Joe McCaskey was not a coward, neither was he a superstitious man, but
he had imagination. The steady strain of his and Frank's long flight,
the certainty of pursuit close behind, had frayed his nerve and
rendered him jumpy. For a man in his condition to be awakened out of a
trancelike sleep by an intruder at once invisible, dumb; to feel the
presence of that mysterious visitor and actually to see him--it--bulked
dim and formless among the darting shadows cast by a blazing match--was
a test indeed. It was too much for Joe.
As for Frank, he had actually seen nothing, heard nothing except his
brother's voice, and then--that sigh. For that very reason his terror
was, if anything, even greater than his brother's.
During what seemed an age there was no sound except the stertorous
breathing of the McCaskeys themselves and the stir of the dogs outside.
The pale square of the single window, over which a bleached-out cotton
flour-sack had been tacked, let in only enough light to intensify the
gloom. Within the cabin was a blackness thick, tangible, oppressive;
the brothers stared into it with bulging eyes and listened with
ear-drums strained to the point of rupture. Oddly enough, this utter
silence augmented their agitation. Unable finally to smother the
evidence of his steadily growing fright, Frank uttered a half-audible
moan. Joe in the next bunk put it down as a new and threatening
phenomenon. What sort of thing was it that sighed and moaned thus? As
evidence of the direction Joe's mind was taking, he wondered if these
sounds could be the complaint of Courteau's unshriven spirit. It was a
shocking thought, but involuntarily he gasped the dead man's name.
A guilty conscience is a proven coward-maker; so, too, is a quick,
imaginative mind. It took only a moment or two to convince Joe that
this nocturnal interloper was not a creature of flesh and blood, but
some enormous, unmentionable, creeping thing come out of the other
world--out of the cold earth--to visit punishment upon him for his
crime. He could hear it stirring, finally, now here, now there; he
could make out the rustle of its grave-clothes. There is no doubt that
the cabin was full of half-distinguishable sounds--so is any warm
habitation--but to Joe's panicky imagination the nature of these
particular sounds indicated that they could not come from any normal,
living being. There was, for instance, a slow, asthmatic wheezing, like
the breath of a sorely wounded man; a stretching and straining as of a
body racked with mortal agony; even a faint bubbling choke like a
death-rattle heard in an adjoining chamber. These and others as
horribly suggestive. Joe's wild agitation distorted all of them, no
matter whether they came from his brother Frank, from the poorly
seasoned pole rafters overhead, or from the sleepy dogs outside, and
'Poleon Doret, with a grim internal chuckle, took advantage of the fact.
When finally the elder McCaskey heard his own name whispered, the last
shred of self-control left to him was whipped away; his wits went
skittering, and for a second time he groped with frantic, twitching
fingers for his revolver. He raised it and, with a yell, fired at
random into the blackness, meanwhile covering his eyes with his left
arm for fear of beholding in the sulphurous flash that bloodless,
fleshless menace, whatever it might be.
Somehow he managed to get out of bed and to place his back against the
wall, and there he cowered until he heard his brother's body threshing
about the floor. As a matter of fact, that shot had sent Frank
sprawling from his bunk, and he was striving to kick off the hampering
folds of his sleeping-bag, nothing more; but the thumping of his knees
and elbows bore a dreadful significance to the terrified listener.
Evidently the Thing had closed in--had grappled with Frank. Its hands,
damp with death sweat, even now were groping for him, Joe. The thought
was unbearable.
Blindly the elder brother thrust his revolver at full length in front
of him and pulled the trigger; Frank shrieked, but again and again Joe
fired, and when the last cartridge was spent he continued to snap the
weapon. He desisted only when he heard a voice, faint, but hoarse with
agony, crying:
"O God! You've shot me, Joe! You've shot me!"
Then and not until then, did a sort of sanity come to the wretch. The
revolver slipped from his fingers; he felt his bones dissolving into
water; a horror ten times greater than he had previously suffered fell
upon him. He tried to speak, to throw off this hideous nightmare, but
his voice came only as a dry, reedy whisper.
Frank was still now; he did not respond to his brother's incoherencies
except with a deep groaning that momentarily became more alarming.
