in ignorance of the true condition of Hope Consolidated, but he quailed
at the inevitable result of this article, which had been flung far and
wide into every city and village in the land. He dared not think of its
effect upon his present enterprise, now so auspiciously launched. He
had made a ringing appeal to the public, and its support would hinge
upon its confidence in him as a man of affairs. Once that trust was
destroyed the Cortez Home Railway would crumble as swiftly as had all
his other schemes.
The worst of it was that he knew himself shut off from the world for
five days as effectually as if he were locked in a dungeon. There was
no wireless equipment on the ship, he could not start the machinery of
his press bureau, and with every hour this damnable story was bound to
gain momentum. He cursed the luck which had set him on this quest for
vengeance and bound his hands.
Once he had gathered his wits, he occupied himself in the only possible
way--by preparing a story of his own for the wire. But for the first
time in his experience he found himself upon the defensive and opposing
a force against which no bland persuasiveness, no personal magnetism
could prevail. In the scattered nature of his support lay his greatest
weakness, for it made the task of self-justification extremely
difficult. Perhaps it was well for his peace of mind that he could not
measure the full effect of those forces which Eliza Appleton's pen had
set in motion.
In Omar, of course, the article excited lively interest. O'Neil felt a
warm thrill of satisfaction as he read it on the morning after his
scene with Eliza and Dan. But it deepened his feeling of obligation
almost painfully; for, like all who are thoughtlessly prodigal of their
own favors, he was deeply sensible of any kindness done himself.
Eliza's dignified exposition of Alaskan affairs, and particularly the
agreeable things she had written about him, were sure to be of great
practical assistance, he knew, and he longed to make some real return.
But so far as she was concerned there seemed to be nothing that he
could do. With Dan, of course, it was quite different. Mere money or
advancement, he admitted seemed paltry, but there was a possibility of
another kind of service.
Meanwhile Dan was struggling with his problem in his own way. The
possibility that Natalie had voluntarily betrayed him was a racking
torture, and the remembrance of Eliza's words added to his suffering.
He tried to gain some hint of his chief's feeling, but Murray's frank
and friendly attitude baffled him.
When at last he received a brief note from Natalie asking him to call,
he raced to Hope afraid, yet eager to hear what she might say. She met
him on the dock as he left the S. R. & N. motorboat and led him
directly to the house.
Natalie went straight to the point. "I'm in dreadful trouble," she
said, "and I sent for you to tell you that I had no idea of betraying
confidences."
Dan uttered some inane platitude, but his eyes lighted with relief.
"When I saw in the papers what a stir that North Pass & Yukon story had
made I was afraid I had done something dreadful. Tell me, is it so? Did
I make trouble?"
"You certainly did. O'Neil was furious, and nobody knows yet what the
result will be. It--it nearly cost me my head."
"Does he blame me?"
"N-no! He says you're on Gordon's side now. He blames me, or did, until
he generously took it on himself."
"What does it all mean? I'm nearly distracted." Natalie's eyes were
pleading. "Did you think I spied on you?"
Dan glowed with embarrassment and something more. "I didn't know what
to think," he said. "I was wretchedly miserable, for I was afraid. And
yet I knew you couldn't do such a thing. I told O'Neil I wasn't
responsible for what I did or said when with you."
"Mr. Gordon sent me to Omar purposely. He sent me twice. It was I who
brought him word that the road was saved. I told all I'd learned
because I believed he no longer hated Mr. O'Neil. I was happy to tell
all I knew, for he deceived me as he deceives every one. I learned the
truth too late."
"Why do you stay here?" Dan demanded, hotly.
"Why? I--don't know. Perhaps because I'm afraid to leave. I'm
alone--you see mother believes in him: she's completely under his sway,
and I can't tell her the sort of man he is. She's happy, and her
happiness is worth more to me than my own. But--I SHALL go away. I
can't stand it here much longer."
"Where will you go?"
"Back to my old home, perhaps. Somewhere--anywhere away from Alaska."
"I suppose you know I can't get along without you."
"Please don't! You have been very good and sweet to me, but--" She
shook her dark head. "You couldn't marry me--even if I cared for you in
that way."
"Why? I intend to marry you whether you want to or not."
"Oh, Dan, it wouldn't do. You know--about--mother. I've nearly died of
shame, and--it would be sure to come up. Somebody would speak of it,
sometime."
