Never had Phillips seen such an alluring picture. Now that her hair was undone, its length and its profusion surprised him, for it completely mantled her, and through it the snowy whiteness of her bare arms, folded protectingly across her rounded breasts, was dazzling. The sight put him in a conquering mood; he strode forward, lifted her into his embrace, then smothered her gasping protest with his lips. For a long moment they stood thus. Finally the woman freed herself, then chided him breathlessly, but the fragrance of her hair had gone to his brain; he continued to hold her tight, meanwhile burying his face in the golden cascade.

Roughly, masterfully, he rained kisses upon her. He devoured her with his caresses, and the heat of his ardor melted her resistance until, finally, she surrendered, abandoning herself wholly to his passion.

When, after a time, she flung back her head and pushed him away, her face, her neck, her shoulders were suffused with a coral pinkness and her eyes were misty.

"You must be careful!" she whispered in a tone that was less of a remonstrance than an invitation. "Remember, we're making shadowgraphs for our neighbors. That's the worst of a tent at night—one silhouettes one's very thoughts."

"Then put out the light," he muttered, thickly; but she slipped away, and her moist lips mocked him in silent laughter.

"The idea! What in the world has come over you? Why, you're the most impetuous boy—"

"Boy!" Pierce grimaced his dislike of the word. "Don't be motherly; don't treat me as if I had rompers on. You're positively maddening to-night. I never saw you like this. Why, your hair"—he ran his hands through that silken shower once more and pressed it to his face—"it's glorious!"

The Countess slipped into a combing-jacket; then she seated herself on the springy couch of pine branches over which her fur robe was spread, and deftly caught up her long runaway tresses, securing them in place with a few mysterious twists and expert manipulations.

"Boy, indeed!" he scoffed, flinging himself down beside her. "That's over with, long ago."

"Oh, I don't feel motherly," she asserted, still suffused with that telltale flush. "Not in the way you mean. But you'll always be a boy to me—and to every other woman who learns to care for you."

"Every other woman?" Pierce's eyes opened. "What a queer speech. There aren't going to be any OTHER women." He looked on while she lighted a cigarette, then after a moment he inquired, "What do you mean?"

She answered him with another question. "Do you think I'm the only woman who will love you?"

"Why—I haven't given it any thought! What's the difference, as long as you're the only one I care for? And I do love you, I worship—"

"But there WILL be others," she persisted, "There are bound to be. You're that kind."

"Really?"

The Countess nodded her head with emphasis. "I can read men; I can see the color of their souls. You have the call."

"What call?" Pierce was puzzled.

"The—well, the sex-call, the sex appeal."

"Indeed? Am I supposed to feel flattered at that?"

"By no means; you're not a cad. Men who possess that attraction are spoiled sooner or later. You don't realize that you have it, and that's what makes you so nice, but—I felt it from the first, and when you feel it you'll probably become spoiled, too, like the others." This amused Phillips, but the woman was in sober earnest. "I mean what I say. You're the kind who cause women to make fools of themselves—old or young, married or single. When a girl has it—she's lost."

"I'm not sure I understand. At any rate, you haven't made a fool of yourself."

"No?" The Countess smiled vaguely, questioningly. She opened her lips to say more, but changed her mind and in an altered tone declared, "My dear boy, if you understood fully what I'm driving at you'd be insufferable." Laying her warm hand over his, she continued: "You resent what you call my 'motherly way,' but if I were sixteen and you were forty it would be just the same. Women who are afflicted with that sex appeal become men's playthings; the man who possesses it always remains a 'boy' to the woman who loves him—a bad boy, a dangerous boy, perhaps, but a boy, nevertheless. She may, and probably will, adore him fiercely, passionately, jealously, but at the same time she will hover him as a hen hovers her chick. He will be both son and lover to her."

