talk with your hostess. I'm sure she will let you walk out with your
borrowed finery, just like Cinderella. You'll need a nice thick coat,
too."
"But this is her very, very best dress."
"She shall receive, on the next ship, a big box all lined with
tissue-paper, with the imprint of the most fashionable dressmaker in
Seattle. I'll arrange all that by cable."
"You don't know how she loves it," the girl said, doubtfully.
"Come! Call her in. If I'm to be a prince you mustn't doubt my power."
Nor did the event prove him over-confident. Before he had fairly made
known his request the good lady of the house was ready to surrender not
only her best Sunday gown, but her fluttering heart as well. Murray
O'Neil had a way of making people do what he wanted, and women
invariably yielded to him.
IV
HOW A JOURNEY ENDED AT HOPE
To Natalie Gerard the trip down the bay and into the sound that night
was a wonderful adventure. She remembered it afterward far more vividly
than the shipwreck, which became blurred in retrospect, so that she
soon began to think of it as of some half-forgotten nightmare. To begin
with, the personality of Murray O'Neil intrigued her more and more. The
man was so strong, so sympathetic, and he had such a resistless way of
doing things. The stories she had heard of him were romantic, and the
superintendent's wife had not allowed them to suffer in the telling.
Natalie felt elated that such a remarkable person should exert himself
on her behalf. And the journey itself impressed her imagination deeply.
Although it was nine o'clock when they boarded the launch, it was still
light. The evening was yellow with the peculiar diffused radiance of
high latitudes, lending a certain somberness to their surroundings.
The rushing tide, the ragged rock-teeth which showed through it, the
trackless, unending forests that clothed the hills in every direction,
awed her a little, yet gave her an unaccustomed feeling of freedom and
contentment. The long wait out between the lonely islands, where the
tiny cockle-shell rolled strangely, although the sea seemed as level as
a floor, held a subtle excitement. Darkness crept down out of the
unpeopled gorges and swallowed them up, thrilling her with a sense of
mystery.
When midnight came she found that she was ravenously hungry, and she
was agreeably surprised when O'Neil produced an elaborate lunch. There
were even thermos bottles filled with steaming hot coffee, more
delicious, she thought, than anything she had ever before tasted. He
called the meal their after-theater party, pretending that they had
just come from a Broadway melodrama of shipwreck and peril. The subject
led them naturally to talk of New York, and she found he was more
familiar with the city than she.
"I usually spend my winters there," he explained.
"Then you have an office in the city?"
"Oh yes. I've maintained a place of business there for years."
"Where is it? On Wall Street?"
"No!" he smiled. "On upper Fifth Avenue. It's situated in the extreme
southwest corner of the men's cafe at the Holland House. It consists of
a round mahogany table and a leather settee."
"Really!"
"That's where I'm to be found at least four months out of every twelve."
"They told me you built railroads."
"I do--when I'm lucky enough to underbid my competitors. But that isn't
always, and railroads aren't built every day."
"Mr. Gordon is building one."
"So I'm told." O'Neil marveled at the trick of fortune which had
entangled this girl and her mother in the web of that brilliant and
unscrupulous adventurer.
"Perhaps it will be a great success like your famous North Pass & Yukon
Railway."
"Let us hope so." He was tempted to inquire what use Gordon had made of
that widely advertised enterprise in floating his own undertaking, but
instead he asked:
"Your mother has invested heavily, has she not?"
"Not in the railroad. Her fortune, and mine too, is all in the coal
mines."
O'Neil smothered an exclamation.
"What is it?" she demanded.
"Nothing, only--are you sure?"
"Oh, quite sure! The mines are rich, aren't they?"
"There are no mines," he informed her, "thanks to our misguided
lawmakers at Washington. There are vast deposits of fine coal which
would--make mines if we were allowed to work them, but--we are not
allowed."
"'We'? Are you a--a coal person, like us?"
"Yes. I was one of the first men in the Kyak fields, and I invested
heavily. I know Mr. Gordon's group of claims well. I have spent more
than a hundred thousand dollars trying to perfect my titles and I'm no
nearer patent now than I was to begin with--not so near, in fact. I
fancy Gordon has spent as much and is in the same fix. It is a coal
matter which brings me to Alaska now."
