The change in the weather had not escaped Pierce Phillips' notice, and
before going to bed he stepped out of his tent to study the sky. It was
threatening. Recalling extravagant stories of the violence attained by
storms in this mountain-lake country, he decided to make sure that his
boats and cargo were out of reach of any possible danger, and so walked
down to the shore.
A boisterous wind had roused Lake Linderman, and out of the inky
blackness came the sound of its anger. As Pierce groped his way up to
the nearest skiff he was startled by receiving a sharp challenge in the
Countess Courteau's voice.
"Who is that?" she cried.
"It's I, Pierce," he answered, quickly. He discovered the woman
finally, and, approaching closer, he saw that she was sitting on a pile
of freight, her heels drawn up beneath her and her arms clasped around
her knees. "I came down to make sure everything was snug. But what are
you doing here?"
She looked down into his upturned face and her white teeth showed in a
smile. "I came for the same purpose. Now I'm waiting for the storm to
break. You can make out the clouds when your eyes grow accustomed--"
"It's too windy. You'll catch cold," he declared.
"Oh, I'm warm, and I love storms!" She stared out into the night, then
added, "I'm a stormy creature."
Again he urged her to return to her tent, and in his voice was such
genuine concern that she laid her hand upon his shoulder. It was a
warm, impulsive gesture and it betrayed a grateful appreciation of his
solicitude; it was the first familiarity she had ever permitted herself
to indulge in, and when she spoke it was in an unusually intimate tone:
"You're a good friend, Pierce. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Phillips' surprise robbed him momentarily of speech. This woman
possessed a hundred moods; a few hours before she had treated him with
a cool indifference that was almost studied; now, without apparent
reason, she had turned almost affectionate. Perhaps it was the night,
or the solitude, that drew them together; whatever the reason, those
first few words, that one impulsive gesture, assured Pierce that they
were very close to each other, for the moment at least.
"I'm--glad," he said, finally. "I wish I were more--I wish--"
"What?" she queried, when he hesitated.
"I wish you COULDN'T do without me." It was out; he realized in a panic
that his whole secret was hers. With no faintest intention of speaking,
even of hinting at the truth, he had blurted forth a full confession.
She had caught him off guard, and, like a perfect ass, he had betrayed
himself. What would she think? How would she take his audacity, his
presumption? He was surprised to feel her fingers tighten briefly
before her hand was withdrawn.
The Countess Courteau was not offended. Had it not been for that
pressure upon his shoulder Phillips would have believed that his words
had gone unheard, for she entirely ignored them.
"Night! Wind! Storm!" she said, in a queer, meditative tone. "They stir
the blood, don't they? Not yours, perhaps, but mine. I was always
restless. You see, I was born on the ocean--on the way over here. My
father was a sailor; he was a stormy-weather man. At a time like this
everything in me quickens, I'm aware of impulses I never feel at other
times--desires I daren't yield to. It was on a stormy night that the
Count proposed to me." She laughed shortly, bitterly. "I believed him.
I'd believe anything--I'd do, I'd dare anything--when the winds are
reckless." She turned abruptly to her listener and it seemed to him
that her eyes were strangely luminous. "Have you ever felt that way?"
He shook his head.
"Lucky for you; it would be a man's undoing. Tell me, what am I? What
do you make of me?" While the young man felt for an answer she ran on:
"I'd like to know. What sort of woman do you consider me? How have I
impressed you? Speak plainly--no sentiment. You're a clean-minded,
unsophisticated boy. I'm curious to hear--"
"I can't speak like a boy," he said, gravely, but with more than a hint
of resentment in his tone, "for--I'm not a boy. Not any longer."
"Oh yes, you are! You're fresh and wholesome and honorable and-- Well,
only boys are that. What do I seem, to you?"
"You're a chameleon. There's nobody in the world quite like you. Why,
at this minute you're different even to yourself. You--take my breath--"
"Do you consider me harsh, masculine--?"
"Oh no!"
"I'm glad of that. I'm not, really. I've had a hard experience and my
eyes were opened early. I know poverty, disappointment, misery,
everything unpleasant, but I'm smart and I know how to get ahead. I've
never stood still. I've learned how to fight, too, for I've had to make
my own way. Why, Pierce, you're the one man who ever did me an
unselfish favor or a real, disinterested courtesy. Do you wonder that I
want to know what kind of a creature you consider me?"
"Perhaps I'm not altogether unselfish," he told her, sullenly.
The Countess did not heed this remark; she did not seem to read the
least significance into it. Her chin was upon her knees, her face was
turned again to the darkness whence came the rising voice of stormy
waters. The wind whipped a strand of her hair into Phillips' face.
"It is hard work fighting men--and women, too--and I'm awfully tired.
Tired inside, you understand. One gets tired fighting alone--always
alone. One has dreams of--well, dreams. It's a pity they never come
true."
