Laure had no cause to repeat her admonition, for, in the days that
followed, Pierce Phillips maintained toward the women members of the
party an admirable attitude of aloofness. He was not rude, neither was
he discourteous; he merely isolated himself from them and discouraged
their somewhat timid advances toward friendship. This doubtless would
have met with Laure's whole-hearted approval had he not treated her in
precisely the same way. She had at first assumed a somewhat triumphant
air of proprietorship toward him, but this quickly gave way to
something entirely different. They began to know each other, to be
sure; for hours upon end they were together, which could have resulted
in nothing less than a thorough acquaintance; notwithstanding this,
there lurked behind Phillips' friendly interest an emotional apathy
that piqued the girl and put her on her mettle. She hid her chagrin
under an assumption of carelessness, but furtively she studied him, for
every hour he bulked bigger to her. He exercised a pronounced effect
upon her; his voice, his laughter, brought a light and a sparkle to her
eyes; she could not rest when he was out of her sight. His appeal,
unconscious on his part, struck to the very core of her being. To
discover that she lacked a similar appeal for him roused the girl to
desperation; she lay awake nights, trying to puzzle out the reason, for
this was a new experience to her. Recalling their meeting and the
incidents of that first night at White Horse, she realized that here
was a baffling secret and that she did not possess the key to it.
One night the truth came home to her. Best had made camp later than
usual, and as a result had selected a particularly bad spot for it--a
brushy flat running back from a high, overhanging bank beneath which
ran a swirling eddy.
The tents were up, a big camp-fire was blazing brightly, when Pierce
Phillips, burdened with a huge armful of spruce boughs and blinded by
the illumination, stepped too close to the river's rim and felt the
soil beneath him crumble away. Down he plunged, amid an avalanche of
earth and gravel; the last sound he heard before the icy waters
received him was Laure's affrighted scream. An instant later he had
seized a "sweeper," to which he clung until help arrived. He was wet to
the skin, of course; his teeth were chattering by the time he had
regained the camp-fire. Of the entire party, Laure alone had no comment
to make upon the accident. She stood motionless, leaning for support
against a tent-pole, her face hidden in her hands. Best's song-birds
were noisily twittering about Pierce; Best himself was congratulating
the young man upon his ability to swim, when Laure spoke, sharply,
imperiously:
"Somebody find his dry things, quickly. And you, Morris, get your
whisky."
While one of the men ran for Pierce's duffle-bag, Best came hurrying
with a bottle which he proffered to Pierce. The latter refused it,
asserting that he was quite all right; but Laure exclaimed:
"Drink! Take a good one, then go into our tent and change as fast as
you can."
"Sure!" the manager urged. "Don't be afraid of good liquor. There isn't
much left. Drink it all."
A short time later, when Pierce reappeared, clad in dry garments, he
felt none the worse for his mishap, but when he undertook to aid in the
preparations for the night he suspected that he had taken his
employer's orders too literally, for his brain was whirling. Soon he
discovered that his movements were awkward and his hands uncertain, and
when his camp-mates began to joke he desisted with a laughing
confession that he had imbibed too much.
Laure drew him out of hearing, then inquired, anxiously, "Are you all
right again?"
"Sure! I feel great."
"I--I thought I'd die when I saw you disappear." She shuddered and hid
her face in her hands for a second time. It was quite dark where they
stood; they were sheltered from observation.
"Served me right," he declared. "Next time I'll look where--" He halted
in amazement. "Why, Laure, I believe you're crying!"
She lifted her face and nodded. "I'm frightened yet." She laid
trembling, exploratory hands upon him, as if to reassure herself of his
safety. "Pierce! Pierce!" she exclaimed, brokenly.
Suddenly Phillips discovered that this girl's concern affected him
deeply, for it was genuine--it was not in the least put on. All at once
she seemed very near to him, very much a part of himself. His head was
spinning now and something within him had quickened magically. There
was a new note in his voice when he undertook to reassure his
companion. At his first word Laure looked up, startled; into her dark
eyes, still misty with tears, there flamed a light of wonder and of
gladness. She swayed closer; she took the lapels of his coat between
her gloved fingers and drew his head down to hers; then she kissed him
full upon the lips. Slowly, resolutely, his arms encircled her.
On the following morning Laure asked Morris Best for a bottle of
whisky. The evenings were growing cold and some of the girls needed a
stimulant while camp was being pitched, she explained. The bottle she
gave to Pierce, with a request to stow it in his baggage for
safekeeping, and that night when they landed, cramped and chilly, she
prevailed upon him to open it and to drink. The experiment worked.