"I hardly understand."
"Of course not, and you probably won't after I explain. You see the
Government gave us--gave everybody who owns coal locations in
Alaska--three years in which to do certain things; then it extended
that time another three years. But recently a new Secretary of the
Interior has come into office and he has just rescinded that later
ruling, without warning, which gives us barely time to comply with the
law as it first stood. For my part, I'll have to hustle or lose
everything I have put in. You see? That's why I hated to see those
horses drown, for I intended to use them in reaching the coal-fields.
Now I'll have to hire men to carry their loads. No doubt Mr. Gordon has
arranged to protect your holdings, but there are hundreds of claimants
who will be ruined."
"I supposed the Government protected its subjects," said the girl,
vaguely.
"One of the illusions taught in the elementary schools," laughed
O'Neil. "We Alaskans have found that it does exactly the opposite! We
have found it a harsh and unreasonable landlord. But I'm afraid I'm
boring you." He wrapped her more snugly in her coverings, for a chill
had descended with the darkness, then strove to enliven her with
stories garnered from his rich experience--stories which gave her
fascinating glimpses of great undertakings and made her feel personally
acquainted with people of unfamiliar type, whose words and deeds,
mirthful or pathetic, were always refreshingly original. Of certain
individuals he spoke repeatedly until their names became familiar to
his hearer. He called them his "boys" and his voice was tender as he
told of their doings.
"These men are your staff?" she ventured.
"Yes. Every one who succeeds in his work must have loyal hands to help
him."
"Where are they now?"
"Oh! Scattered from Canada to Mexico, each one doing his own particular
work. There's Mellen, for instance; he's in Chihuahua building a
cantilever bridge. He's the best steel man in the country. McKay, my
superintendent, is running a railroad job in California. 'Happy Tom'
Slater--"
"The funny man with the blues?"
"Exactly! He was at work on a hydraulic project near Dawson the last I
heard of him. Dr. Gray is practising in Seattle, and Parker, the chief
engineer, has a position of great responsibility in Boston. He is the
brains of our outfit, you understand; it was really he who made the
North Pass & Yukon possible. The others are scattered out in the same
way, but they'd all come if I called them." The first note of pride she
had detected crept into his voice when he said: "My 'boys' are never
idle. They don't have to be, after working with me."
"And what is your part of the work?" asked the girl.
"I? Oh, I'm like Marcelline, the clown at the Hippodrome--always
pretending to help, but forever keeping underfoot. When it becomes
necessary I raise the money to keep the performance going."
"Do you really mean that all those men would give up their positions
and come to you if you sent for them?"
"By the first train, or afoot, if there were no other way. They'd
follow me to the Philippines or Timbuctoo, regardless of their homes
and their families."
"That is splendid! You must feel very proud of inspiring such loyalty,"
said Natalie. "But why are you idle now? Surely there are railroads to
be built somewhere."
"Yes, I was asked to figure on a contract in Manchuria the other day. I
could have had it easily, and it would have meant my everlasting
fortune, but--"
"But what?"
"I found it isn't a white man's country. It's sickly and unsafe. Some
of my 'boys' would die before we finished it, and the game isn't worth
that price. No, I'll wait. Something better will turn up. It always
does."
As Natalie looked upon that kindly, square-hewn face with its tracery
of lines about the eyes, its fine, strong jaw, and its indefinable
expression of power, she began to understand more fully why those with
whom she had talked had spoken of Murray O'Neil with an almost
worshipful respect. She felt very insignificant and purposeless as she
huddled there beside him, and her complacence at his attentions
deepened into a vivid sense of satisfaction. Thus far he had spoken
entirely of men; she wondered if he ever thought of women, and thrilled
a bit at the intimacy that had sprung up between them so quickly and
naturally.