"What are some of them?" he inquired.
The woman, still under the spell of her hour, made as if to answer;
then she stirred and raised her head. "This isn't a safe night to talk
about them. I think I shall go to bed." She extended her hand to
Phillips, but instead of taking it he reached forth and lifted her
bodily down out of the wind. She gasped as she felt his strong hands
under her arms; for a moment her face brushed his and her fragrant
breath was warm against his cheek. Philips lowered her gently, slowly,
until her feet were on the ground, but even then his grasp lingered and
he held her close to him.
They stood breast to breast for a moment and Pierce saw that in this
woman's expression was neither fear nor resentment, but some strange
emotion new-born of the night--an emotion which his act had started
into life and which as yet she did not fully understand. Her eyes were
wide and wondering; they remained fixed upon his, and that very fixity
suggested a meaning so surprising, so significant, that he felt the
world spin dizzily under him. She was astonished, yet expectant; she
was stunned but ready. He experienced a fierce desire to hold her
closer, closer, to crush her in his arms, and although she resisted
faintly, unconsciously she yielded; her inner being answered his
without reserve. She did not turn her face away when his came closer,
even when his lips covered hers.
After a long moment she surrendered wholly, she snuggled closer and
bowed her head upon his shoulder. Her cheek against his was very cold
from the wind and Pierce discovered that it was wet with tears.
"It has been a long fight," she sighed, in a voice that he could
scarcely hear. "I didn't know how tired I was."
Phillips groped for words, but he could find nothing to say, his
ordered thoughts having fled before this sudden gust of ardor as leaves
are whirled away before a tempest. All he knew was that in his arms lay
a woman he had knelt to, a worshipful goddess of snow and gold before
whom he had abased himself, but who had turned to flesh at his first
touch.
He kissed her again and again, warmly, tenderly, and yet with a
ruthless fervor that grew after each caress, and she submitted
passively, the while those tears stole down her cheeks. In reality she
was neither passive nor passionless, for her body quivered and Phillips
knew that his touch had set her afire; but rather she seemed to be
exhausted and at the same time enthralled as by some dream from which
she was loath to rouse herself.
After a while her hand rose to his face and stroked it softly, then she
drew herself away from him and with a wan smile upon her lips said:
"The wind has made a fool of me."
"No, no!" he cried, forcefully. "You asked me what I think of
you--Well, now you know."
Still smiling, she shook her head slowly, then she told him, "Come! I
hear the rain."
"But I want to talk to you. I have so much to say--"
"What is there to talk about to-night? Hark!" They could feel, rather
than hear, the first warnings of the coming downpour, so hand in hand
they walked up the gravelly beach and into the fringe of the forest
where glowed the dull illumination from lamplit canvas walls. When they
paused before the Countess' tent Pierce once more enfolded her in his
arms and sheltered her from the boisterous breath of the night. His
emotions were in a similar tumult, but as yet he could not voice them,
he could merely stammer:
"You have never told me your name."
"Hilda."
"May I--call you that?"
She nodded. "Yes--when we are alone. Hilda Halberg, that was my name."
"Hilda! Hilda--Phillips." Pierce tried the sound curiously. The
Countess drew back abruptly, with a shiver; then, in answer to his
quick concern, said:
"I--I think I'm cold."
He undertook to clasp her closer, but she held him off, murmuring:
"Let it be Hilda Halberg for to-night. Let's not think of--Let's not
think at all. Hilda--bride of the storm. There's a tempest in my blood,
and who can think with a tempest raging?"
She raised her face and kissed him upon the lips, then, disengaging
herself once more from his hungry arms, she stepped inside her shelter.
The last he saw of her was her luminous smile framed against the black
background; then she let the tent-fly fall.
As Phillips turned away big raindrops began to drum upon the near-by
tent roofs, the spruce-tops overhead bent low, limbs threshed as the
gusty night wind beat upon them. But he heard none of it, felt none of
it, for in his ears rang the music of the spheres and on his face
lingered the warmth of a woman's lips, the first love kiss that he had
ever known.
Tom Linton roused himself from a chilly doze to find that the rain had
come at last. It was a roaring night; his tent was bellied in by the
force of the wind, and the raindrops beat upon it with the force of
buckshot. Through the entrance slit, through the open stovepipe hole,
the gale poured, bringing dampness with it and rendering the interior
as draughty as a corn-crib. Rolling himself more tightly in his
blankets, Linton addressed the darkness through chattering teeth.
"Darned old fool! This'll teach him!" He strained his ears for sounds
of Jerry, but could hear nothing above the slatting of wet canvas, the
tattoo of drops, and the roar of wind in the tree-tops. After the first
violence of the squall had passed he fancied he could hear his former
partner stirring, so he arose and peered out into the night. At first
he could see nothing, but in time he dimly made out Jerry struggling
with his tarpaulin. Evidently the fly had blown down, or up, and its
owner was restretching it. Linton grinned. That would drench the old
dodo to the skin and he'd soon be around, begging shelter.