He had listened closely, but now he stirred uneasily. "I don't follow you," he said. "And it isn't exactly pleasant for a fellow to be told that he's a baby Don Juan, to be called a male vampire in knee-pants—especially by the woman he's going to marry." Disregarding her attempt to speak, he went on: "What you said about other women—the way you said it—sounded almost as if— well, as if you expected there would be such, and didn't greatly care. You didn't mean it that way, I hope. You do care, don't you, dear? You do love me?" The face Phillips turned upon the Countess Courteau was earnest, worried.

Her fingers tightened over his hand. When she spoke there was a certain listlessness, a certain fatigue in her tone. "Do you need to ask that after—what happened just now? Of course I care. I care altogether too much. That's the whole trouble. You see, the thing has run away with me, Pierce; it has carried me off my feet, and—that's precisely the point I'm trying to make."

He slipped an arm about her waist and drew her close. "I knew it wasn't merely an animal appeal that stirred you. I knew it was something bigger and more lasting than that."

"Even yet you don't understand," she declared. "The two may go together and—" But without allowing her to finish he said, vibrantly:

"Whatever it is, you seem to find it an obstacle, an objection. Why struggle against the inevitable? You ARE struggling—I've seen you fighting something ever since that first night when truth came to us out of the storm. But, Hilda dear, I adore you. You're the most wonderful creature in the world! You're a goddess! I feel unworthy to touch the hem of your garments, but I know—that you are mine! Nothing else matters. Think of the miracle, the wonder of it! It's like a beautiful dream. I've had doubts about myself, and that's why I've let matters drift. You see, I was a sort of unknown quantity, but now I know that I've found myself. To-day I went through hell and—I came out a man. I'm going to play a man's part right along after this." He urged her eagerly. "We've a hard trip ahead of us before we reach Dawson; winter may overtake us and delay us. We can't continue in this way. Why wait any longer?"

"You mean—?" the woman inquired, faintly.

"I mean this—marry me here, to-morrow."

"No, no! Please—" The Countess freed herself from Pierce's embrace.

"Why not? Are you afraid of me?" She shook her head silently.

"Then why not to-morrow instead of next month? Are you afraid of yourself?"

"No, I'm afraid of-what I must tell you."

Phillips' eyes were dim with desire, he was ablaze with yearning; in a voice that shook he said: "Don't tell me anything. I won't hear it!" Then, after a brief struggle with himself, he continued, more evenly: "That ought to prove to you that I've grown up. I couldn't have said it three months ago, but I've stepped out of— of the nursery into a world of big things and big people, and I want you. I dare say you've lived—a woman like you must have had many experiences, many obstacles to overcome; but—I might not understand what they were even if you told me, for I'm pretty green. Anyhow, I'm sure you're good. I wouldn't believe you if you told me you weren't. It's no credit to me that I haven't confessions of my own to make, for I'm like other men and it merely so happens that I've had no chance to-soil myself. The credit is due to circumstance."

"Everything is due to circumstance," the woman said. "Our lives are haphazard affairs; we're blown by chance—"

"We'll take a new start to-morrow and bury the past, whatever it is."

"You make it absolutely necessary for me to speak," the Countess told him. Her tone again had a touch of weariness in it, but Pierce did not see this. "I knew I'd have to, sooner or later, but it was nice to drift and to dream—oh, it was pleasant—so I bit down on my tongue and I listened to nothing but the song in my heart." She favored Pierce with that shadowy, luminous smile he had come to know. "It was a clean, sweet song and it meant a great deal to me." When he undertook to caress her she drew away, then sat forward with her heels tucked close into the pine boughs, her chin upon her knees. It was her favorite attitude of meditation; wrapped thus in the embrace of her own arms, she appeared to gain the strength and the determination necessary to go on.