"I--I--didn't--Christ! I didn't shoot you ... Frank! ... Answer me! Say
something. ..." Even yet the dread of that hobgoblin presence lay like
ice upon the elder brother; he feared to move lest he encounter it,
lest he touch it and it enfold him; but when Frank's twitching body
became still he fell to his knees and went groping forward on all-fours
in search of it. Death was here now. He had slain his brother and there
was NO LIGHT!
Joe began to sob and to chatter in a maudlin hysteria of fright and
apprehension. He succeeded in finding Frank by the sound of his
breathing, and he was pawing at him and wildly calling his name when at
his back a match was struck.
The sound, the flare, brought a scream from his throat. He cringed and
cowered; the pallid face he raised was slack-jawed, his gaze was that
of a crazy man.
Slowly, very slowly his dementia left him. His eyes were still
distended, to be sure, but into them sanity, recognition, began to
creep. He stared dazedly about him, and at last he managed to speak
Doret's name.
"Wh-what you doing--here?" he breathed.
"Me? I come to tak' you back." Joe shook his head weakly. "You can't.
We're across--safe." His eyes dropped to the prostrate body beside
which he knelt, and a new thought swiftly flooded his vacant mind.
"Look! You--Now I understand. YOU did it! YOU shot him. I never--BY
GOD!" The fellow's insane vehemence, the panting eagerness with which
he undertook to absolve himself from the hideous results of his deed,
argued that he loved his brother. He rose slowly to his feet, his
countenance flaming, his gaze fixed in an arresting expression of
mingled rage and horror upon the woodsman's face. "You did it, damn
you! Shot him, in the dark, asleep! Now you want me ... Take me back,
eh? You can't do it. I'm safe ... safe ... !"
'Poleon uttered a grunt. He leaned his carbine against the wall behind
him, and from his pocket he drew a thin cotton sled-rope. With this in
his hand he advanced upon the slayer.
McCaskey retreated. Weakly at first he fought off his captor; then, as
fear overwhelmed him, he became possessed of a phrenetic energy and
struggled with the strength of two men. He struck, he bit, he clawed,
he kicked. It was like the battle of a man with a beast--ferocious,
merciless--while it lasted. They rocked about the cabin, heedless of
the wounded man; the stove came crashing down and they trampled the
pipe under their feet.
But McCaskey collapsed as suddenly as he had flown to action. When
'Poleon trussed him up he had neither strength nor spirit either for
resistance or for resentment. He was as spineless as a wet sack. With
anguished eyes he watched his captor lift Frank into a bunk and then
proceed to do what remained to be done. Bleak of face, lifeless of
voice, hopeless of expression, he answered the questions put to him and
made no feeblest effort at concealment. He was, in fact, no longer
capable of any resistance, mental or physical.
Frank died as the first ashen streaks of dawn came through the window
and lit the sickly face of the brother who had slain him. There was no
longer need of the rope; in fact, Joe implored his captor with such
earnestness not to leave him alone that 'Poleon untied his hands,
feeling sure that he was impotent. Joe followed him outside, and stood
near by while he harnessed the dogs; he accompanied every step the
woodsman took--wild horses could not have dragged him away in his
present frame of mind--and finally, when they set out back toward the
Canadian Line, he shambled along ahead of the team with head down and
eyes averted from the gruesome bundle that lay in the sled. His
punishment had overtaken him and he was unequal to it.
Dawson was in ferment, for the news of another "strike" had come in and
a stampede was under way. Discoveries of gold, or rumors of them, had
been common. The camp had thrilled to many Arabian Nights tales, but
this one was quite the most sensational of all. So amazing, so
unbelievable was it, in truth, that those who had been too often fooled
laughed at it and declared it impossible on its face. Some woodcutters
on the hills above El Dorado had been getting out dry timber for the
drift fires, so ran the report, and in shooting the tree-trunks down
into the valley they had discovered a deposit of wash gravel. One of
them, possessed of the prospector's instinct, had gophered a capful of
the gravel from off the rim where the plunging tree-trunks had dug
through the snow and exposed the outcropping bedrock, and, to satisfy
his curiosity, had taken it down to camp for a test. He had thawed and
panned it; to his amazement, he had discovered that it carried an
astonishing value in gold--coarse, rough gold--exactly like that in the
creek pay-streak, except with less signs of abrasion and erosion. Rumor
placed the contents of that first prospect at ten dollars. Ten cents
would have meant the riches of Aladdin, but--ten dollars! No wonder the
wiseacres shook their heads. Ten dollars to the pan, on a hilltop!