"But I won't let him in, not if he drowns," Tom muttered, harshly. He
recalled one of Jerry's gibes at the saw-pit, a particularly unfeeling,
nay, a downright venomous insult which had rankled steadily ever since.
His former friend had seen fit to ridicule honest perspiration and to
pretend to mistake it for raindrops. That remark had been utterly
uncalled for and it had betrayed a wanton malice, a malevolent desire
to wound; well, here was a chance to even the score. When Jerry came
dripping to the tent door, Tom decided he would poke his head out into
the deluge and then cry in evident astonishment: "Why, Jerry, you've
been working, haven't you? You're all sweaty!" Mr. Linton giggled out
loud. That would be a refinement of sarcasm; that would be a get-back
of the finest. If Jerry insisted upon coming in out of the wet he'd
tell him gruffly to get out of there and try the lake for a change.
But Mr. Quirk made no move in the direction of the tent; instead he
built a fire in his stove and crouched over it, endeavoring vainly to
shelter himself from the driving rain. Linton watched him with mingled
impatience and resentment. Would the old fool never get enough? Jerry
was the most unreasonable, the most tantalizing person in the world.
After a time Mr. Linton found that his teeth were chattering and that
his frame had been smitten as by an ague; reluctantly he crept back
into bed. He determined to buy, beg, borrow, or steal some more bedding
on the morrow--early on the morrow in order to forestall Jerry. Jerry
would have to find a tent somewhere, and inasmuch as there were none to
be had here at Linderman, he would probably have to return to Dyea.
That would delay him seriously--enough, perhaps, so that the jaws of
winter would close down upon him. Through the drone of pattering drops
there came the faint sound of a cough. Mr. Linton sat up in bed.
"Pneumonia!" he exclaimed. Well, Jerry was getting exactly what he
deserved. He had called him, Tom, an "old fool," a "dam' old fool," to
be precise. The epithet in itself meant nothing--it was in fact a
fatuous and feeble term of abuse as compared to the opprobrious titles
which he and Jerry were in the habit of exchanging--it was that
abominable adjective which hurt. Jerry and he had called each other
many names at times, they had exchanged numerous gibes and insults, but
nothing like that hateful word "old" had ever passed between them until
this fatal morning. Jerry Quirk himself was old, the oldest man in the
world, perhaps, but Tom had exercised an admirable regard for his
partner's feelings and had never cast it up to him. Thus had his
consideration been repaid. However, the poor fellow's race was about
run, for he couldn't stand cold or exposure. Why, a wet foot sent him
to bed. How, then, could a rickety ruin of his antiquity withstand the
ravages of pneumonia--galloping pneumonia, at that?
Linton reflected that common decency would demand that he wait over a
day or two and help bury the old man--people would expect that much of
him. He'd do it. He'd speak kindly of the departed; he'd even erect a
cross and write an epitaph upon it--a kindly, lying epitaph extolling
the dead man's virtues, and omitting all mention of his faults.
Once more that hacking cough sounded, and the listener stirred
uneasily. Jerry had some virtues--a few of the common, elemental
sort--he was honest and he was brave, but, for that matter, so were
most people. Yes, the old scoundrel had nerve enough. Linton recalled a
certain day, long past, when he and Quirk had been sent out to round up
some cattle-rustlers. Being the youngest deputies in the sheriff's
office, the toughest jobs invariably fell to them. Those were the good,
glad days, Tom reflected. Jerry had made a reputation on that trip and
he had saved his companion's life--Linton flopped nervously in his bed
at the memory. Why think of days dead and gone? Jerry was an altogether
different man in those times. He neither criticized nor permitted
others to criticize his team-mate, and, so far as that particular
obligation went, Linton had repaid it with compound interest. If
anything, the debt now lay on Jerry's side.
Tom tried to close the book of memory and to consider nothing whatever
except the rankling present, but, now that his thoughts had begun to
run backward, he could not head them off. He wished Jerry wouldn't
cough; it was a distressing sound, and it disturbed his rest.
Nevertheless, that hollow, hacking complaint continued and finally the
listener arose, lit a lantern, put on a slicker and untied his tent
flaps.
Jerry's stove was sizzling in the partial shelter of the canvas sheet;
over it the owner crouched in an attitude of cheerless dejection.
"How you making out?" Tom inquired, gruffly. His voice was cold, his
manner was both repellent and hostile.
"Who, me?" Jerry peered up from under his glistening sou'wester. "Oh,
I'm doin' fine!"
Linton remained silent, ill at ease; water drained off his coat; his
lantern flared smokily in the wind. After a time he cleared his throat
and inquired:
"Wet?"
"Naw!"