Laure began to understand that when Pierce Phillips' blood flowed
warmly, when he was artificially exhilarated, then he saw her with the
eyes of a lover. It was not a flattering discovery, but the girl
contented herself, for by now she was desperate enough to snatch at
straws. Thenceforth she counted upon strong drink as her ally.
The closing scenes of the great autumn stampede to Dawson were
picturesque, for the rushing river was crowded with boats all racing
with one another. 'Neath lowering skies, past ghostly shores seen dimly
through a tenuous curtain of sifting snowflakes, swept these craft;
they went by ones and by twos, in groups and in flotillas; hourly the
swirling current bore them along, and as the miles grew steadily less
the spirits of the crews mounted. Loud laughter, songs, yells of
greeting and encouragement, ran back and forth; a triumphant
joyfulness, a Jovian mirth, animated these men of brawn, for they had
met the North and they had bested her. Restraint had dropped away by
now, and they reveled in a new-found freedom. There was license in the
air, for Adventure was afoot and the Unknown beckoned.
Urged on by oar and sweep, propelled by favoring breezes, the Argonauts
pressed forward exultantly. At night their roaring camp-fires winked at
one another like beacon lights along some friendly channel. Unrolling
before them was an endless panorama of spruce and birch and cottonwood,
of high hills white with snow, of unexplored valleys dark with promise.
As the Yukon increased in volume it became muddy, singing a low,
hissing song, as if the falling particles of snow melted on its surface
and turned to steam.
Out of all the traffic that flowed past the dance-hall party, among all
the boats they overhauled and left behind, Pierce Phillips nowhere
recognized the Countess Courteau's outfit. Whether she was ahead or
whether they had outdistanced her he did not know and inquiry rewarded
him with no hint.
During this journey a significant change gradually came over the young
man. Familiarity, a certain intimacy with his companions, taught him
much, and in time he forgot to look upon them as pariahs. Best, for
instance, proved to be an irritable but good-hearted little Hebrew; he
developed a genuine fondness for Pierce, which he took every occasion
to show, and Pierce grew to like him. The girls, too, opened their
hearts and made him feel their friendship. For the most part they were
warm, impulsive creatures, and Pierce was amazed to discover how little
they differed from the girls he had known at home. Among their faults
he discovered unusual traits of character; there was not a little
kindliness, generosity, and of course much cheerfulness. They were
free-handed with what they had; they were ready with a smile, a word of
encouragement or of sympathy; they were absurdly grateful, too, for the
smallest favor or the least act of kindness. Moreover, they behaved
themselves extremely well.
They were an education to Phillips; he acknowledged that he had gravely
misjudged them, and he began to suspect that they had taught him
something of charity.
As for Laure, he knew her very well by now and she knew him--even
better. This knowledge had come to them not without cost--wisdom is
never cheap--but precisely what each of them had paid or was destined
to pay for their better understanding of each other they had not the
slightest idea. One thing the girl by this time had made sure of, viz.,
when Pierce was his natural self he felt her appeal only faintly. On
the other hand, the moment he was not his natural self, the moment his
pitch was raised, he saw allurements in her, and at such times they met
on common ground. She made the most of this fact.
Dawson City burst into view of the party without warning, and no El
Dorado could have looked more promising. Hounding a bend of the river,
they beheld a city of logs and canvas sprawled between the stream and a
curving mountain-side. The day was still and clear, hence vertical
pencil-markings of blue smoke hung over the roofs; against the white
background squat dwellings stood out distinctly, like diminutive dolls'
houses. Upon closer approach the river shore was seen to be lined with
scows and rowboats; a stern-wheeled river steamer lay moored abreast of
the town. Above it a valley broke through from the north, out of which
poured a flood of clear, dark water. It was the valley of the Klondike,
magic word.
The journey was ended. Best's boats were unloaded, his men had been
paid off, and now his troupe had scattered, seeking lodgings. As in a
dream Pierce Phillips joined the drifting current of humanity that
flowed through the long front streets and eddied about the entrances of
amusement places. He asked himself if he were indeed awake, if, after
all, this was his Ultima Thule? Already the labor, the hardship, the
adventure of the trip seemed imaginary; even the town itself was
unreal. Dawson was both a disappointment and a satisfaction to Pierce.
It was not what he had expected and it by no means filled the splendid
picture he had painted in his fancy. Crude, raw, unfinished, small, it
was little more than Dyea magnified. But in enterprise it was
tremendous; hence it pleased and it thrilled the youth. He breathed its
breath, he drank the wine of its intoxication, he walked upon air with
his head in the clouds.