It confirmed her feeling of prideful confidence in the man that the
north-bound freighter should punctually show her lights around the
islands and that she should pause in her majestic sweep at the signal
of this pigmy craft. The ship loomed huge and black and terrifying as
the launch at length drew in beneath it; its sides towered like
massive, unscalable ramparts. There was a delay; there seemed to be
some querulousness on the part of the officer in command at being thus
halted, some doubt about allowing strangers to come aboard. But the
girl smiled to herself as the voices flung themselves back and forth
through the night. Once they learned who it was that called from the
sea their attitude would quickly change. Sure enough, in a little while
orders were shouted from the bridge; she heard men running from
somewhere, and a rope ladder came swinging down. O'Neil was lifting her
from her warm nest of rugs now and telling her to fear nothing. The
launch crept closer, coughing and shuddering as if in terror at this
close contact. There was a brief instant of breathlessness as the girl
found herself swung out over the waters; then a short climb with
O'Neil's protecting hand at her waist and she stood panting, radiant,
upon steel decks which began to throb and tremble to the churning
engines.
One further task remained for her protector's magic powers. It appeared
that there were no quarters on the ship for women, but after a subdued
colloquy between Murray and the captain she was led to the cleanest and
coziest of staterooms high up near the bridge. Over the door she
glimpsed a metal plate with the words "First Officer" lettered upon it.
O'Neil was bidding her good night and wishing her untroubled rest, then
almost before she had accustomed herself to her new surroundings an
immaculate, though sleepy, Japanese steward stood before her with a
tray. He was extremely cheerful for one so lately awakened, being still
aglow with pleased surprise over the banknote which lay neatly folded
in his waistcoat pocket.
Natalie sat cross-legged on her berth and munched with the appetite of
a healthy young animal at the fruit and biscuits and lovely heavy cake
which the steward had brought. She was very glad now that she had
disobeyed her mother. It was high time, indeed, to assert herself, for
she was old enough to know something of the world, and her judgment of
men was mature enough to insure perfect safety--that much had been
proved. She felt that her adventure had been a great success
practically and romantically. She wanted to lie awake and think it over
in detail, but she soon grew sleepy. Just before she dozed off she
wondered drowsily if "The Irish Prince" had found quarters for himself,
then reflected that undoubtedly the captain had been happy to tumble
out of bed for him. Or perhaps he felt no fatigue and would watch the
night through. Even now he might be pacing the deck outside her door.
At any rate, he was not far off. She closed her eyes, feeling
deliciously secure and comfortable.
In one way the southern coast of Alaska may be said to be perhaps a
million years younger than any land on this continent, for it is still
in the glacial period. The vast alluvial plains and valleys of the
interior are rimmed in to the southward and shut off from the Pacific
by a well-nigh impassable mountain barrier, the top of which is capped
with perpetual snow. Its gorges, for the most part, run rivers of ice
instead of water. Europe has nothing like these glaciers which overflow
the Alaskan valleys and submerge the hills, for many of them contain
more ice than the whole of Switzerland. This range is the Andes of the
north, and it curves westward in a magnificent sweep, hugging the shore
for a thousand leagues. Against it the sea beats stormily; its frozen
crest is played upon by constant rains and fogs and blizzards. But over
beyond lies a land of sunshine, of long, dry, golden summer days.
Into this chaos of cliff and peak and slanting canyon, midway to the
westward, is let King Phillip Sound, a sheet of water dotted with
islands and framed by forests. It reaches inland with long, crooked
tentacles which end like talons, in living ice. Hidden some forty miles
up one of these, upon the moraine of a receding glacier, sits Cortez, a
thriving village and long the point of entry to the interior, the
commencement of the overland trail to the golden valleys of the Yukon
and the Tanana. The Government wagon trail winds in from here, tracing
its sinuous course over one pass after another until it emerges into
the undulating prairies of the "inside country."
Looking at the map, one would imagine that an easier gateway to the
heart of Alaska would be afforded by the valley of the Salmon River,
which enters the ocean some few miles to the eastward of King Phillip
Sound, but there are formidable difficulties. The stream bursts the
last rampart of the Coast Range asunder by means of a canyon down which
it rages in majestic fury and up which no craft can navigate. Then it
spreads itself out through a dozen shallow mouths across a forty-mile
delta of silt and sand and glacial wash. As if Nature feared her arctic
strong-box might still be invaded by this route, she has placed
additional safeguards to the approach in the form of giant glaciers,
through the very bowels of which the Salmon River is forced to burrow.