There was a long pause, then the visitor inquired: "Are you lying?"
"Unh-hunh!"
Again silence claimed both men until Tom broke out, irritably: "Well,
you aim to set here all night?"
"Sure! I ain't sleepy. I don't mind a little mist and I'm plenty warm."
This cheerful assertion was belied by the miserable quaver in which it
was voiced.
"Why don't you-er-run over to my tent?" Linton gasped and swallowed
hard. The invitation was out, the damage was done. "There's lots of
room."
Mr. Quirk spared his caller's further feelings by betraying no triumph
whatever. Rather plaintively he declared: "I got ROOM enough here. It
ain't exactly room I need." Again he coughed.
"Here! Get a move on you, quick," Linton ordered, forcefully. "The idea
of you setting around hatching out a lungful of pneumonia bugs! Git!
I'll bring your bedding."
Mr. Quirk rose with alacrity. "Say! Let's take my stove over to your
tent and warm her up. I bet you're cold?"
"N-no! I'm comfortable enough." The speaker's teeth played an
accompaniment to this mendacious denial. "Of course I'm not sweating
any, but--I s'pose the stove would cheer things up, eh? Rotten night,
ain't it?"
"Worst I ever saw. Rotten country, for that matter."
"You said something," Mr. Linton chattered. He nodded his head with
vigor.
It was wet work moving Jerry's belongings, but the transfer was finally
effected, the stove was set up and a new fire started. This done, Tom
brought forth a bottle of whisky.
"Here," said he, "take a snifter. It'll do you good."
Jerry eyed the bottle with frank astonishment before he exclaimed:
"Why, I didn't know you was a drinkin' man. You been hidin' a secret
vice from me?"
"No. And I'm not a drinking man. I brought it along for--you.
I--er--that cough of yours used to worry me, so--"
"Pshaw! I cough easy. You know that."
"You take a jolt and"--Linton flushed with embarrassment--"and I'll
have one with you. I was lying just now; I'm colder 'n a frog's belly."
"Happy days," said Quirk, as he tipped the bottle.
"A long life and a wicked one!" Linton drank in his turn. "Now then,
get out of those cold compresses. Here's some dry underclothes--thick,
too. We'll double up those henskin blankets--for to-night--and I'll
keep the fire a-going. I'll cure that cough if I sweat you as white as
a washwoman's thumb."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," Jerry declared, as he removed his
sodden garments and hung them up. "You'll crawl right into bed with me
and we'll have a good sleep. You're near dead."
But Linton was by no means reassured; his tone was querulous when he
cried: "Why didn't you come in before you caught cold? S'pose you get
sick on me now? But you won't. I won't let you." In a panic of
apprehension he dug out his half of the contents of the medicine-kit
and began to paw through them. "Who got the cough syrup, Jerry; you or
me?" The speaker's voice broke miserably.
Mr. Quirk laid a trembling hand upon his ex-partner's shoulder; his
voice, too, was shaky when he said, "You're awful good to me, Tom."
The other shook off the grasp and undertook to read the labels on the
bottles, but they had become unaccountably blurred and there was a
painful lump in his throat. It seemed to him that Old Jerry's bare legs
looked pitifully thin and spidery and that his bony knees had a
rheumatic appearance.
"Hell! I treated you mighty mean," said he. "But I'most died when
you--began to cough. I thought sure--" Tom choked and shook his gray
head, then with the heel of his harsh palm he wiped a drop of moisture
from his cheek. "Look at me--cryin'!" He tried to laugh and failed.
Jerry, likewise, struggled with his tears.
"You--you dam' old fool!" he cried, affectionately.
Linton smiled with delight. "Give it to me," he urged. "Lam into me,
Jerry. I deserve it. Gosh! I was lonesome!"
A half-hour later the two friends were lying side by side in their bed
and the stove was glowing comfortably. They had ceased shivering. Old
Jerry had "spooned" up close to old Tom and his bodily heat was
grateful.
Linton eyed the fire with tender yearning. "That's a good stove you
got."
"She's a corker, ain't she?"
"I been thinking about trading you a half interest in my tent for a
half interest in her."
"The trade's made." There was a moment of silence. "What d'you say we
hook up together--sort of go pardners for a while? I got a long outfit
and a short boat. I'll put 'em in against yours. I bet we'd get along
all right. I'm onnery, but I got good points."
Mr. Linton smiled dreamily. "It's a go. I need a good partner."
"I'll buy a new fryin'-pan out of my money. Mine got split, somehow."
Tom chuckled. "You darned old fool!" said he.
Jerry heaved a long sigh and snuggled closer; soon he began to snore.
He snored in a low and confidential tone at first, but gradually the
sound increased in volume and rose in pitch.
Linton listened to it with a thrill, and he assured himself that he had
never heard music of such soul-satisfying sweetness as issued from the
nostrils of his new partner.