Absurd! How did metal of that specific gravity get up there? How could
there be wash gravel on the crest of a mountain? There was no sense to
such a proposition.
But such old California placer miners as chanced to hear of it lost no
time in hitting the trail. They were familiar with high bars,
prehistoric riverbeds, and they went as fast as their old legs would
carry them.
More faith was put in the story when it became known that the diggings
were being deserted and that the men of El Dorado and Bonanza were
quitting their jobs, actually leaving their thawed drifts to freeze
while they scattered over the domes and saddles round about, staking
claims. That settled matters, so far as Dawson was concerned; men who
had dogs hitched them up, those who had none rolled their packs; soon
the trail up the Klondike was black and the recorder's office prepared
for riotous activity.
Those who had set out thus late met excited travelers hastening
townward, and from them obtained confirmation. Yes, the story was true,
more than true! The half had not been told as yet. Gold lay under the
grass roots where anybody could see it; it was more plentiful than in
the creeks--this was the richest thing ever known. "Frenchman's Hill,"
the discovery had been named, but all the ground for miles round about
had been already staked and now men were going even further afield. It
was well to hurry.
A frenzy took possession of the hearers, and they pressed on more
rapidly. This was like the rush of the autumn previous, from Dyea to
the Chilkoot, only here dogs flew under snapping lashes; pedestrians,
when shouldered aside, abandoned their burdens and sacrificed all to
speed. At the Forks the new arrivals scattered up over the hills, and
that night road-houses, cabins, tents, were crowded; men slept on
chairs, on floors; they stood around open fires.
Dawson awoke, on the second morning, to behold a long queue of fur-clad
miners waiting outside the Gold Commissioner's office; the town took on
an electric liveliness. This signified big things; it gave permanence;
it meant that Dawson was to be the world's first placer camp. Business
picked up, the saloons became thronged, on every corner knots of
gossiping men assembled. There began a considerable speculation in
claims on Frenchman's Hill; merchants planned larger stocks for the
next season; the price of town lots doubled.
Late that afternoon through the streets ran a cry that took every
foot-free man hurrying to the river-front. "Rock was coming!" In a
jiffy the vantage-points were crowded. Sure enough, far down the Yukon
two teams were approaching; with the smoke of Dawson in their nostrils
they were coming on the run, and soon the more keen-eyed spectators
announced that they could make out 'Poleon Doret. The lieutenant
himself, however, was not in evidence. Instantly speculation became
rife. Here was a sensation indeed, and when the second runner was
identified beyond question as Joe McCaskey, excitement doubled. Where
was Rock? Where was the other fugitive? What, in the name of all that
was unexpected, had occurred?
A shout of relief issued from the crowd when the teams drew in under
the bank and Rock sat up, waving a mittened hand; the shout was quickly
hushed as the lookers-on saw what sort of burden Joe McCaskey was
driving.
Up into the main street came the cavalcade. The crowd fell in alongside
and ran with it to the Barracks, clamoring for details, pouring
questions upon the returning travelers. Joe McCaskey, of course, was
speechless, this ordeal proving, as a matter of fact, scarcely less
trying than that other one at Sheep Camp when he had run the gauntlet.
As for Rock and the French Canadian, neither had much to say, and as a
result sensational stories soon spread through the resorts. The Mounted
Policeman had got his men, as usual, but only after a desperate affray
in which Frank McCaskey had fallen and the officer himself had been
wounded--so ran the first account. Those who had gone as far as the
Barracks returned with a fanciful tale of a siege in the snow and of
Rock's single-handed conquest of the two fugitives. These conflicting
reports were confusing and served to set the town so completely agog
that it awaited fuller details with the most feverish impatience. One
thing only was certain--the lieutenant had again made himself a hero;
he had put a new feather in his cap. Men lifted glasses to him and to
the Force. Such efficiency as this commanded their deepest respect and
admiration.