Dan's blue eyes went cold and smoky as he said:
"It would take a pretty brave person to mention the subject in my
presence. I don't care a whoop for anything Gordon or your family may
say or do. I--"
There was a stir in the hall outside, and the speaker turned to behold
Curtis Gordon himself in the doorway. The latter in passing had been
drawn by the sound of voices and had looked into the library.
Recognizing Natalie's caller, he frowned.
"What is this?" he inquired, coldly. "A proposal? Do I interrupt?"
"You do," said Dan; then, after a pause, "I'll finish it when you
leave."
Gordon entered, and spoke to his stepdaughter.
"What is this man doing in my house?"
"He is here at my invitation," she replied.
"Tell him to leave. I won't have him here."
"Why don't YOU tell me?" cried Dan. "I don't need an interpreter."
"Young man, don't be rash. There is a limit to my patience. If you have
the indecency to come here after what you have done, and after what
your sister has said about me, I shall certainly--"
Dan broke in roughly: "I didn't come to see you, Gordon. You may be an
agreeable sight to some people, but you're no golden sunset in my eyes.
Eliza flattered you."
Natalie gave a little terrified cry, for the men were glaring at each
other savagely. Neither seemed to hear her.
"Did you read that article?"
"Read it? I wrote it!"
Gordon's face flamed suddenly with rage; he pointed to the door with
trembling fingers, and shouted:
"Get out! I'll not have you here. I discharged you once. Get out!" His
utterance was rapid and thick.
Dan smiled mirthlessly, dangerously. In a soft voice he said:
"I haven't finished proposing. I expect to be accepted. You'll pardon
me, I know."
"Will you go, you--"
Dan turned to the girl, who, after that first outcry, had stood as if
spellbound, her face pale, her eyes shining.
"Natalie dear," he said, earnestly, "you can't live in the same house
with this beast. He's a cheat and a scoundrel. He's done his best to
spoil your life, and he'll succeed if you stay, so come with me now.
Eliza loves you and wants you, and I'll never cease loving you with all
my heart. Marry me, and we'll go--"
Gordon uttered an inarticulate sound and came forward with his hands
working hungrily.
"Don't interrupt!" warned Dan, over his shoulder, and his white teeth
gleamed in sudden contrast with his tan. "No man could love you as I
do, dear--" Gordon's clutch fell upon him and tightened. Dan stiffened,
and his words ceased. Then the touch upon his flesh became unbearable.
Whirling, he wrenched himself free. He was like a wild animal now; body
and spirit had leaped into rebellion at contact with Gordon. His long
resentment burst its bounds; his lean muscles quivered. His frame
trembled as if it restrained some tremendous pressure from within.
"Don't do that!" he cried, hoarsely, and brushed the sleeve where his
enemy's fingers had rested, as if it had been soiled.
Gordon snarled, and stretched out his hand a second time; but the
younger man raised his fist and struck. Once, twice, again and again he
flung his bony knuckles into that purple, distorted face, which he
loathed as a thing unclean. He battered down the big man's guard: right
and left he rained blows, stepping forward as his victim fell back.
Gordon reeled, he pawed wildly, he swung his arms, but they encountered
nothing. Yet he was a heavy man, and, although half stunned by the
sudden onslaught, he managed to retain his feet until he brought up
against the heavy mahogany reading-table in the center of the room. His
retreat ended there; another blow and his knees buckled, his arms
sagged. Then Dan summoned all his strength and swung. Gordon groaned,
lurched forward, and sprawled upon the warm red velvet carpet, face
down, with his limbs twisted under him.
His vanquisher stood over him for an instant, then turned upon Natalie
a face that was now keen and cruel and predatory.
"Come! We'll be married to-day," he said; and, crossing swiftly, he
took her two hands in his. His voice was harsh and imperative. "He's
down and out, so don't be frightened. Now hurry! I've had enough of
this damned nonsense."
"I--I'm not frightened," she said, dazedly. "But--I--" Her eyes roved
past him as if in quest of something.
"Here! This'll do for a wrap." Dan whipped his fur overcoat from a
chair and flung it about her. "My hat, too!" He crushed his gray
Stetson over her dark hair and, slipping his arm about her shoulders,
urged her toward the hall.
"Mother! She'll never--"
"We'll call on her together. I'll do the talking for both of us." He
jerked the front door open with a force that threatened to wrench it
from its hinges and thrust his companion out into the bracing cold.
Then, as Gordon's Japanese butler came running from the rear of the
house, he turned.
"Hey, you!" he cried, sharply. "The boss has gone on a little visit.
