It was afternoon when Lucky Broad and Kid Bridges came to 'Poleon
Doret's tent and called its owner outside.
"We're hitched up and ready to say 'gid-dap,' but we came back to see
how Letty's getting along," the former explained.
'Poleon shook his head doubtfully; his face was grave. "She's bad
seeck."
"Does she know about old Sam?"
"She ain't know not'in'. She's crazee altogether. Poor li'l gal, she's
jus' lak baby. I'm scare' as hell."
The confidence-men stared at each other silently; then they stared at
Doret. "What we goin' to do about it?" the Kid inquired, finally.
'Poleon was at a loss for an answer; he made no secret of his anxiety.
"De doctor say she mus' stay right here--"
"HERE?"
"He say if she get cold once more--pouf! She die lak dat! Plenty fire,
plenty blanket, medicine every hour, dat's all. I'm prayin' for come
along some woman--any kin' of woman at all--I don' care if she's squaw."
"There ain't any skirts back of us. Best's outfit was the last to leave
Linderman. There won't be any more till after the freeze-up."
"Eh bien! Den I s'pose I do de bes' I can. She's poor seeck gal in
beeg, cold countree wit' no frien's, no money--"
"No money?" Broad was startled. "Why, Sam was 'fat'! He had a
bank-roll--"
"He lose five t'ousan' dollar' playin' card las' night. Less 'n eighty
dollar' dey lef' him. Eighty dollar' an'--dis." From the pocket of his
mackinaw 'Poleon drew Kirby's revolver, that famous single-action
six-shooter, the elaborate ivory grip of which was notched in several
places. Broad and his partner eyed the weapon with intense interest.
"That's Agnes, all right!" the former declared. "And that's where old
Sam kept his books." He ran his thumb-nail over the significant
file-marks on the handle. "Looks like an alligator had bit it."
Bridges was even more deeply impressed by the announcement of Kirby's
losses than was his partner. "Sam must of been easy pickin', drunk like
that. He was a gamblin' fool when he was right, but I s'pose he
couldn't think of nothin' except fresh meat for Agnes. Letty had him
tagged proper, and I bet she'd of saved him if she hadn't of gone off
her nut. D'you think she's got a chance?"
"For get well?" 'Poleon shrugged his wide shoulders. "De doctor say
it's goin' be hard pull. He's goin' stay so long he can, den--wal,
mebbe 'noder doctor come along. I hope so."
"If she does win out, then what?" Broad inquired.
'Poleon considered the question. "I s'pose I tak' her back to Dyea an'
send her home. I got some dog."
Lucky studied the speaker curiously; there was a peculiar hostile gleam
in his small, colorless eyes. "Medicine every hour, and a steady fire,
you say. You don't figger to get much sleep, do you?"
"Non. No. But me, I'm strong feller; I can sleep hangin' up by de ear
if I got to."
"What's the big idea?"
"Eh?" Doret was frankly puzzled. "Wat you mean, 'beeg idea'?"
"What d'you expect to get out of all this?"
"M'sieu'!" The French Canadian's face flushed, he raised his head and
met the gaze of the two men. There was an air of dignity about him as
he said: "Dere's plenty t'ing in dis worl' we don' get pay' for. You
didn't 'spect no pay yesterday when you run de W'ite 'Orse for save dis
gal an' her papa, did you? No. Wal, I'm woodsman, river-man; I ain't
dam' stampeder. Dis is my countree, we're frien's together long tam; I
love it an' it loves me. I love de birds and hanimals, an' dey're
frien's wit' me also. 'Bout spring-tam, w'en de grub she's short, de
Canada jays dey come to visit me, an' I feed dem; sometam' I fin'
dere's groun-squirrel's nest onder my tent, an' mebbe mister squirrel
creep out of his hole, t'inkin' summer is come. Dat feller he's hongry;
he steal my food an' he set 'longside my stove for eat him. You t'ink I
hurt dose he'pless li'l t'ing? You s'pose I mak' dem pay for w'at dey
eat?"
'Poleon was soaring as only his free soul could soar; he indicated the
tent at his back, whence issued the sound of Rouletta Kirby's ceaseless
murmurings.
"Dis gal--she's tiny snowbird wit' broken wing. Bien! I fix her wing de
bes' I can. I mak' her well an' I teach her to fly again. Dat's all."
Broad and Bridges had listened attentively, their faces impassive.
Lucky was the first to speak.
"Letty's a good girl, y'understand. She's different to these others--"
'Poleon interrupted with a gesture of impatience. "It ain't mak' no
difference if she's good or bad. She's seeck."