Pierce Phillips, of course, was the most eager member of that welcoming
throng. At the earliest moment he bore 'Poleon away to his cabin, and
there, when the last morbid curiosity-seeker had been shaken off and
the dogs had been attended to, he heard the story.
"You don' got no more worry," 'Poleon told him, with a smile. "Joe
keel' de Count."
"He confessed? Really?"
"Rouletta figger' it out jus' right. By golly! Dat's de smartes' gal!"
"She is indeed. But Frank? What happened? How did you manage--?"
'Poleon hesitated. There was a reason why he did not wish the details
of that affair on the upper Forty Mile to become public. Joe McCaskey
was beginning to talk loudly about his outraged rights, his
citizenship, international law, and such incomprehensible things--but
stronger by far than any fear of consequences to himself, remote at
best, 'Poleon felt a desire to help his friend, the Police lieutenant.
Rock was deeply humiliated at his weak failure in living up to his
reputation; he felt that he had cut a very sorry figure indeed; and,
although he had undertaken to conceal that feeling from 'Poleon, the
latter had read him like a book and had secretly made up his mind to
give full credit to the officer, eliminating himself as much as
possible. There was no reason why the actual facts should be made
public, so far as he could see, and, once an artfully colored account
of the exploit had gained currency, Rock could not well contradict it.
He might, undoubtedly would, make a truthful report to his superiors,
but 'Poleon determined that in the eyes of the hero-worshiping people
of Dawson the fellow should still remain a hero and stand for one
hundred per cent. efficiency. That was quite as it should be.
It was not difficult to distort the story enough to reverse the roles
he and the officer had played, and, when he had finished, Pierce was
loud in his praise of the Mounted Policeman.
"Well, things happened here, too," the youth declared. Succinctly he
told the story of Laure's delayed confession proving that he had been
the victim of a deliberate conspiracy. "Believe me, I'm glad it has all
come out so well," he said. "People didn't actually accuse me, but I
was conscious of their suspicion, their doubt. I had talked too much.
Then, too, there was that beastly rumor about the Countess and me. It
was fierce! Appearances were strong. I'd--have gone on the stampede,
only I didn't have the heart. You've heard about that, of course? The
new strike?" When 'Poleon shook his head the young man's eyes kindled.
"Why, man," he broke out, "the town's crazy! dippy! It's the biggest
thing ever! Frenchman's Hill, it's called. Get that? Frenchman's Hill!"
"Some French feller mak' lucky strike, eh?" 'Poleon was not greatly
interested. "Where de place is? Who dis Frenchman?"
"It's a high bar somewhere above El Dorado--a mountain of pay
gravel--an old river-bed or something. They say it's where all the gold
came from, the mother lode. You can see it right at the grass roots--"
'Poleon started and his mouth opened; then he shook his head.
"By Gar! Dat's fonny! I seen gravel up dere, but me--I'm onlucky. Never
I quite get not'in'; always I'm close by when 'noder feller mak'
strike."
Pierce still managed to control himself enough to explain: "They were
shooting dead timber down into the gulch and they wore the snow off
where the rim cropped out. It happened to be staked ground right
there." Pierce's excitement, the odd light in his dancing eyes, bore to
'Poleon a significance. "Some Frenchman had taken it up, so they called
it Frenchman's Hill."
Doret's blank, confounded stare caused the speaker finally to blurt
out: "Good Heavens! man, wake up! I'm trying to break the news gently
that you're a millionaire--the Frenchman of Frenchman's Hill. I don't
want you to faint. First time in history a miner ever left his claim
and another fellow came along--"
Doret uttered a feeble cry and rose to his feet. "Ma soeur!" he
exclaimed. "She's got claim up dere--I stake it for her. For me, I don'
care if I lose mine--plenty tam I come jus' so close as dis; but if dem
feller jump her groun'--"
"Wait, wait! There's no question of anything like that. Nobody has
jumped your claim, or hers, either. The law wouldn't let 'em. I wonder
if she knows--Why, she CAN'T know! I left her not two hours ago--"
"She don' know?"
Pierce shook his head. "She doesn't dream. I wish I'D known. I'd have
loved to tell her."