"I'm not a weak woman," she began, staring at the naked candle- flame which gave light to the tent. "It wasn't weakness that impelled me to marry a man I didn't love; it was the determination to get ahead and the ambition to make something worth while out of myself—a form of selfishness, perhaps, but I tell you all women are selfish. Anyhow, he seemed to promise better things and to open a way whereby I could make something out of my life. Instead of that he opened my eyes and showed me the world as it is, not as I had imagined it to be. He was—no good. You may think I was unhappy over that, but I wasn't. Really, he didn't mean much to me. What did grieve me, though, was the death of my illusions. He was mercenary—the fault of his training, I dare say—but he had that man-call I spoke about. It's really a woman-call. He was weak, worthless, full of faults, mean in small things, but he had an attraction and it was impossible to resist mothering him. Other women felt it and yielded to it, so finally we went our separate ways. I've seen nothing of him for some time now, but he keeps in touch with me and—I've sent him a good deal of money. When he learns that I have prospered in a big way he'll undoubtedly turn up again."

Pierce weighed the significance of these words; then he smiled. "Dear, it's all the more reason why we should be married at once. I'd dare him to annoy you then."

"My boy, don't you understand? I can't marry you, being still married to him."

Phillips recoiled; his face whitened. Dismay, reproach, a shocked surprise were in the look he turned upon his companion.

"Still married!" he gasped. "Oh—Hilda!"

She nodded and lowered her eyes. "I supposed you knew—until I got to telling you, and then it was too late."

Pierce rose; his lips now were as colorless as his cheeks. "I'm surprised, hurt," he managed to say. "How should I know? Why, this is wretched—rotten! People will say that I've got in a mess with a married woman. That's what it looks like, too." His voice broke huskily. "How could you do it, when I meant my love to be clean, honorable? How could you let me put myself, and you, in such a position?"

"You see!" The woman continued to avoid his eye. "You haven't grown up. You haven't the least understanding."

"I understand this much," he cried, hotly, "that you've led me to make something worse than a cad of myself. Look here! There are certain things which no decent fellow goes in for—certain things he despises in other men—and that's one of them." He turned as if to leave, then he halted at the tent door and battled with himself. After a moment, during which the Countess Courteau watched him fixedly, he whirled, crying:

"Well, the damage is done. I love you. I can't go along without you. Divorce that man. I'll wait."

"I'm not sure I have legal grounds for a divorce. I'm not sure that I care to put the matter to a test—as yet."

"WHAT?" Pierce gazed at her, trying to understand. "Say that over again!"

"You think you've found yourself, but—have you? I know men pretty well and I think I know you. You've changed—yes, tremendously— but what of a year, two years from now? You've barely tasted life and this is your first intoxication."

"Do you love me, or do you not?" he demanded.

"I love you as you are now. I may hate you as you will be to- morrow. I've had my growth; I've been through what you're just beginning—we can't change together."

"Then will you promise to marry me afterward?"

The Countess shook her head. "It's a promise that would hold only me. Why ask it?"

"You're thinking of no one but yourself," he protested, furiously. "Think of me. I've given you all I have, all that's best and finest in me. I shall never love another woman—"

"Not in quite the way you love me, perhaps, but the peach ripens even after its bloom has been rubbed off. You HAVE given me what is best and finest, your first love, and I shall cherish it."

"Will you marry me?" he cried, hoarsely. She made a silent refusal.

"Then I can put but one interpretation upon your actions."

"Don't be too hasty in your judgment. Can't you see? I was weak. I was tired. Then you came, like a draught of wine, and—I lost my head. But I've regained it. I dreamed my dream, but it's daylight now and I'm awake. I know that you believe me a heartless, selfish woman. Maybe I am, but I've tried to think for you, and to act on that good impulse. I tell you I would have been quite incapable of it before I knew you. A day, a month, a year of happiness! Most women of my age and experience would snatch at it, but I'm looking farther ahead than that. I can't afford another mistake. Life fits me, but you—why, you're bursting your seams."