"Me 'n' the Kid have done some heavy thinkin', an' we'd about decided
to get a high stool and take turns lookin' out Letty's game, just to
see that her bets went as they laid, but I got a hunch you're a square
guy. What D'YOU think, Kid?"
Mr. Bridges nodded his head slowly. "I got the same hunch. The point is
this," he explained. "We can't very well throw the Countess--we got
some of her outfit--and, anyhow, we'd be about as handy around an
invalid as a coupla cub bears. I think we'll bow out. But,
Frenchy"--the gambler spoke with intense earnestness--"if ever we hear
a kick from that gal we'll--we'll foller you like a track. Won't we,
Lucky?"
"We'll foller him to hell!" Mr. Broad feelingly declared.
Gravely, ceremoniously, the callers shook hands with Doret, then they
returned whence they had come. They went their way; Rouletta's delirium
continued; 'Poleon's problem increased daily; meanwhile, however, the
life of the North did not slacken a single pulse-beat.
Never since their earliest associations had Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk
found themselves in such absolute accord, in such complete harmony of
understanding, as during the days that immediately followed their
reconciliation. Each man undertook to outdo the other in politeness;
each man forced himself to be considerate, and strove at whatever
expense to himself to lighten the other's burdens; all of their
relations were characterized by an elaborate, an almost mid-Victorian
courtesy. A friendly rivalry in self-sacrifice existed between them;
they quarreled good-naturedly over the dish-washing, that disgusting
rite which tries the patience of every grown man; when there was wood
to be cut they battled with each other for the ax.
But there is a limit to politeness; unfailing sunshine grows tedious,
and so does a monotonous exercise of magnanimity.
While it had been an easy matter to cut their rowboat in two, the
process of splicing it together again had required patience and
ingenuity, and it had resulted in delay. By the time they arrived at
Miles Canon, therefore, the season was far advanced and both men,
without knowing it, were in a condition of mind to welcome any sort of
a squall that would serve to freshen the unbearably stagnant atmosphere
of amiability in which they were slowly suffocating.
Here for the first time the results of their quarrel arose to embarrass
them; they could find no pilot who would risk his life in a craft so
badly put together as theirs. After repeated discouragements the
partners took counsel with each other; reluctantly they agreed that
they were up against it.
"Seems like I've about ruined us," Mr. Quirk acknowledged, ruefully.
"You? Why, Jerry, it was my fault we cut the old ship in two," Mr.
Linton declared.
The former speaker remonstrated, gently. "Now, Tom, it's just like you
to take the blame, but it was my doin's; I instigated that fratricidal
strife."
Sweetly but firmly Linton differed with his partner. "It ain't often
that you're wrong, Jerry, old boy--it ain't more than once or twice in
a lifetime--but you're wrong now. I'm the guilty wretch and I'd ought
to hang for it. My rotten temper--"
"Pshaw! You got one of the nicest dispositions I ever see--in a man.
You're sweeter 'n a persimmon. I pecked at you till your core was
exposed. I'm a thorn in the flesh, Tom, and folks wouldn't criticize
you none for doin' away with me."
"You're 'way off. I climbed you with my spurs--"
"Now, Tom!" Sadly Mr. Quirk wagged his gray head. "I don't often argue
with anybody, especially with you, but the damnable idea of dividin'
our spoils originated in my evil mind and I'm goin' to pay the penalty.
I'll ride this white-pine outlaw through by myself. You ear him down
till I get both feet in the stirrups, then turn him a-loose; I'll
finish settin' up and I won't pull leather."
"How you talk! Boats ain't like horses; it'll take a good oarsman to
navigate these rapids--"
"Well?" Quirk looked up quickly. "I'm a good oarsman." There was a
momentary pause. "Ain't I?"
Mr. Linton hastily remedied his slip of the tongue. "You're a bear!" he
asserted, with feeling. "I don't know as I ever saw a better boatman
than you, for your weight and experience, but--there's a few things
about boats that you never had the chance to pick up, you being sort of
a cactus and alkali sailor. For instance, when you want a boat to go
'gee' you have to pull on the 'off' oar. It's plumb opposite to the way
you steer a horse."
"Sure! Didn't I figger that out for the both of us? We 'most had a
runaway till I doped it out."
Now this was a plain perversion of fact, for it was Tom who had made
the discovery. Mr. Linton was about to so state the matter when he
reflected that doubtless Jerry's intentions were honest and that his
failing memory was to blame for the misstatement. It was annoying to be
robbed of the credit for an important discovery, of course, but Tom
swallowed his resentment.