'Poleon Doret gazed fixedly, curiously at the speaker. He nodded his
head. A peculiar, set, hopeless look crept into his eyes; his broad
shoulders sagged wearily. He had traveled far and swiftly on this young
man's affairs; he had slept but little; and now a great fatigue
mastered him. Oddly enough, too, that fierce, consuming desire to see
Rouletta which had hourly gnawed at him was gone; all at once he felt
that she was quite the last person he wished to face. This weakness,
this smallness of spirit, was only temporary, he assured himself; it
would soon pass, and then he would find the strength to go to her with
his customary smile, his mask in place. Now, however, he was empty,
cheerless, frightened by the portent of this new thing. It could have
but one significance--it meant that he would lose his "sister," that
she would have no further need of him.
Well, that was all right. It was something like this that he had worked
for. Why cherish a mean envy of this happy boy? Why permit a narrow
selfishness to mar this supreme moment?
Doret was not a grudging giver; he straightened himself finally, and
into his tired eyes there came the gleam that Phillips had been waiting
for.
"Bien!" he breathed. "My li'l bird goin' wear de plumage she deserve.
She's goin' be reech an' happy all her life. By golly! Dat's nice, for
fac'. I feel lak gettin' drunk."
"She'd never stand for that."
"I spec' you tol' her you an' me is pardners on dis Frenchman' Hill,
eh? An' she's glad 'bout dat--"
"Oh, see here!" Pierce's tone changed abruptly. "Of course I didn't
tell her. That's cold; it's off. D'you think I'd permit--" The boy
choked and stammered. "D'you imagine for a minute that I'd let you go
through with a proposition like that? I understand why you made it--to
get me away from the life I've been leading. It was bully of you,
but--well, hardly. I'm not that sort. No, I've laid off the old stuff,
absolutely--straightened out. I've lived ten years in the last ten
days. Wait and see. 'Poleon, I'm the happiest, the most deliriously
happy man you ever saw. I only want one thing. That's work and lots of
it--the harder the better, so long as it's honest and self-respecting.
What d'you think of that?"
"W'at I t'ink?" the woodsman said, warmly. "I t'ink dat's de bes' news
of all. Mon ami, you got reecher pay-streak in you as Frenchman' Hill,
if only you work 'im hard. But you need pardner to get 'im out." He
winked meaningly. "I guess mebbe you fin' dat pardner, eh?"
Pierce flushed; he nodded vigorously and laughed in the purest,
frankest joy. "You're a good guesser. A partner--life partner!
I--She--Oh, my Lord! I'm overflowing! I'm--Funny thing, I've never said
a word to her; she doesn't know--"
"Ho, ho!" cried the elder man.
"Oh, she does know, of course. If she didn't I wouldn't feel as I do,
but we've never actually mentioned it. I've got to prove myself,
understand? It came to me of a sudden, struck me all in a heap, I can
tell you. I saw what a fool I'd made of myself. What a damnable thing
chance is, anyhow! It makes you, breaks you; carries you along and
leaves you stranded finally, then sweeps you on again. Fortunately,
she's big enough to understand and make allowances. If she weren't, I'd
die. I wouldn't want to live and not make good. It's ecstasy and
it's--pain. I'm frightened, too, at my own unworthiness--" Abruptly the
speaker's voice ceased and he bowed his head.
'Poleon wet his dry lips and essayed to speak, but he could find
nothing to say. Of course Rouletta was big enough to understand and
make allowance for any human shortcomings. She was the sanest, the most
liberal, the most charitable of girls. And it was true, too, that love
came unbidden. He had learned that, to his cost. It was pretty hard to
stand quietly and lend a sympathetic ear to this lucky devil; it took
an effort to maintain a smile, to keep a friendly gaze fixed upon
Phillips' face. The big fellow was growing weary of forever fighting
himself. It would be a relief to get away and to yield to his misery.
But with a lover's fatuous absorption in his own affairs Pierce
resumed: "I've been thinking lately how I came to this country looking
for Life, the big adventure. Everything that happened, good or bad, was
part of a stage play. I've been two people in one--the fellow who did
things and the fellow who looked on and applauded--actor and audience.
It was tremendously interesting in an unreal sort of way, and I jotted
everything down mentally. I was stocking up with experience.
Understand? Well, the whole thing has suddenly become very different.
