, Phillips and his companion dropped
down to timber-line and soon arrived at Linderman, their journey's end.
This was perhaps the most feverishly busy camp on the entire
thirty-mile Dyea trail, but, unlike the coast towns, there was no
merrymaking, no gaiety, no gambling here. Linderman's fever came from
overwork, not from overplay. A tent village had sprung up at the head
of the lake, and from dawn until dark it echoed to the unceasing sound
of ax and hammer, of plane and saw. The air was redolent with the odor
of fresh-cut spruce and of boiling tar, for this was the shipyard where
an army of Jasons hewed and joined and fitted, each upon a bark of his
own making. Half-way down the lake was the Boundary, and a few miles
below that again was the customs station with its hateful red-jacketed
police. Beyond were uncharted waters, quite as perilous, because quite
as unknown, as those traversed by that first band of Argonauts. Deep
lakes, dark canons, roaring rapids lay between Linderman and the land
of the Golden Fleece, but the nearer these men approached those dangers
the more eagerly they pressed on.
Already the weeding-out process had gone far and the citizens of
Linderman were those who had survived it. The weak and the irresolute
had disappeared long since; these fellows who labored so mightily to
forestall the coming winter were the strong and the fit and the
enduring--the kind the North takes to herself.
In spite of his light pack, Phillips' elderly trailmate was all but
spent. He dragged his feet, he stumbled without reason, the lines in
his face were deeply set, and his bearded lips had retreated from his
teeth in a grin of exhaustion.
"Yonder's the tent," he said, finally, and his tone was eloquent of
relief.
In and out among canvas walls and taut guy-ropes the travelers wound
their way, emerging at length upon a gravelly beach where vast supplies
of provisions were cached. All about, in various stages of
construction, were skeletons of skiffs, of scows, and of barges; the
ground was spread with a carpet of shavings and sawdust.
Pierce's companion paused; then, after an incredulous stare, he said:
"Look! Is that smoke coming from my stovepipe?"
"Why, yes!"
There could be no mistake about it; from the tent in question arose the
plain evidence that a lively fire was burning inside.
"Well, I'll be darned!" breathed the elder man. "Somebody's jumped the
cache."
"Perhaps your partner--"
"He's in Sheep Camp." The speaker laboriously loosened his pack and let
it fall, then with stiff, clumsy fingers he undid the top buttons of
his vest and, to Pierce's amazement, produced a large-calibered
revolver, which he mechanically cocked and uncocked several times, the
while his eyes remained hypnotically fixed upon the telltale streamer
of smoke. Not only did his action appear to be totally uncalled for,
but he himself had undergone a startling transformation and Phillips
was impelled to remonstrate.
"Here! What the deuce--?" he began.
"Listen to me!" The old man spoke in a queer, suppressed tone, and his
eyes, when he turned them upon his fellow-packer, were even smokier
than usual. "Somebody's up to a little thievin', most likely, and it
looks like I had 'em red-handed. I've been layin' for this!"
Pierce divested himself of his pack-harness, then said, simply, "If
that's the case, I'll give you a hand."
"Better stand back," the other cautioned him. "I don't need any
help--this is my line." The man's fatigue had fallen from him; of a
sudden he had become surprisingly alert and forceful. He stole forward,
making as little noise as possible, and Phillips followed at his back.
They came to a pause within arm's-length of the tent flaps, which they
noted were securely tied.
"Hello inside!" The owner spoke suddenly and with his free hand he
jerked at one of the knots.
There came an answering exclamation, a movement; then the flaps were
seized and firmly held.
"You can't come in!" cried a voice.
"Let go! Quick!" The old man's voice was harsh.
"You'll have to wait a minute. I'm undressed."
Phillips retreated a step, as did the other man; they stared at each
other.
"A woman!" Pierce breathed.
"Lord!" The owner of the premises slowly, reluctantly sheathed his
weapon under his left arm.