"You've puzzled me with a lot of words," the young man said, with ever-growing resentment, "but what do they all amount to? You amused yourself with me and you're ready enough to continue so long as I pour my devotion at your feet. Well, I won't do it. If you loved me truly you wouldn't refuse to marry me. Isn't that so? True love isn't afraid, it doesn't quibble and temporize and split hairs the way you do. No, it steps out boldly and follows the light. You've had your fun, you've—broken my heart." Phillips' voice shook and he swallowed hard. "I'm through; I'm done. I shall never love another woman as I love you, but if what you said about that sex-call is true, I—I'll play the game as you played it." He turned blindly and with lowered head plunged out of the tent into the night.

The Countess listened to the sounds of his departing footsteps; then, when they had ceased, she rose wearily and flung out her arms. There was a real and poignant distress in her eyes.

"Boy! Boy!" she whispered. "It was sweet, but—there had to be an end."

For a long time she stood staring at nothing; then she roused herself with a shiver, refilled the stove, and seated herself again, dropping her chin upon her knees as she did instinctively when in deep thought.

"If only I were sure," she kept repeating to herself. "But he has the call and—I'm too old."



CHAPTER XIII

Rouletta Kirby could not manage to get warm. The longer she sat beside the stove the colder she became. This was not strange, for the room was draughty, people were constantly coming in and going out, and when the door was opened the wind caused the canvas walls of the saloon to bulge and its roof to slap upon the rafters. The patrons were warmly clad in mackinaw, flannel, and fur. To them the place was comfortable enough, but to the girl who sat swathed in sodden undergarments it was like a refrigerator. More than once she regretted her heedless refusal of the Countess Courteau's offer of a change; several times, in fact, she was upon the point of returning to claim it, but she shrank from facing that wintry wind, so low had her vitality fallen. Then, too, she reasoned that it would be no easy task to find the Countess at this hour of the night, for the beach was lined with a mile of tents, all more or less alike. She pictured the search, herself groping her way from one to another, and mumbling excuses to surprised occupants. No, it was better to stay here beside the fire until her clothes dried out.

She would have reminded her father of her discomfort and claimed his assistance only for the certainty that he would send her off to bed, which was precisely what she sought to prevent. Her presence irritated him; nevertheless, she knew that his safety lay in her remaining. Sam Kirby sober was in many ways the best of fathers; he was generous, he was gentle, he was considerate. Sam Kirby drunk was another man entirely—a thoughtless, wilful, cruel man, subject to vagaries of temper that were as mysterious to the girl who knew him so well as they were dangerous to friend and foe alike. He was drunk now, or in that peculiar condition that passed with him for drunkenness. Intoxication in his case was less a condition of body than a frame of mind, and it required no considerable amount of liquor to work the change. Whisky, even in small quantities, served to suspend certain of his mental functions; it paralyzed one lobe of his brain, as it were, while it aroused other faculties to a preternatural activity and awoke sleeping devils in him. The more he drank the more violent became his destructive mood, the more firmly rooted became his tendencies and proclivities for evil. The girl well knew that this was an hour when he needed careful watching and when to leave him unguarded, even temporarily, meant disaster. Rouletta clenched her chattering teeth and tried to ignore the chills that raced up and down her body.

White Horse, at this time, was purely a make-shift camp, hence it had no facilities for gambling. The saloons themselves were little more than liquor caches which had been opened overnight for the purpose of reaping quick profits; therefore such games of chance as went on were for the most part between professional gamblers who happened to be passing through and who chose to amuse themselves in that way.

After perhaps an hour, during which a considerable crowd had come and gone, Sam Kirby broke away from the group with which he had been drinking and made for the door. As he passed Rouletta he paused to say:

"I'm going to drift around a bit, kid, and see if I can't stir up a little game."

"Where are we going to put up for the night?" his daughter inquired.

"I don't know yet; it's early. Want to turn in?"

Rouletta shook her head.

"I'll find a place somewhere. Now you stick here where it's nice and warm. I'll be back by and by."