Don't stumble over him. And tell Mrs. Gordon that Mr. and Mrs. Appleton
will call on her in a few days--Mr. and Mrs. Dan Appleton, of Omar!"
It was but a few steps to the pier; Dan felt that he was treading on
air, for the fierce, unreasoning joy of possession was surging through
his veins. His old indecision and doubt was gone, and the men he met
recoiled before his hostile glance, staring after him in bewilderment.
But as he lifted Natalie down into the launch he felt her shaking
violently, and of a sudden his selfish exultation gave way to a tender
solicitude.
"There, there!" he said, gently. "Don't cry, honey. It's all right.
It's all right!"
She raised her face to his, and his head swam, for he saw that she was
radiant.
"I'm not crying; I'm laughing. I--I'm mad--insane with happiness."
He crushed her to him, he buried his face in her neck, mumbling her
name over and over: and neither of them knew that he was rapturously
kissing the coonskin collar of his own greatcoat. The launchman, motor
crank in hand, paused, staring; he was still open-mouthed when Dan,
catching sight of him, shouted:
"What's the matter, idiot? Is your back broken?"
"Yes--No, sir!" The fellow spun the fly-wheel vigorously; the little
craft began to vibrate and quiver and then swung out from shore.
A moment later and the engineman yelled. He came stumbling forward and
seized the steering-wheel as the boat grazed a buoy.
"That's right, you steer," Dan laughed, relaxing his hold. To Natalie
he said, "There's a sky-pilot in Omar," and pressed her to him.
"It's a long way to Omar," she answered, then hid her face against his
breast and said, meekly, "There's one in Cortez, too, and he's much
nearer."
XXII
HOW THE HAZARD WAS PLAYED
Eliza's greeting to the runaways was as warm as their hearts could
wish. She divined the truth before they could speak, and took Natalie
in her arms with a glad cry of welcome. The two girls kissed each
other, wept, laughed, wept a little more, kissed again, and then the
story came out.
Dan was plainly swollen with pride.
"I walloped him, Sis!" he told her. "I got even for the whole family,
and I believe his eyes are closed even to the beauties of nature. He
won't be able to read the wedding-notice."
Eliza hugged his arm and looked at him adoringly.
"It must have been perfectly splendid!"
Natalie nodded. "I was asleep," she said, "but Dan shocked me wide
awake. Can you imagine it? I didn't know my own feelings until he went
for--that brute. Then I knew all at once that I had loved him all the
time. Isn't it funny? It came over me--so suddenly! I--I can't realize
that he's mine." She turned her eyes upon him with an expression that
made his chest swell proudly.
"Gee!" he exclaimed. "If I'd known how she felt I'd have pitched into
the first fellow I met. A man's an awful fool till he gets married."
There followed a recital of the day's incidents, zestful, full of happy
digressions, endless; for the couple, after the manner of lovers, took
it for granted that Eliza was caught up into the seventh heaven along
with them. Dan was drunk with delight, and his bride seemed dizzied by
the change which had overtaken her. She looked upon it as miraculous,
almost unbelievable, and under the spell of her happiness her real self
asserted itself. Those cares and humiliations which had reacted to make
her cold and self-contained disappeared, giving place to an impetuous
girlishness that distracted her newly made husband and delighted Eliza.
The last lingering doubts that Dan's sister had cherished were cleared
away.
It was not until the bride had been banished to prepare for dinner that
Eliza thought to ask her brother:
"Have you told Mr. O'Neil?"
The triumph faded suddenly out of his face.
"Gee, no! I haven't told anybody."
They stared at each other, reading the thoughts they had no need to
voice. "Well, I've done it! It's too late now," said Dan, defiantly.
"Maybe he'll fire us again. I would if I were he. You must tell him
this very minute."
"I--suppose so," he agreed, reluctantly, and picked up his hat. "And
yet--I--I wonder if I'd better, after all. Don't you think it would
sound nicer coming from some one else?"
"Why?"
"Wouldn't it seem like crowing for me to--to--For instance, now, if
you--"
"Coward!" exclaimed the girl.
He nodded. "But, Sis, you DO have a nicer way of putting things than I
have."
"Why, I wouldn't tell him for worlds. I couldn't. Poor man! We've
brought him nothing but sorrow and bad luck."
"It's fierce!"
"Well, don't hesitate. That's what Gordon did, and he got licked."
Dan scowled and set his features in a brave show of moral courage.