"I invited myself in," the voice explained--it was a deep-pitched
contralto voice. "I was wet and nobody offered to let me dry out, so I
took possession of the first empty tent I came to. Is it yours?"
"It is--half of it. I'm mighty tired and I ain't particular how you
look, so hurry up." As the two men returned for their loads the speaker
went on, irritably. "She's got her nerve! I s'pose she's one of these
actresses. There's a bunch of 'em on the trail. Actresses!" He snorted
derisively. "I bet she smells of cologne, and, gosh! how I hate it!"
When he and Pierce returned they were admitted promptly enough, and any
lingering suspicions of the trespasser's intent were instantly
dissipated. The woman was clad in a short, damp underskirt which fell
about to her knees; she had drawn on the only dry article of apparel in
sight, a man's sweater jacket; she had thrust her bare feet into a pair
of beaded moccasins; on a line attached to the ridgepole over her head
sundry outer garments were steaming. Phillips' first thought was that
this woman possessed the fairest, the whitest, skin he had ever seen;
it was like milk. But his first impressions were confused, for
embarrassment followed quickly upon his entrance and he felt an impulse
to withdraw. The trespasser was not at all the sort of person he had
expected to find, and her complete self-possession at the intrusion,
her dignified greeting, left him not a little chagrined at his
rudeness. She eyed both men coolly from a pair of ice-blue eyes--eyes
that bespoke her nationality quite as plainly as did her features, her
dazzling complexion, and her head of fine, straight flaxen hair. She
was Scandinavian, she was a Norsewoman; that much was instantly
apparent. She appeared to derive a certain malicious pleasure now from
the consternation her appearance evoked; there was a hint of contempt,
of defiance, in her smile. In a voice so low-pitched that its quality
alone saved it from masculinity, she said:
"Pray don't be distressed; you merely startled me, that's all. My
Indians managed to get hold of some hootch at Tagish and upset our
canoe just below here. It was windy and of course they couldn't
swim--none of them can, you know--so I had hard work to save them. I've
already explained how I happened to select this particular refuge. Your
neighbors--" her lip curled disdainfully, then she shrugged. "Well, I
never got such a reception as they gave me, but I suppose they're
cheechakos. I'll be off for Dyea early in the morning. If you can put
me up for the night I'll pay you well."
During this speech, delivered in a matter-of-fact, business-like tone,
the owner of the tent had managed to overcome his first surprise; he
removed his hat now and began with an effort:
"I'm a bad hand at begging pardons, miss, but you see I've been
suffering the pangs of bereavement lately over some dear, departed
grub. I thought you were a thief and I looked forward to the pleasure
of seeing you dance. I apologize. Would you mind telling me where you
came from?"
"From Dawson." There was a silence the while the flaxen-haired woman
eyed her interrogator less disdainfully. "Yes, by poling-boat and
birch-bark. I'm not fleeing the law; I'm not a cache-robber."
"You're--all alone?"
The woman nodded. "Can you stow me away for the night? You may name
your own price."
"The price won't cripple you. I'm sorry there ain't some more women
here at Linderman, but--there ain't. We had one--a doctor's wife, but
she's gone."
"I met her at Lake Marsh."
"We've a lot more coming, but they're not here. My name is Linton. The
more-or-less Christian prefix thereto is Tom. I've got a partner named
Jerry. Put the two together, and drink hearty. This young man is Mr.--"
The speaker turned questioningly upon Phillips, who made himself known.
"I'm a family man. Mr. Phillips is a--well, he's a good packer. That's
all I know about him. I'm safe and sane, but he's about the right age
to propose marriage to you as soon as he gets his breath. A pretty
woman in this country has to expect that, as you probably know."
The woman smiled and shook hands with both men, exchanging a grip as
firm and as strong as theirs. "I am the Countess Courteau," said she.
"The--which?" Mr. Linton queried, with a start.
The Countess laughed frankly. "It is French, but I'm a Dane. I think my
husband bought the title--they're cheap in his country. He was a poor
sort of count, and I'm a poor sort of countess. But I'm a good cook--a
very good cook indeed--and if you'll excuse my looks and permit me to
wear your sweater I'll prepare supper."