In the early days of the Klondike rush men had attempted to ascend the
valley, but they had succeeded only at the cost of such peril and
disaster that others were warned away. The region had become the source
of many weird stories, and while the ice-fields could be seen from the
Kyak coal-fields, and on still days their cannonading could be heard
far out at sea, there were few who had ventured to cross the forty-mile
morass which lay below them and thus attempt to verify or to disprove
the rumors.
It was owing to these topographical conditions that Cortez had been
established as the point of entry to the interior; it was because of
them that she had grown and flourished, with her sawmills and her
ginmills, her docks, and her dives. But at the time when this story
opens Alaska had developed to a point where an overland outlet by
winter and a circuitous inlet, by way of Bering Sea and the crooked
Yukon, in summer were no longer sufficient, There was need of a
permanent route by means of which men and freight might come and go
through all the year. The famous North Pass & Yukon Railway, far to the
eastward, afforded transportation to Dawson City and the Canadian
territory, and had proven itself such a financial success that builders
began to look for a harbor, more to the westward, from which they could
tap the great heart of Alaska. Thus it was that Cortez awoke one
morning to find herself selected as the terminus of a new line. Other
railway propositions followed, flimsy promotion schemes for the most
part, but among them two that had more than paper and "hot air" behind
them. One of these was backed by the Copper Trust which had made heavy
mining investments two hundred miles inland, the other by Curtis
Gordon, a promoter, who claimed New York as his birthplace and the
world as his residence.
Gordon had been one of the first locaters in the Kyak coal-fields, and
he had also purchased a copper prospect a few miles down the bay from
Cortez, where he had started a town which he called Hope. There were
some who shook their heads and smiled knowingly when they spoke of that
prospect, but no one denied that it was fast assuming the outward
semblance of a mine under Gordon's direction. He had erected a fine
substantial wharf, together with buildings, bunk-houses, cottages, and
a spacious residence for himself; and daily the piles of debris beneath
the tunnel entries to his workings grew. He paid high wages, he spent
money lavishly, and he had a magnificent and compelling way with him
that dazzled and delighted the good people of Cortez. When he began
work on a railroad which was designed to reach far into the interior
his action was taken as proof positive of his financial standing, and
his critics were put down as pessimists who had some personal grudge
against him.
It was up to the raw, new village of Hope, with its odor of fresh-cut
fir and undried paint, that the freight-steamer with Natalie Gerard and
"The Irish Prince" aboard, came gingerly one evening.
O'Neil surveyed the town with some curiosity as he approached, for
Gordon's sensational doings had interested him greatly. He was
accustomed to the rapid metamorphoses of a growing land; it was his
business, in fact, to win the wilderness over to order, and therefore
he was not astonished at the changes wrought here during his absence.
But he was agreeably surprised at the businesslike arrangement of the
place, and the evidence that a strong and practised hand had guided its
development.
Even before the ship had tied up he had identified the tall, impressive
man on the dock as the genius and founder of Hope, and the dark-haired,
well-formed woman beside him as Natalie's mother. It was not until they
were close at hand that the daughter made her presence known; then,
unable to restrain herself longer, she shrieked her greeting down over
the rail. Mrs. Gerard started, then stared upward as if at an
apparition; she stretched out a groping hand to Gordon, who stood as if
frozen in his tracks. They seemed to be exchanging hurried words, and
the man appeared to be reassuring his companion. It looked very odd to
O'Neil; but any suspicion that Natalie was unwelcome disappeared when
she reached the dock. Her mother's dark eyes were bright with unshed
tears of gladness, her face was transfigured, she showed the strong,
repressed emotion of an undemonstrative nature as they embraced.
Natalie clung to her, laughing, crying, bombarding her with questions,
begging forgiveness, and babbling of her adventures. Their resemblance
was striking, and in point of beauty there seemed little to choose
between them. They might have been nearly of an age, except that the
mother lacked the girl's restless vivacity.
O'Neil remained in the background, like an uncomfortable bridegroom,
conscious meanwhile of the searching and hostile regard of Curtis
Gordon. But at last his protegee managed to gasp out in a more or less
coherent manner the main facts of the shipwreck and her rescue,
whereupon Gordon's attitude abruptly altered.