"The point is this," he said, with a resumption of geniality. "You'd
get all wet in them rapids, Jerry, and--you know what that means. I'd
rather take a chance on drowning myself than to nurse you through
another bad cold."
It was a perfectly sincere speech--an indirect expression of deep
concern that reflected no little credit upon the speaker's generosity.
Tom was exasperated, therefore, when Jerry, by some characteristic
process of crooked reasoning, managed to misinterpret it. Plaintively
the latter said:
"I s'pose I AM a handicap to you, Tom. You're mighty consid'rate of my
feelin's, not to throw it up to me any oftener than you do."
"I don't throw it up to you none. I never did. No, Jerry, I'll row the
boat. You go overland and keep your feet dry."
"A lot of good that would do." Mr. Quirk spoke morosely. "I'd starve to
death walkin' around if you lost the grub."
This struck Tom Linton as a very narrow, a very selfish way of looking
at the matter. He had taken no such view of Jerry's offer; he had
thought less about the grub than about his partner's safety. It was an
inconsiderate and unfeeling remark. After a moment he said:
"You know I don't throw things up to you, Jerry. I ain't that kind."
Mr. Quirk stirred uneasily. "You didn't mean to say that, did you?"
What Jerry would have answered is uncertain, for his attention at the
moment was attracted by a stranger who strode down the bank and now
accosted him and his partner jointly.
"Bonjour, m'sieu's!" said the new-comer. "I'm lookin' for buy some
lemon'. You got some, no?"
Mr. Quirk spoke irritably. "Sure. We've got a few, but they ain't for
sale."
The stranger--Quirk remembered him as the Frenchman, Doret, whom he had
seen at Sheep Camp--smiled confidently.
"Oh yes! Everyt'ing is for sale if you pay 'nough for him," said he.
Now this fellow had broken the thread of a conversation into which a
vague undertone of acrimony was creeping--a conversation that gave
every indication of developing into an agreeable and soul-satisfying
difference of opinion, if not even into a loud and free-spoken argument
of the old familiar sort. To have the promise of an invigorating
quarrel frustrated by an idiotic diversion concerning lemons caused
both old men to turn their pent-up exasperation upon the speaker.
"We've got use for our lemons and we're going to keep them," said Tom.
"We're lemon-eaters--full of acid--that's us."
"We wouldn't give lemon aid to nobody." Jerry grinned in malicious
enjoyment of his own wit.
"You got how many?" 'Poleon persisted.
"Oh, 'bout enough! Mebbe a dozen or two."
"I buy 'em. Dere's poor seeck lady--"
Tom cut in brusquely. "You won't buy anything here. Don't tell us your
troubles. We've got enough of our own, and poverty ain't among the
number."
"W'at trouble you got, eh? Me, I'm de trouble man. Mebbe I fix 'em."
Sourly the partners explained their difficulty. When 'Poleon understood
he smiled again, more widely.
"Good! I mak' bargain wit' you, queeck. Me, I'm pilot of de bes' an' I
tak' your boat t'rough for dose lemon'."
The elderly men sat up; they exchanged startled glances.
"D'you mean it?"
"I'm goin' have dose lemon'."
"Can't you buy any in the saloons?"
"No. Wal, w'at you say?"
Tom inquired of his partner, "Reckon you can get along without 'em,
Jerry?"
"Why, I been savin' 'em for you."
"Then it's a go!"
"One t'ing you do for me, eh?" 'Poleon hesitated momentarily. "It's
goin' tak' tam for fin' dam' fool to he'p me row dat bateau, but--I
fin' him. Mebbe you set up wit' li'l seeck gal while I'm gone. What?"
In a few words he made known the condition of affairs at his camp, and
the old men agreed readily enough. With undisguised relief they
clambered stiffly out of their boat and followed the French Canadian up
the trail. As they toiled up the slope 'Poleon explained:
"De doctor he's go to Dawson, an' t'ree day dis gal been layin'
seeck--crazee in de head. Every hour medicine, all de tam fire in de
stove! Sapre! I'm half 'sleep."
"We'll set up with her as long as you want," Tom volunteered. "Being a
family man myself, I'm a regular nurse."
"Me, too," Jerry exclaimed. "I never had no family, but I allus been
handy around hosses, and hosses is the same as people, only bigger--"
Mr. Linton stifled a laugh at this remark. "That'll show you!" said he.
"You leave it to me, Jerry."
"Well, ain't they?"
"No."
"They are, too."
"Plumb different."