With sinking heart the girl watched him go. After a moment she rose and followed him out into the night. She was surprised to discover that the mud under foot had frozen and that the north wind bore a burden of fine, hard snow particles. Keeping well out of sight, she stumbled to another saloon door, and then, after shivering wretchedly outside for a while, she stole in and crept up behind the stove.

She was very miserable indeed by this time, and as the evening wore slowly on her misery increased. After a while her father began shaking dice with some strangers, and the size of their wagers drew an audience of interested bystanders.

Rouletta realized that she should not have exposed herself anew to the cold, for now her sensations had become vaguely alarming. She could not even begin to get warm, except now and then when a burning fever replaced her chill; she felt weak and ill inside; the fingers she pressed to her aching temples were like icicles. Eventually—she had lost all track of time—her condition became intolerable and she decided to risk her father's displeasure by interrupting him and demanding that he secure for both of them a lodging-place at once.

There were several bank-notes of large denomination on the plank bar-top and Sam Kirby was watching a cast of dice when his daughter approached; therefore he did not see her. Nor did he turn his head when she laid a hand upon his arm.

Now women, especially pretty women, were common enough sights in Alaskan drinking-places. So it was not strange that Rouletta's presence had occasioned neither comment nor curiosity. More than once during the last hour or two men had spoken to her with easy familiarity, but they had taken no offense when she had turned her back. It was quite natural, therefore, that the fellow with whom Kirby was gambling should interpret her effort to claim attention as an attempt to interrupt the game, and that he should misread the meaning of her imploring look. There being considerable money at stake, he frowned down at her, then with an impatient gesture he brushed her aside.

"None of that, sister!" he warned her. "You get out of here."

Sam Kirby was in the midst of a discussion with the proprietor, across the bar, and because there was a deal of noise in the place he did not hear his daughter's low-spoken protest.

"Oh, I mean it!" The former speaker scowled at Rouletta. "You dolls make me sick, grabbing at every nickel you see. Beat it, now! There's plenty of young suckers for you to trim. If you can't respect an old man with gray hair, why—" The rest of his remark caused the girl's eyes to widen and the chattering voices to fall silent.

Sam Kirby turned, the dice-box poised in his right hand.

"Eh? What's that?" he queried, vaguely.

"I'm talking to this pink-faced gold-digger—"

"Father!" Rouletta exclaimed.

"I'm just telling her—"

The fellow repeated his remark, whereupon understanding came to Kirby and his expression slowly altered. Surprise, incredulity, gave place to rage; his eyes began to blaze.

"You said that to—her?" he gasped, in amazement. "To my kid?" There was a moment of tense silence during which the speaker appeared to be numbed by the insult, then, "By God!" Sam placed the dice-box carefully upon the bar. His movement was deliberate, but he kept his flaming gaze fixed upon the object of his wrath, and into his lean, ashen countenance came such demoniac fury as to appal those who saw it.

Rouletta uttered a faint moan and flung herself at her father; with a strength born of terror she clung to his right wrist. In this she was successful, despite old Sam's effort to shake her off, but she could not imprison both his arms. Kirby stepped forward, dragging the girl with him; he raised that wicked artificial left hand and brought it sweeping downward, and for a second time that day the steel shaft met flesh and bone. His victim spun upon his heels, then, with outflung arms and an expression of shocked amazement still upon his face, he crashed backward to the floor.

Kirby strode to him; before other hands could come to Rouletta's assistance and bear him out of reach he twice buried his heavy hobnailed boot in the prostrate figure. He presented a terrible exhibition of animal ferocity, for he was growling oaths deep in his throat and in his eyes was the light of murder. He fought for liberty with which to finish his task, and those who restrained him found that somehow he had managed to draw an ivory-handled six-shooter from some place of concealment. Nor could they wrench the weapon away from him.

"He insulted my kid—my girl Letty!" Kirby muttered, hoarsely.