Linton's eyes twinkled as he said, "I've never et with the nobility and
I don't know as I'd like their diet, for a steady thing, but--the
baking-powder is in that box and we fry with bacon grease."
Wood and water were handy, the Countess Courteau had a quick and
capable way, therefore supper was not long delayed. The tent was not
equipped for housekeeping, hence the diners held their plates in their
laps and either harpooned their food from the frying-pan or ladled it
from tin cans, but even so it had a flavor to-night so unaccustomed, so
different, that both men grasped the poignant fact that the culinary
art is mysteriously wedded to female hands. Mr. Linton voiced this
thought in his own manner.
"If a countess cooks like this," he observed, "I'd sure love to board
with a duke." Later, while the dishes were being washed and when his
visitor had shown no intention of explaining her presence in further
detail, he said, whimsically: "See here, ma'am, our young friend has
been watching you like he was afraid you'd disappear before he gets an
eyeful, and it's plain to be seen that he's devoured by curiosity. As
for me, I'm totally lacking in that miserable trait, and I abhor it in
others; but all the same, if you don't see fit to tell us pretty quick
how you came to pole up from Dawson and what in Heaven's name a woman
like you is doing here, a lone and without benefit of chaperon, I shall
pass away in dreadful agony."
"It's very simple," the Countess told him. "I have important business
'outside.' I couldn't go down the river, for the Yukon is low, the
steamers are aground on the flats, and connections at St. Michael's are
uncertain at best. Naturally I came up against the stream. I've been
working 'up-stream' all my life." She flashed him a smile at this
latter statement. "As for a chaperon--I've never felt the need of one.
Do you think they're necessary in this country?"
"Does your husband, Count--"
"My husband doesn't count. That's the trouble." The speaker laughed
again and without the faintest trace of embarrassment. "He has been out
of the picture for years." She turned to Phillips and inquired,
abruptly, "What is the packing price to Sheep Camp?"
"Fifty cents a pound, coming this way. Going back it is nothing," he
told her, gallantly.
"I haven't much to carry, but if you'll take it I'll pay you the
regular price. I'd like to leave at daylight."
"You seem to be in a rush," Mr. Linton hazarded, mildly.
"I am. Now, then, if you don't mind I'll turn in, for I must be in Dyea
to-morrow night."
Pierce Phillips had said little during the meal or thereafter, to be
sure, nevertheless, he had thought much. He had indeed used his eyes to
good purpose, and now he regretted exceedingly that the evening
promised to be so short. The more he saw of this unconventional
countess the more she intrigued his interest. She was the most unusual
woman he had ever met and he was eager to learn all about her. His
knowledge of women was peculiarly elemental; his acquaintance with the
sex was extremely limited. Those he had known in his home town were one
kind, a familiar kind; those he had encountered since leaving home
were, for the most part, of a totally different class and of a type
that awoke his disapproval. To a youth of his training and of his
worldly experience the genus woman is divided into two species--old
women and young women. The former are interesting only in a motherly
way, and demand nothing more than abstract courtesy. They do not
matter. The latter, on the contrary, separate themselves again into two
families or suborders--viz., good women and bad women. The demarcation
between the two branches of the suborder is distinct; there is nothing
common to the two. Good women are good through and through--bad ones
are likewise thoroughly bad. There are no intermediate types, no
troublesome variations, no hybrids nor crosses.