The argument waxed hot; it had reached its height when 'Poleon laid a
finger upon his lips, commanding silence. On tiptoe he led the two men
into his tent. When he had issued instructions and left in search of a
boatman the partners seated themselves awkwardly, their caps in their
hands. Curiously, apprehensively, they studied the fever-flushed face
of the delirious girl.
"Purty, ain't she?" Jerry whispered.
Tom nodded. "She's sick, all right, too," he said in a similar tone;
then, after a moment: "I've been thinking about them lemons. We're
getting about a hundred dollars a dozen for 'em. Kind of a rotten
trick, under the circumstances. I'm sorry you put it up to that feller
the way you did."
Mr. Quirk stiffened, his eyes widened in astonishment.
"Me? I didn't put it up to him. You done it. They're your lemons."
"How d'you figure they're mine?"
"You bought 'em, didn't you?"
"I PAID for 'em, if that's what you mean, but I bought 'em for you,
same as I bought that liquor. You've et most of 'em, and you've drank
most of the whisky. You needed it worse than I did, Jerry, and I've
always considered--"
Now any reference, any reflection upon his physical limitations,
however remote or indirect, aroused Jerry's instant ire. "At it again,
ain't you?" he cried, testily. "I s'pose you'll forget about that
whisky in four or five years. I hope so--"
"'Sh-h!" Tom made a gesture commanding silence, for Jerry had
unconsciously raised his voice. "What ails you?" he inquired, sweetly.
"Nothin' ails me," Jerry muttered under his breath. "That's the
trouble. You're allus talkin' like it did--like I had one foot in the
grave and was gaspin' my last. I'm hard as a hickory-nut. I could throw
you down and set on you."
Mr. Linton opened hia bearded lips, then closed them again; he withdrew
behind an air of wounded dignity. This, he reflected, was his reward
for days of kindness, for weeks of uncomplaining sacrifice. Jerry was
the most unreasonable, the most difficult person he had ever met; the
more one did for him the crankier he became. There was no gratitude in
the man, his skin wouldn't hold it. Take the matter of their tent, for
instance: how would the old fellow have managed if he, Tom, had not,
out of pure compassion, taken pity on him and rescued him from the rain
back there at Linderman? Had Jerry remembered that act of kindness? He
had not. On the contrary, he had assumed, and maintained, an attitude
of indulgence that was in itself an offense--yes, more than an offense.
Tom tried to center his mind upon his partner's virtues, but it was a
difficult task, for honesty compelled him to admit that Jerry assayed
mighty low when you analyzed him with care. Mr. Linton gave up the
effort finally with a shake of his head.
"What you wigwaggin' about?" Jerry inquired, curiously. Tom made no
answer. After a moment the former speaker whispered, meditatively: "I'D
have GIVE him the lemons if he'd asked me for 'em. Sick people need
lemons."
"Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't," Mr. Linton whispered,
shortly.
"Lemons is acid, and acid cuts phlegm."
"Lemons ain't acid; they're alkali."
This statement excited a derisive snort from Mr. Quirk. "Alkali! My
God! Ever taste alkali?" Jerry had an irritating way of asserting
himself in regard to matters of which he knew less than nothing; his
was the scornful certainty of abysmal ignorance.
"Did you ever give lemons to sick folks?" Tom inquired, in his turn.
"Sure! Thousands."
Now this was such an outrageous exaggeration that Linton was impelled
to exclaim:
"RATS! You never SAW a thousand sick folks."
"I didn't say so. I said I'd given thousands of lemons--"
"Oh!" Tom filled his pipe and lit it, whereupon his partner breathed a
sibilant warning:
"Put out that smudge! D'you aim to strangle the girl?"
With a guilty start the offender quenched the fire with his thumb.
"The idea of lightin' sheep-dip in a sick-room!" Mr. Quirk went on.
With his cap he fanned violently at the fumes.
"You don't have to blow her out of bed," Tom growled. Clumsily he drew
the blankets closer beneath the sick girl's chin, but in so doing he
again excited his companion's opposition.
"Here!" Jerry protested. "She's burnin' up with fever. You blanket 'em
when they've got chills." Gently he removed the covers from Rouletta's
throat.
Linton showed his contempt for this ridiculous assertion by silently
pulling the bedding higher and snugly tucking it in. Jerry promptly
elbowed him aside and pulled it lower. Tom made an angry gesture, and
for a third time adjusted the covers to suit himself, whereupon Jerry
immediately changed them to accord with his ideas.