"She's mine, and he can't take her away," he vowed, "so-- I don't care
what happens. But I'd just as soon slap a baby in the face." He left
the house like a man under sentence.
When he returned, a half-hour later, Eliza was awaiting him on the
porch. She had been standing there with chattering teeth and limbs
shaking from the cold while the minutes dragged.
"What did he say?" she asked, breathlessly.
"It went off finely. Thank Heaven, he was out at the front, so I could
break it to him over the 'phone!"
"Did he--curse you?"
"No; I opened right up by saying I had bad news for him--"
"Oh, Dan!"
"Yes! I dare say I wasn't very tactful, now that I think it over, but,
you see, I was rattled. I spilled out the whole story at once. 'Bad
news?' said he. 'My dear boy, I'm delighted. God bless you both.' Then
he made me tell him how it all happened, and listened without a word. I
thought I'd faint. He pulled some gag about Daniel and the lion; then
his voice got far away and the blamed wire began to buzz, so I hung up
and beat it back here. I'm glad it's over."
"He'll probably send you a solid-silver dinner-set or raise your pay.
That's the kind of man he is." Eliza's voice broke. "Oh, Danny," she
cried, "he's the dearest, sweetest thing--" She turned away, and he
kissed her sympathetically before going inside to the waiting Natalie.
Instead of following, Eliza remained on the porch, gazing down at the
lights of the little city. An engine with its row of empty flats rolled
into the yard, panting from its exertions; the notes of a piano came to
her faintly from the street below. The lights of an incoming steamer
showed far down the sound. O'Neil had made all this, she reflected: the
busy town, the hopeful thousands who came and went daily owed their
prosperity to him. He had made the wilderness fruitful, but what of his
own life? She suspected that it was as bleak and barren as the mountain
slopes above Omar. He, too, looked down upon this thriving intimate
little community, but from a distance. Beneath his unfailing
cheerfulness she felt sure there lurked a hunger which the mere
affection of his 'boys' could never satisfy. And now the thought that
Dan had come between him and his heart's desire filled her with pity.
He seemed suddenly a very lonely figure of a man, despite his material
success. When his enemies were doing, had already done, so much to
defeat him, it seemed unfair that his trusted friend should step
between him and the fulfilment of his dearest ambition--that ambition
common to all men, failure in which brings a sense of failure to a
man's whole life, no matter what other ends are achieved. Of course, he
would smile and swallow his bitterness--that was his nature--but she
would know the truth.
"Poor Omar Khayyam," she thought, wistfully, "I wish there were love
enough in the world for you. I wish there were two Natalies, or that--"
Then she shook the dream from her mind and went into the house, for the
night was cold and she was shaking wretchedly.
O'Neil behaved more handsomely even than Eliza had anticipated. He
hurried into town on the following morning, and his congratulations
were so sincere, his manner so hearty that Dan forgot his embarrassment
and took a shameless delight in advertising his happiness. Nor did
Murray stop with mere words: he summoned all his lieutenants, and Omar
rang that night with a celebration such as it had never before known.
The company chef had been busy all day, the commissary had been
ransacked, and the wedding-supper was of a nature to interfere with
office duties for many days thereafter. Tom Slater made a
congratulatory speech--in reality, a mournful adjuration to avoid the
pitfalls of matrimonial inharmony--and openly confessed that his
digestion was now impaired beyond relief. Others followed him; there
was music, laughter, a riotous popping of corks; and over it all O'Neil
presided with grace and mellowness. Then, after the two young people
had been made thoroughly to feel his good will, he went back to the
front, and Omar saw him but seldom in the weeks that followed.
To romantic Eliza, this self-sought seclusion had but one meaning--the
man was broken-hearted. She did not consider that there might be other
reasons for his constant presence at the glaciers.
Of course, since the unwelcome publication of the North Pass & Yukon
story O'Neil had been in close touch with Illis, and by dint of strong
argument had convinced the Englishman of his own innocence in the
affair. A vigorous investigation might have proved disastrous, but,
fortunately, Curtis Gordon lacked leisure in which to follow the matter
up. The truth was that after his public exposure at Eliza's hands he
was far too busy mending his own fences to spare time for attempts upon
his rival. Consequently, the story was allowed to die out, and O'Neil
was finally relieved to learn that its effect had been killed.
Precisely how Illis had effected this he did not know, nor did he care
to inquire. Illis had been forced into an iniquitous bargain; and,
since he had taken the first chance to free himself from it, the
question of abstract right or wrong was not a subject for squeamish
consideration.