I'm not in the gallery now, not in the theater at all, not acting. And
I thank God for it. I don't imagine that I make myself plain in the
least--"
Evidently he had not; evidently, too, his auditor's mind had strayed
slightly, for the latter said:
"I s'pose you t'inkin' all at once 'bout gettin'--marry, eh?"
Phillips paled; he uttered a panicky denial. "Not yet! Oh no--! That
is, I've THOUGHT about it a good deal--can't think of anything
else--but it's too early yet. I'm in no position; I must make good
first."
"For why it's too early? Mebbe dis gal goin' tak' lot of fun in he'p
you mak' good."
"I wonder--"
"Sure t'ing. All women is lak dat. You goin' t'ink of her after dis,
not yourse'f. She's got money--"
"Oh yes. That makes it hard, still--"
"Wal, you ain't broke, my frien', not wit' half interes' in Discovery
on Frenchman' Hill."
"Once and for all," Pierce protested, in extreme agitation, "I tell you
I won't take it. My Lord! that's generous! You're a princely fellow,
Doret, but--the most you can give me is a job. Work? Yes, I'll eat that
up."
"All right. We talk 'bout dat 'noder tam. Now, mebbe so she lak hear de
lates' news from you. Dere's plenty for tellin' her--'bout Joe McCaskey
an' all de res'. You can spoke now, lak hones' man. Sapre! Don' you
s'pose she's waitin' to hear you say you love her? An' how you goin'
mak' big success? By Gar! I keeck you out dis cabin if you keep her
waitin' some more!"
With a cry, half of trepidation, half of exultance, Phillips crushed
his cap upon his head. "I--I've a notion to. I can ALMOST say it;
anyhow, I can say enough so she'll understand. Gad! I will! I just
needed you to stiffen me up." Fiercely he wrung the woodsman's hand,
and, forgetful of all else but his new determination, moved toward the
door. "Thanks for all you've done for me, old man, and all you've
offered to do."
"Frenchman' Hill is nice place for two nestin' doves--fine place for
sing an' be happy," the other reminded him.
In a choking voice Pierce exclaimed: "You're a prince, Doret, and I
won't forget! A prince!"
He was gone; the cabin door had slammed shut with a crash. 'Poleon sank
to a seat and with a long sigh bowed his head.
It was over; he had done his bit. For a long while he remained there
inert, his patient, haggard face bent, his eyes fixed upon the floor.
He felt very old, very much used up, and the labor of thinking was
unbearable. When the fire had died and a chill had crept into the room
he roused himself to note that it had grown dark. Manifestly, this
would not do; there was the problem of living still to face. Sooner or
later this very evening he must go to Rouletta and pretend to a
joyousness he could never again know. That meant more smiles, more
effort; it would take all he had in him to carry it off, and,
meanwhile, the more he let his mind dwell upon her the more unbearable
became his thoughts. This solitude was playing tricks with him. Enough
of it! He must get out into the lights; he must hear voices and regain
the mastery of himself through contact with sane people. Perhaps in the
saloons, the restaurants, he could absorb enough laughter to make safe
the mockery he purposed; perhaps it would enable him to stamp a grin
upon his features.
But his impulse was futile; in spite of himself he shrank from people
and hid himself unobtrusively in a corner of the first place he
entered. He was hurt, wounded, sick to death; he longed to creep away
somewhere and be alone with his pain.
In order that he might the sooner be free to do so, he rose finally and
slunk out upon the street. It would soon be time for Rouletta to go to
work. He would get it over with.
Cap in hand, his heart beating heavily at the prospect of merely seeing
her, he came on noiseless soles to her door. He could hear her stirring
inside, so he took a deep breath and rapped softly.
She uttered a cry when she saw him standing there; then a sudden pallor
crept into her cheeks, a queer constraint enveloped her. Nevertheless,
she put both her hands in his and drew him across the threshold. She
said something which neither of them understood.
'Poleon's ears were roaring, but after a few moments he discovered that
she was gently chiding him. Where had he been? Why had he delayed so
long, knowing all the time that she was dying to see him and to hear
his story? He could not understand her embarrassment, her shyness, the
fact that she seemed hurt.