Aggressively, violently, but without words this time, the partners
argued the matter. They were glaring at each other, they had almost
come to blows when, with a start, Jerry looked at his watch. Swiftly he
possessed himself of the medicine-glass and spoon; to Tom he whispered:
"Quick! Lift her up."
Linton refused. "Don't you know ANYTHING?" he queried. "Never move a
sick person unless you have to. Give it to her as she lays."
"How you goin' to feed medicine out of a spoon to anybody layin' down?"
the other demanded.
"Easy!" Tom took the glass and the teaspoon; together the two men bent
over the bed.
But Linton's hands were shaky; when he pressed the spoon to Rouletta's
lips he spilled its contents. The girl rolled her head restlessly.
"Pshaw! She moved."
"She never moved," Jerry contradicted. "You missed her." From his
nostrils issued that annoying, that insulting, snort of derision which
so sorely tried his partner's patience. "You had a fair shot at her,
layin' down, Tom, and you never touched her."
"Maybe I'd have had better luck if you hadn't jiggled me."
"Hell! Who jiggled--?"
"'Sh--h!" Once more Mr. Quirk had spoken aloud. "If you've got to
holler, go down by the rapids."
After several clumsy attempts both men agreed that their patient had
doubtless received the equivalent of a full dose of medicine, so Tom
replaced the glass and spoon. "I'm a little out of practice," he
explained.
"I thought you done fine." Jerry spoke with what seemed to be genuine
commendation. "You got it into her nose every time."
Tom exploded with wrath and it was Jerry's turn to command silence.
"Why don't you hire a hall?" the latter inquired. "Or mebbe I better
tree a 'coon for you so you can bark as loud as you want to. Family
man! Huh!" Linton bristled aggressively, but the whisperer continued:
"One head of children don't make a family any more 'n one head of
heifers makes a herd."
Tom paled; he showed his teeth beneath his gray mustache. Leaning
forward, he thrust his quivering bearded face close to the hateful
countenance opposite him. "D'you mean to call my daughter a heifer?" he
demanded, in restrained fury.
"Keep them whiskers to yourself," Jerry snapped. "You can't pick a row
with me, Tom; I don't quarrel with nobody. I didn't call your daughter
a heifer, and you know I didn't. No doubt she would of made a fine
woman if she'd of grown up, but--Say! I bet I know why you lost her. I
bet you poured so much medicine in her crib that she drownded." Jerry
giggled at this thought.
"That ain't funny," the other rumbled. "If I thought you meant to call
a member of my family a heifer--"
"You've called your wife worse 'n that. I've heard you."
"I meant everything I said. She was an old catamount and--"
"Prob'bly she was a fine woman." Jerry had a discourteous habit of
interrupting. "No wonder she walked out and left you flat--she was
human. No doubt she had a fine character to start with. So did I, for
that matter, but there's a limit to human endurance."
"You don't have to put up with me any longer than you want to," Linton
stormed, under his breath. "We can get a divorce easy. All it takes is
a saw."
"You made that crack once before, and I called your bluff!" Jerry's
angry face was now out-thrust; only with difficulty did he maintain a
tone inaudible to the sick girl. "Out of pity I helped you up and
handed you back your crutches. But this time I'll let you lay where you
fall. A hundred dollars a dozen for lemons! For a poor little sick
girl! You 'ain't got the bowels of a shark!"
"It was your proposition!"
"It wasn't!"
"It was!"
"Some folks lie faster 'n a goat can gallop."
"Meaning me?"
"Who else would I mean?"
"Why don't you CALL me a liar and be done with it?"
"I do. It ain't news to anybody but you!"
Having safely landed his craft below the rapids, 'Poleon Doret hurried
back to his tent to find the partners sitting knee to knee, face to
face, and hurling whispered incoherencies at each other. Both men were
in a poisonous mood, both were ripe for violence. They overflowed with
wrath. They were glaring; they shook their fists; they were racked with
fury; insult followed abuse; and the sounds that issued from their
throats were like the rustlings of a corn-field in an autumn gale. Nor
did inquiry elicit a sensible explanation from either.
"Heifer, eh? Drowned my own child, did I?" Tom ground his teeth in a
ferocious manner.
"Don't file your tusks for me," Jerry chattered; "file the saw. We're
goin' to need it."
"You men goin' cut dat boat in two again?" 'Poleon inquired, with
astonishment.
"Sure. And everything we've got."
It was Linton who spoke; there was a light of triumph in his eyes, his
face was ablaze with an unholy satisfaction. "We've been drawing lots
for twenty minutes, and this time--I GOT THE STOVE!"