Pierce longed for some one to whom he could confide his feeling of
triumph, but nowhere did he recognize a face. Finally he strolled into
one of the larger saloons and gambling-houses, and was contentedly
eying the scene when he felt a gaze fixed upon him. He turned his head,
opened his lips to speak, then stiffened in his tracks. He could not
credit his senses, for there, lounging at ease against the bar, his
face distorted into an evil grin, stood Joe McCaskey!
Pierce blinked; he found that his jaw had dropped in amazement.
McCaskey enjoyed the sensation he had created; he leered at his former
camp-mate, and in his expression was a hint of that same venom he had
displayed when he had run the gauntlet at Sheep Camp after his
flogging, He broke the spell of Pierce's amazement and proved himself
to be indeed a reality by uttering a greeting.
Pierce was inclined to ignore the salutation, but curiosity got the
better of him and he answered:
"Well! This is a surprise. Do you own a pair of seven-league boots
or--what?"
McCaskey bared his teeth further. In triumph he said: "Thought you'd
lost me, didn't you? But I fooled you-fooled all of you. I jumped out
to the States and caught the last boat for St. Michael, made
connections there with the last up-river packet, and--here I am. I
don't quit; I'm a finisher."
Pierce noted the emphasis with which Joe's last words were delivered,
but as yet his curiosity was unsatisfied. He wondered if the fellow was
sufficiently calloused to disregard his humiliating experience or if he
proposed in some way to conceal it. Certainly he had not evaded
recognition, nor had he made the slightest attempt to alter his
appearance. From his bold insouciance it seemed evident that he was
totally indifferent as to who recognized him. Either the man possessed
moral courage of the extremest sort or else an unbelievable effrontery.
As for Pierce, he was deeply resentful of Joe's false accusation--the
memory of that was ineradicable--nevertheless, in view of the outcome
of that cowardly attempt, he had no desire for further revenge. It
seemed to him that the fellow had been sufficiently punished for his
misdeed; in fact, he could have found it easy to feel sorry for him had
it not been for the ill-concealed malice in Joe's present tone and
attitude.
He was upon the point of answering Joe's indirect threat with a
warning, when his attention was attracted to a short, thick-set,
nervous man at his elbow. The latter had edged close and was staring
curiously at him. He spoke now, saying:
"So you're Phillips, eh?"
It was Joe who replied: "Sure. This is him."
There was no need of an introduction. Pierce recognized the stranger as
another McCaskey, for the family likeness was stamped upon his
features. During an awkward moment the two men eyed each other, and Joe
McCaskey appeared to gloat as their glances clashed.
"This is Frank," the latter explained, with a malicious grin. "He and
Jim was pals. And, say! Here's another guy you ought to meet." He laid
a hand upon still a second stranger, a man leaning across the bar in
conversation with a white-aproned attendant. "Count, here's that fellow
I told you about."
The man addressed turned, exposing a handsome, smiling blond face
ornamented with a well-cared-for mustache. "I beg pardon?" he
exclaimed, vacuously.
"Meet Phillips. He can give you some dope on your wife." Joe chuckled.
Phillips flushed; then he paled; his face hardened.
"Ah! To be sure." Count Courteau bowed, but he did not extend his hand.
"Phillips! Yes, yes. I remember. You will understand that I'm
distracted for news of Hilda. She is with you, perhaps?"
"I left her employ at White Horse. If she's not here, she'll probably
arrive soon."
"Excellent; I shall surprise her."
Pierce spoke dryly. "I'm afraid it won't be so much of a surprise as
you think. She rather expects you." With a short nod and with what
pretense of carelessness he could assume he moved on toward the rear of
the building, whence came the sounds of music and the voice of a
dance-hall caller.
For some time he looked on blindly at the whirling figures. Joe
McCaskey here! And Count Courteau! What an astonishing coincidence! And
yet there was really nothing so remarkable about it; doubtless the same
ship had brought them north, in which event they could not well have
avoided a meeting. Pierce remembered Hilda's prophecy that her indigent
husband would turn up, like a bad penny. His presence was
agitating--for that matter, so was the presence of Joe McCaskey's
brother Frank, as yet an unknown quantity. That he was an enemy was
certain; together, he and Joe made an evil team, and Pierce was at a
loss just how to meet them.
Later, when he strolled out of the saloon, he saw the three men still
at the bar; their heads were together; they were talking earnestly.