The Countess Courteau, it seemed to him, was a unique specimen and
extremely hard to classify, in that she was neither old nor young--or,
what was even more puzzling, in that she was both. In years she was not
far advanced--little older than he, in fact--but in experience, in
wisdom, in self-reliance she was vastly his superior; and experience,
he believed, is what makes women old. As to the family, the suborder to
which she belonged, he was at an utter loss to decide. For instance,
she accepted her present situation with a sang-froid equaling that of a
camp harpy, a few of whom Pierce had seen; then, too, she was, or had
been, married to a no-account foreigner to whom she referred with a
calloused and most unwifely flippancy; moreover, she bore herself with
a freedom, a boldness, quite irreconcilable to the modesty of so-called
"good women." Those facts were enough to classify her definitely, and
yet despite them she was anything but common, and it would have taken
rare courage indeed to transgress that indefinable barrier of decorum
with which she managed to surround herself. There was something about
her as cold and as pure as blue ice, and she gave the same impression
of crystal clarity. All in all, hers was a baffling personality and
Phillips fell asleep with the riddle of it unanswered. He awoke in the
morning with it still upon his mind.
The Countess Courteau had been first to arise; she was fully dressed
and the sheet-iron stove was glowing when her companions roused
themselves. By the time they had returned from the lake she had
breakfast ready.
"Old Jerry is going to be awful sore at missing this court function,"
Mr. Linton told her during the meal. "He's a great ladies' man, Old
Jerry is."
"Perhaps I shall meet him."
"You wouldn't like him if you did; nobody likes him, except me, and I
hate him." Linton sighed. "He's a handicap to a young man like me."
"Why don't you send him home?"
"Home? Old Jerry would die before he'd turn back. He'd lift his muzzle
and bay at the very idea until some stranger terminated him. Well, he's
my cross; I s'pose I've got to bear him."
"Who is Mr. Linton?" the Countess inquired, as she and Pierce left the
village behind them.
"Just an ordinary stampeder, like the rest of us. I think."
"He's more than that. He's the kind who'll go through and make good. I
dare say his partner is just like him."
Phillips approved of the Countess Courteau this morning even more
thoroughly than he had on the evening previous, and they had not walked
far before he realized that as a traveler she was the equal of him or
of any man. She was lithe and strong and light of foot; the way she
covered ground awoke his sincere admiration. She did not trouble to
talk much and she dispensed with small talk in others; she appeared to
be absorbed in her own affairs, and only when they rested did she
engage in conversation. The more Phillips studied her and the better
acquainted he became with her the larger proportions did she assume.
Not only was she completely mistress of herself, but she had a
forceful, compelling way with others; there was a natural air of
authority about her, and she managed in some subtle manner to invest
herself and her words with importance. She was quite remarkable.
Now, the trail breeds its own peculiar intimacy; although the two
talked little, they nevertheless got to know each other quite well, and
when they reached the Summit, about midday, Phillips felt a keen regret
that their journey was so near its end.
A mist was drifting up from the sea; it obscured the valley below and
clung to the peaks like ragged garments. Up and out of this fog came
the interminable procession of burden-bearers. The Countess paused to
observe them and to survey the accumulation of stores which crowned the
watershed.
"I didn't dream so many were coming," said she.
"It's getting worse daily," Pierce told her. "Dyea is jammed, and so is
Skagway. The trails are alive with men."
"How many do you think will come?"
"There's no telling. Twenty, thirty, fifty thousand, perhaps. About
half of them turn back when they see the Chilkoot."
"And the rest will wish they had. It's a hard country; not one in a
hundred will prosper."
They picked their way down the drunken descent to the Scales, then
breasted the sluggish human current to Sheep Camp.
A group of men were reading a notice newly posted upon the wall of the
log building which served as restaurant and hotel, and after scanning
it Pierce explained:
"It's another call for a miners' meeting. We're having quite a time
with cache-robbers. If we catch them we'll hang them."
The Countess nodded. "Right! They deserve it. You know we don't have
any stealing on the 'inside.' Now, then, I'll say good-by." She paid
Pierce and extended her hand to him. "Thank you for helping me across.
I'll be in Dyea by dark."
"I hope we'll meet again," he said, with a slight flush.
The woman favored him with one of her generous, friendly smiles. "I
hope so, too. You're a nice boy. I like you." Then she stepped into the
building and was gone.
"A nice boy!" Phillips was pained. A boy! And he the sturdiest packer
on the pass, with perhaps one exception! That was hardly just to him.