It was at about this time that the sanguinary affray at Beaver Canon
began to bear fruit. One day a keen-faced, quiet stranger presented a
card at Murray's office, with the name:
HENRY T. BLAINE.
Beneath was the address of the Heidlemann building in New York, but
otherwise the card told nothing. Something in Mr. Blaine's bearing,
however, led Murray to treat him with more than ordinary consideration.
"I should like to go over your work," the stranger announced; and
O'Neil himself acted as guide. Together they inspected the huge
concrete abutments, then were lowered into the heart of the giant
caissons which protruded from the frozen stream. The Salmon lay locked
in its winter slumber now, the glaciers stood as silent and inactive as
the snow-mantled mountains that hemmed them in. Down into the very
bowels of the river the men descended, while O'Neil described the
nature of the bottom, the depth and character of his foundations, and
the measure of his progress. He explained the character of that bar
which lay above the bridge site, and pointed out the heavy layers of
railroad iron with which his cement work was reinforced.
"I spent nearly two seasons studying this spot before I began the
bridge," he continued. "I had men here, night and day, observing the
currents and the action of the ice. Then I laid my piers accordingly.
They are armored and reinforced to withstand any shock."
"The river is subject to quick rises, I believe?" suggested Blaine.
"Twenty feet in a few hours."
"The volley of ice must be almost irresistible."
"Almost," Murray smiled. "Not quite. Our ice-breakers were especially
designed by Parker to withstand any weight. There's nothing like them
anywhere. In fact, there will be nothing like this bridge when it's
completed." Blaine offered no comment, but his questions searched to
the depths of the builder's knowledge. When they were back in camp he
said:
"Of course you know why I'm here?"
"Your card told me that, but I don't need the Heidlemanns now."
"We are prepared to reopen negotiations."
"Why?"
"My people are human; they have feelings. You read Gordon's lies about
us and about that fight at Beaver Canon? Well, we're used to abuse, and
opposition of a kind we respect; but that man stirred public opinion to
such a point that there's no further use of heeding it. We're ready to
proceed with our plans now, and the public can go to the devil till it
understands us better. We have several men in jail at Cortez, charged
with murder: it will cost us a fortune to free the poor fellows. First
the Heidlemanns were thieves and grafters and looters of the public
domain; now they have become assassins! If this route to the interior
proves feasible, well and good; if not, we'll resume work at Cortez
next spring. Kyak, of course, is out of the question."
"This route depends upon the bridge."
"Exactly."
"It's a two years' job."
"You offered to complete it this winter, when you talked with Mr.
Herman Heidlemann."
"And--I can."
"Then we'll consider a reasonable price. But we must know definitely
where we stand by next spring. We have a great deal of capital tied up
in the interior; we can't wait."
"This delay will cost you something."
Mr. Blaine shrugged. "You made that point plain when you were in New
York. We're accustomed to pay for our mistakes."
"Will you cover this in the shape of an option?"
"That's what I'm here for. If you finish your bridge and it stands the
spring break-up, we'll be satisfied. I shall expect to stay here and
watch the work."
O'Neil agreed heartily. "You're very welcome, Mr. Blaine. I like your
brand of conversation. I build railroads; I don't run them. Now let's
get down to figures."
The closing of the option required several weeks, of course, but the
outcome was that even before mid-winter arrived O'Neil found himself in
the position he had longed to occupy. In effect the sale was made, and
on terms which netted him and his backers one hundred per cent. profit.
There was but one proviso--namely, that the bridge should be built by
spring. The Heidlemanns were impatient, their investment up to date had
been heavy, and they frankly declared that failure to bridge the chasm
on time would convince them that the task was hopeless. In a way this
was unreasonable, but O'Neil was well aware that they could not permit
delay--or a third failure: unless his route was proved feasible without
loss of time they would abandon it for one they knew to be certain,
even though more expensive. He did not argue that the task was of
unprecedented difficulty, for he had made his promise and was ready to
stand or fall by it. It is doubtful, however, if any other contractor
would have undertaken the work on such time; in fact, had it been a
public bridge it would have required four years in the building. Yet
O'Neil cheerfully staked his fortune on completing it in eight months.
With his option signed and the task squarely confronting him, he
realized with fresh force its bigness and the weight of responsibility
that rested upon his shoulders. He began the most dramatic struggle of
his career, a fight against untried conditions, a desperate race
against the seasons, with ruin as the penalty of defeat.