"Wal, I'm tucker' out wit' travelin'," he declared. "Dat's hardes' trip
ever I mak'. You hear 'bout 'im, eh?--'bout how McCaskey tell de truth?"
Rouletta nodded, with a curious little smile upon her lips. "Yes. I
heard all about it, the first thing--how Rock ran down those
fellows--everything. The town was ringing with his name inside of an
hour. Of course, I went to the Barracks, finally, looking for you. I'm
just back. I saw the lieutenant and--he told me the true story."
'Poleon stirred uncomfortably.
"He swore at you roundly and said he'd take it out of your skin as soon
as he was able--giving him the credit. He told me it was you who did it
all--how you followed those men over the Line, alone, after he played
out; how Joe McCaskey killed his own brother in trying to kill you. But
the whole thing is public now. I heard it as I came back. You're quite
a famous character in Dawson to-night, 'Poleon dear, what with this and
with Frenchman's Hill."
"Ho! Dat Frenchman' Hill," the man broke out, hurriedly. "It's beeg
s'prise for us, eh? Pierce told you 'bout dat?"
"Pierce?" The girl shook her head vaguely.
"You 'member I stake two claim', one for you, one for me. By golly! ma
soeur, you're millionaire."
"I remembered, of course," Rouletta said, faintly. "I--" She closed her
eyes. "I couldn't believe it, however. At first I didn't understand
where the strike had been made; then I couldn't credit it. I thought I
was dreaming--"
"You dream as much as you can," 'Poleon said, warmly. "Dey all come
true now. What? Everyt'ing come out nice, eh?"
Rouletta opened her eyes. They were shining; so, too, was her face.
"Yes, my dream has come true--that is, my biggest, finest dream.
I'm--the happiest girl in the world, 'Poleon."
"Ma soeur!" the man cried brokenly and with a depth of feeling that
even Rouletta could not fathom. "I give my life to hear you say dose
word', to see dat light in your eye. No price too high for dat."
A silence, throbbing, intense, fell between them, Rouletta felt her
heart-beats swaying her. She opened her lips, but no sound issued. The
figure before her was growing misty and she had to wink the tears back
into place.
"'Ma soeur!'" she echoed, faintly. "I love to hear you say that, dear.
It has grown to be a caress, a--kiss, when you say it. But I've
something to tell you--"
"I know."
"Something you don't know and would never guess. I've found another
brother." When he stared at her in open bewilderment she repeated:
"Yes, another brother. I took him for something altogether different,
but--" She laughed happily. "What do you think of a girl who doesn't
know her own mind? Who lets the one man, the real man, go away? She
doesn't deserve much, does she?"
"Ma soeur! Ma soeur!" the big fellow cried, hoarsely. He had fallen all
atremble now; he could have believed himself demented only for
something in Rouletta's face. "You mean--HIM? Wat's dis you sayin'?"
"I mean him--you. Who else could I mean? He doesn't care for me, but
for another, and I'm--oh, so glad!"
"Mon Dieu!" 'Poleon gasped. "For why you look at me lak dat?
Don'--don'--!" His cry was one of pain, of reproach; he closed his eyes
the while he strove to still his working features. He opened them with
a snap when a small, warm, tremulous hand closed over his.
"You wouldn't mind if he called me his sister, if--if you called
me--something else, would you, dear?"
"Oh, ma soeur!" he whispered. "I'm poor, ignorant feller. I ain't no
good. But you--de bes' man in all de worl' would love you."
"He does, but he won't say so," Rouletta declared. "Come, must I say it
for him?"
One last protest the fellow voiced. "Me, I'm rough-neck man. I scarcely
read an' write. But you--"
"I'm a gambler's daughter, nothing more--a bold and forward creature.
But I'm done with dealing. I'm tired of the game and henceforth I'm
going to be the 'lookout'--your 'lookout,' dear." With a choking little
laugh the girl drew nearer, and, lifting his hands, she crept inside
his arms. Then as life, vigor, fire succeeded his paralysis, she swayed
closer, until her breast was against his.
With a wordless, hungry cry of ecstasy, so keen that it was akin to
agony, 'Poleon Doret enfolded her in his great embrace. "Don' spoke no
more," he implored her. "I'll be wakin' up too soon."
They stood so for a long time before she raised her dewy lips to his.
THE END