If they did meet again--and he vowed they would--he'd show her he was
more than a boy. He experienced a keen desire to appear well in her
eyes, to appear mature and forceful. He asked himself what kind of man
Count Courteau could be; he wondered if he, Pierce Phillips, could fall
in love with such a woman as this, an older woman, a woman who had been
married. It would be queer to marry a countess, he reflected.
As he walked toward his temporary home he beheld quite a gathering of
citizens, and paused long enough to note that they were being harangued
by the confidence-man who had first initiated him into the subtleties
of the three-shell game. Mr. Broad had climbed upon a raised tent
platform and was presenting an earnest argument against capital
punishment. Two strangers upon the fringe of the crowd were talking,
and Pierce heard one of them say:
"Of course he wants the law to take its course, inasmuch as there isn't
any law. He's one of the gang."
"The surest way to flush a covey of crooks is to whistle for old Judge
Lynch," the other man agreed. "Listen to him!"
"Have they caught the cache-robbers?" Phillips made bold to inquire.
"No, and they won't catch them, with fellows like that on the
committee. The crooks hang together and we don't. If I had my way
that's just what they'd do--hang together. I'd start in by bending a
limb over that rascal."
Phillips had attended several of these indignation meetings and,
remembering that all of them bad proved purposeless, he went on toward
the McCaskey brothers' tent. He and the McCaskeys were not the closest
of friends, in spite of the fact that they had done him a favor--a
favor, by the way, for which he had paid many times over--nevertheless,
they were his most intimate acquaintances and he felt an urgent desire
to tell them about his unusual experience. His desire to talk about the
Countess Courteau was irresistible.
But when he entered the tent his greeting fell flat, for Joe, the elder
McCaskey, addressed him sharply, almost accusingly:
"Say, it's about time you showed up!"
"What's the matter?" Pierce saw that the other brother was stretched
out in his blankets and that his head was bandaged. "Hello!" he cried.
"What ails Jim? Is he sick?"
"Sick? Worse than sick," Joe grumbled. "That money of yours is to blame
for it. It's a wonder he isn't dead."
"My money? How?" Phillips was both mystified and alarmed.
Jim raised himself in his blankets and said, irritably: "After this you
can run your own pay-car, kid. I'm through, d'you hear?"
"Speak out. What's wrong?"
"Jim was stuck up, that's what's wrong. That's enough, isn't it? They
bent a six-gun over his head and grabbed your coin. He's got a dent in
his crust the size of a saucer!"
Phillips' face whitened slowly. "My money! Robbed!" he gasped. "JIM!
Who did it? How could you let them?"
The younger McCaskey fell back weakly; he waved a feeble gesture at his
brother. "Joe'll tell you. I'm dizzy; my head ain't right yet."
"A stranger stopped him--asked him something or other--and another guy
flattened him from behind. That's all he remembers. When he came to he
found he'd been frisked. He was still dippy when he got home, so I put
him to bed. He got up and moved around a bit this morning, but he's
wrong in his head."
Phillips seated himself upon a candle-box. "Robbed!" he exclaimed,
weakly. "Broke--again! Gee! That was hard money! It was the first I
ever earned!"
Joe McCaskey's dark face was doubly unpleasant as he frowned down upon
the youth. "Thinking about nothing except your coin, eh? Why don't you
think about Jim? He did you a favor and 'most lost his life."
"Oh, I'm sorry--of course!" Phillips rose heavily and crossed to the
bed. "I didn't mean to appear selfish. I don't blame you, Jim. I'll get
a doctor for you, then you must describe the hold-ups. Give me a hint
who they are and I'll go after them."
The younger brother rolled his head in negation and mumbled, sullenly:
"I'm all right. I don't want a doctor."