"My God!" he ejaculated. "You were not on the Nebraska?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Natalie. "The life-boats went off and left me
all alone--in the dark--with the ship sinking! Mr. O'Neil saved me. He
took me up and jumped just as the ship sank, and we were all night in
the freezing water. We nearly died, didn't we? He fainted, and so did
I, mummie dear--it was so cold. He held me up until we were rescued,
though, and then there wasn't room in the life-boat for both of us. But
he made them take me in, just the same, while he stayed in the water.
He was unconscious when he reached the shore. Oh, it was splendid!"
O'Neil's identity being established, and the nature of his service
becoming apparent, Curtis Gordon took his hand in a crushing grip and
thanked him in a way that might have warmed the heart of a stone
gargoyle. The man was transformed, now that he understood; he became a
geyser of eloquence. He poured forth his appreciation in rounded
sentences; his splendid musical voice softened and swelled and broke
with a magnificent and touching emotion. Through it all the Irish
contractor remained uncomfortably silent, for he could not help
thinking that this fulsome outburst was aroused rather by the man who
had built the North Pass.
A crowd was collecting round them, but Gordon cleared it away with an
imperious gesture.
"Come!" he said. "This is no place to talk. Mr. O'Neil's splendid
gallantry renders our mere thanks inane. He must allow us to express
our gratitude in a more fitting manner."
"Please don't," exclaimed O'Neil, hastily.
"You are our guest; the hospitality of our house is yours. Hope would
be honored to welcome you, sir, at any time, but under these
circumstances--"
"I'm going right on to Cortez."
"The ship will remain here for several hours, discharging freight, and
we insist that you allow us this pleasure meanwhile. You shall spend
the night here, then perhaps you will feel inclined to prolong your
stay. All that Cortez has we have in double proportion--I say it with
pride. Cortez is no longer the metropolis of the region. Hope--Well, I
may say that Cortez is, of all Alaskan cities, the most fortunate,
since it has realized its Hope." He laughed musically. "This town has
come to stay; we intend to annex Cortez eventually. If you feel that
you must go on, I shall deem it a pleasure to send you later in my
motor-boat. She makes the run in fifteen minutes. But you must first
honor our house and our board; you must permit us to pledge your health
in a glass. We insist!"
"Please!" said Mrs. Gerard.
"Do come, your Highness," Natalie urged, from the shelter of the elder
woman's arms.
"You're more than kind," said O'Neil, and together the four turned
their faces to the shore.
V
WHEREIN WE SEE CURTIS GORDON AND OTHERS
Curtis Gordon's respect for his guest increased as they walked up the
dock, for, before they had taken many steps, out from the crowd which
had gathered to watch the ship's arrival stepped one of his foremen.
This fellow shook hands warmly with O'Neil, whereupon others followed,
one by one--miners, day laborers, "rough-necks" of many nationalities.
They doffed their hats-something they never did for Gordon--and
stretched out grimy hands, their faces lighting up with smiles. O'Neil
accepted their greetings with genuine pleasure and called them by name.
"We just heard you was shipwrecked," said Gordon's foreman, anxiously.
"You wasn't hurt, was you?"
"Not in the least."
"God be praised! There's a lot of the old gang at work here."
"So I see."
"Here's Shorty, that you may remember from the North Pass." The speaker
dragged from the crowd a red-faced, perspiring ruffian who had hung
back with the bashfulness of a small boy. "He's the fellow you dug out
of the slide at twenty-eight."
"Connors!" cried O'Neil, warmly. "I'm glad to see you. And how are the
two arms of you?"
"Better 'n ever they was, the both av them!" Mr. Connors blushed,
doubled his fists and flexed his bulging muscles. "An' why shouldn't
they be, when you set 'em both with your own hands, Misther O'Neil?
'Twas as good a job as Doc Gray ever done in the hospittle. I hope
you're doin' well, sir." He pulled his forelock, placed one foot behind
the other, and tapped it on the planking, grinning expansively.
"Very well indeed, thank you."
O'Neil's progress was slow, for half the crowd insisted upon shaking
his hand and exchanging a few words with him. Clumsy Swedes bobbed
their heads, dark-browed foreign laborers whose nationality it was hard
to distinguish showed their teeth and chattered words of greeting.
"Bless my soul!" Gordon exclaimed, finally.
"You know more of them than I do."
"Yes! I seldom have to fire a man."