When the fallen man had been lifted to his feet and hurried out of the saloon old Sam tried his best to follow, but his captors held him fast. They pleaded with him, they argued, they pacified him as well as they could. It was a long time, however, before they dared trust him alone with Rouletta, and even then they turned watchful eyes in his direction.

"I didn't want anything to happen." The girl spoke listlessly.

Kirby began to rumble again, but she interrupted him. "It wasn't the man's fault. It was a perfectly natural mistake on his part, and I've learned to expect such things. I—I'm sick, dad. You must find a place for me, quick."

Sam agreed readily enough. The biting cold of the wind met them at the door. Rouletta, summoning what strength she could, trudged along at his side. It did not take them long to canvass the town and to discover that there were no lodgings to be had. Rouletta halted finally, explaining through teeth that chattered:

"I—I'm frozen! Take me back where there's a stove—back to the saloon—anywhere. Only do it quickly."

"Pshaw! It isn't cold," Kirby protested, mildly.

The nature of this remark showed more plainly than anything he had said or done during the evening that the speaker was not himself. It signified such a dreadful change in him, it marked so surely the extent of his metamorphosis, that Rouletta's tears came.

"Looks like we'd have to make the best of it and stay awake till morning," the father went on, dully.

"No, no! I'm too sick," the girl sobbed, "and too cold. Leave me where I can keep warm; then go find the Countess and—ask her to put me up."

Returning to their starting-point, Kirby saw to his daughter's comfort as best he could, after which he wandered out into the night once more. His intentions were good, but he was not a little out of patience with Letty and still very angry with the man who had affronted her; rage at the insult glowed within his disordered brain and he determined, before he had gone very far, that his first duty was to right that wrong. Probably the miscreant was somewhere around, or, if not, he would soon make his appearance. Sam decided to postpone his errand long enough to look through the other drinking-places and to settle the score.

No one, on seeing him thus, would have suspected that he was drunk; he walked straight, his tongue was obedient, and he was master of his physical powers to a deceptive degree; only in his abnormally alert and feverish eyes was there a sign that his brain was completely crazed.

Rouletta waited for a long while, and steadily her condition grew worse. She became light-headed, and frequently lost herself in a sort of painful doze. She did not really sleep, however, for her eyes were open and staring; her wits wandered away on nightmare journeys, returning only when the pains became keener. Her fever was high now; she was nauseated, listless; her chest ached and her breathing troubled her when she was conscious enough to think. Her surroundings became unreal, too, the faces that appeared and disappeared before her were the faces of dream figures.

Unmindful of his daughter's need, heedless of the passage of time, Sam Kirby loitered about the saloons and waited patiently for the coming of a certain man. After a time he bought some chips and sat in a poker game, but he paid less attention to the spots on his cards than to the door through which men came and went. These latter he eyed with the unblinking stare of a serpent.

Pierce Phillips' life was ruined. He was sure of it. Precisely what constituted a ruined life, just how much such a one differed from a successful life, he had only the vaguest idea, but his own, at the moment, was tasteless, spoiled. Dire consequences were bound to follow such a tragedy as this, so he told himself, and he looked forward with gloomy satisfaction to their realization; whatever they should prove to be, however terrible the fate that was to overtake him, the guilt, the responsibility therefor, lay entirely upon the heartless woman who had worked the evil, and he earnestly hoped they would be brought home to her.

Yes, the Countess Courteau was heartless, wicked, cruel. Her unsuspected selfishness, her lack of genuine sentiment, her cool, calculating caution, were shocking. Pierce had utterly misread her at first; that was plain.

That he was really hurt, deeply distressed, sorely aggrieved, was true enough, for his love—infatuation, if you will—was perfectly genuine and exceedingly vital. Nothing is more real, more vital, than a normal boy's first infatuation, unless it be the first infatuation of a girl; precisely wherein it differs from the riper, less demonstrative affection that comes with later years and wider experience is not altogether plain. Certainly it is more spontaneous, more poignant; certainly it has in it equal possibilities for good or evil. How deep or how disfiguring the scar it leaves depends entirely upon the healing process. But, for that matter, the same applies to every heart affair.