Joe explained for him: "He never saw the fellows before and he don't
seem to remember much about them. That's natural enough. Your money's
gone clean, kid, and a yelp won't get you anything. The crooks are
organized and if you set up a holler they'll get all of us. They'll
alibi anybody you accuse--it's no trick to alibi a pal--"
"Isn't it?" The question was uttered unexpectedly; it came from the
front of the tent and startled the occupants thereof, who turned to
behold a stranger just entering their premises. He was an elderly man;
he possessed a quick, shrewd eye; he had poked the tent flap aside with
the barrel of a Colt's revolver. Through the door-opening could be seen
other faces and the bodies of other men who had likewise stolen up
unheard. During the moment of amazement following his first words these
other men crowded in behind him.
"Maybe it 'll be more of a trick than you figure on." The stranger's
gray mustache lifted in a grin that was not at all friendly.
"What the blazes--?" Joe McCaskey exploded.
"Go easy!" the intruder cautioned him. "We've been laying around,
waiting for your pal to get back." With a movement of the revolver
muzzle he indicated Phillips. "Now then, stretch! On your toes and
reach high. You there, get up!" He addressed himself to Jim, who rose
from his bed and thrust his hands over his bandaged head. "That's
nice!" the stranger nodded approvingly. "Now don't startle me; don't
make any quick moves or I may tremble this gun off--she's easy on the
trigger." To his friends he called, "Come in, gentlemen; they're
gentle."
There were four of the latter; they appeared to be substantial men, men
of determination. All were armed.
Pierce Phillips' amazement gave way to indignation. "What is this, an
arrest or a hold-up?" he inquired.
"It's right smart of both," the leader of the posse drawled, in a voice
which betrayed the fact that he hailed from somewhere in the far
Southwest. "We're in quest of a bag of rice--a bag with a rip in it and
'W. K.' on the side. While I slap your pockets, just to see if you're
ironed, these gentlemen are goin' to look over your outfit."
"This is an outrage!" Jim McCaskey complained. "I'm just getting over
one stick-up. I'm a sick man."
"Sure!" his brother exclaimed, furiously. "You're a pack of fools! What
d'you want, anyhow?"
"We want you to shut up! See that you do." The old man's eyes snapped.
"If you've got to say something, tell us how there happens to be a
trail of rice from this man's cache"--he indicated one of his
companions--"right up to your tent."
The McCaskeys exchanged glances. Phillips turned a startled face upon
them.
"It isn't much of a trail, but it's enough to follow."
For a few moments nothing was said, and meanwhile the search of the
tent went on. When Pierce could no longer remain silent he broke out:
"There's some mistake. These boys packed this grub from Dyea and I
helped with some of it."
"Aren't you partners?" some one inquired.
Joe McCaskey answered this question. "No. He landed broke. We felt
sorry for him and took him in."
Joe was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the searchers. "Here
it is!" said the man. He had unearthed a bulging canvas sack which he
flung down for inspection. "There's my mark, 'W. K.,' and there's the
rip. I knew we had 'em right!"
After a brief examination the leader of the posse turned to his
prisoners, whose hands were still held high, saying:
"Anything you can think of in the way of explanations you'd better save
for the miners' meeting. It's waitin' to welcome you. We'll put a guard
over this plunder till the rest of it is identified. Now, then, fall in
line and don't crowd. After you, gentlemen."
Pierce Phillips realized that it was useless to argue, for his words
would not be listened to, therefore he followed the McCaskeys out into
the open air. The odium of this accusation was hard to bear; he
bitterly resented his situation and something told him he would have to
fight to clear himself; nevertheless, he was not seriously concerned
over the outcome. Public feeling was high, to be sure; the men of Sheep
Camp were in a dangerous frame of mind and their actions were liable to
be hasty, ill-considered--their verdict was apt to be fantastic--but,
secure in the knowledge of his innocence, Pierce felt no apprehension.
Rather he experienced a thrill of excitement at the contretemps and at
the ordeal which he knew was forthcoming.
The Countess Courteau had called him a boy. This wasn't a boy's
business; this was a real man-sized adventure.
"Gee! What a day this has been!" he said to himself.