Had Phillips been older and wiser he would not have yielded so readily to despair; experience would have taught him that a woman's "No" is not a refusal; wisdom would have told him that the absolute does not exist. But, being neither experienced nor wise, he mistook the downfall of his castle for the wreck of the universe, and it never occurred to him that he could salvage something, or, if need be, rebuild upon the same foundations.

What he could neither forget nor forgive at this moment was the fact that Hilda had not only led him to sacrifice his honor, or its appearance, but also that when he had managed to reconcile himself to that wrong she had lacked the courage to meet him half- way. There were but two explanations of her action: either she was weak and cowardly or else she did not love him. Neither afforded much consolation.

In choosing a course of conduct no man is strong enough to divorce himself entirely from his desires, to follow the light of pure reason, for memories, impulses, yearnings are bound to bring confusion. Although Pierce told himself that he must renounce this woman—that he had renounced her—nevertheless he recalled with a thrill the touch of her bare arms and the perfume of her streaming golden hair as he had buried his face in it, and the keenness of those memories caused him to cry out. The sex-call had been stronger than he had realized; therefore, to his present grief was added an inescapable, almost irresistible feeling of physical distress—a frenzy of balked desire—which caused him to waver irresolutely, confusing the issue dreadfully.

For a long time he wandered through the night, fighting his animal and his spiritual longings, battling with irresolution, striving to reconcile himself to the crash that had overwhelmed him. More than once he was upon the point of rushing back to the woman and pouring out the full tide of his passion in a desperate attempt to sweep away her doubts and her apprehensions. What if she should refuse to respond? He would merely succeed in making himself ridiculous and in sacrificing what little appearance of dignity he retained. Thus pride prevented, uncertainty paralyzed him.

Some women, it seemed to him, not bad in themselves, were born to work evil, and evidently Hilda was one of them. She had done her task well in this instance, for she had thoroughly blasted his life! He would pretend to forget, but nevertheless he would see to it that she was undeceived, and that the injury she had done him remained an ever-present reproach to her. That would be his revenge. Real forgetfulness, of course, was out of the question. How could he assume such an attitude? As he pondered the question he remembered that there were artificial aids to oblivion. Ruined men invariably took to drink. Why shouldn't he attempt to drown his sorrows? After all, might there not be real and actual relief in liquor? After consideration he decided to try it.

From a tent saloon near by came the sounds of singing and of laughter, and thither he turned his steps. When he entered the place a lively scene greeted him. Somehow or other a small portable organ had been secured, and at this a bearded fellow in a mackinaw coat was seated. He was playing a spirited accompaniment for two women, sisters, evidently, who sang with the loud abandon of professional "coon shouters." Other women were present, and Phillips recognized them as members of that theatrical troupe he had seen at Sheep Camp—as those "actresses" to whom Tom Linton had referred with such elaborate sarcasm. All of them, it appeared, were out for a good time, and in consequence White Horse was being treated to a free concert.

The song ended in a burst of laughter and applause, the men at the bar pounded with their glasses, and there was a general exodus in that direction. One of the sisters flung herself enthusiastically upon the volunteer organist and dragged him with her. There was much hilarity and a general atmosphere of license and unrestraint.

Phillips looked on moodily; he frowned, his lip curled. All the world was happy, it seemed, while he nursed a broken heart. Well, that was in accord with the scheme of things—life was a mad, topsy-turvy affair at best, and there was nothing stable about any part of it. He felt very grim, very desperate, very much abused and very much outside of all this merriment.

Men were playing cards at the rear of the saloon, and among the number was Sam Kirby. The old gambler showed no signs of his trying experience of the afternoon; in fact, it appeared to have been banished utterly from his mind. He was drinking, and even while Pierce looked on he rapped sharply with his iron hand to call the bartender's attention. Meanwhile he scanned intently the faces of all new-comers.

When the crowd had surged back to the organ Pierce found a place at the bar and called for a drink of whisky—the first he had ever ordered. This was the end he told himself.

He poured the glass nearly full, then he gulped the liquor down. It tasted much as it smelled, hence he derived little enjoyment from the experience. As he stripped a bill from his sizable roll of bank-notes the bartender eyed him curiously and seemed upon the point of speaking, but Pierce turned his shoulder.

After perhaps five minutes the young man acknowledged a vague disappointment; if this was intoxication there was mighty little satisfaction in it, he decided, and no forgetfulness whatever. He was growing dizzy, to be sure, but aside from that and from the fact that his eyesight was somewhat uncertain he could feel no unusual effect. Perhaps he expected too much; perhaps, also, he had drunk too sparingly. Again he called for the bottle, again he filled his glass, again he carelessly displayed his handful of paper currency.

Engaged thus, he heard a voice close to his ear; it said:

"Hello, man!"

Pierce turned to discover that a girl was leaning with elbows upon the plank counter at his side and looking at him. Her chin was supported upon her clasped fingers; she was staring into his face.

She eyed him silently for a moment, during which he returned her unsmiling gaze. She dropped her eyes to the whisky-glass, then raised them again to his.

"Can you take a drink like that and not feel it?" she inquired.

"No. I want to feel it; that's why I take it," he said, gruffly.

"What's the idea?"

"Idea? Well, it's my own idea—my own business."

The girl took no offense; she maintained her curious observation of him; she appeared genuinely interested in acquainting herself with a man who could master such a phenomenal quantity of liquor. There was mystification in her tone when she said:

"But—I saw you come in alone. And now you're drinking alone."

"Is that a reproach? I beg your pardon." Pierce swept her a mocking bow. "What will you have?"

Without removing her chin from its resting-place, the stranger shook her head shortly, so he downed his beverage as before. The girl watched him interestedly as he paid for it.

"That's more money than I've seen in a month," said she. "I wouldn't be so free and easy with it, if I were you."

"No? Why not?"

She merely shrugged, and continued to study him with that same disconcerting intentness—she reminded him of a frank and curious child.

Pierce noticed now that she was a very pretty girl, and quite appropriately dressed, under the circumstances. She wore a boy's suit, with a short skirt over her knickerbockers, and, since she was slim, the garments added to her appearance of immaturity. Her face was oval in outline, and it was of a perfectly uniform olive tint; her eyes were large and black and velvety, their lashes were long, their lids were faintly smudged with a shadowy under- coloring that magnified their size and intensified their brilliance. Her hair was almost black, nevertheless it was of fine texture; a few unruly strands had escaped from beneath her fur cap and they clouded her brow and temples. At first sight she appeared to be foreign, and of that smoky type commonly associated with the Russian idea of beauty, but she was not foreign, not Russian; nor were her features predominantly racial.

"What's your name?" she asked, suddenly.

Pierce told her. "And yours?" he inquired.

"Laure."

"Laure what?"

"Just Laure—for the present."

"Humph! You're one of this—theatrical company, I presume." He indicated the singers across the room.

"Yes. Morris Best hired us to work in his place at Dawson."

"I remember your outfit at Sheep Camp. Best was nearly crazy—"

"He's crazier now than ever." Laure smiled for the first time and her face lit up with mischief. "Poor Morris! We lead him around by his big nose. He's deathly afraid he'll lose us, and we know it, so we make his life miserable." She turned serious abruptly, and with a candor quite startling said, "I like you."

"Indeed!" Pierce was nonplussed.

The girl nodded. "You looked good to me when you came in. Are you going to Dawson?"

"Of course. Everybody is going to Dawson."

"I suppose you have partners?"

"No!" Pierce's face darkened. "I'm alone—very much alone." He undertook to speak in a hollow, hopeless tone.

"Big outfit?"

"None at all. But I have enough money for my needs and—I'll probably hook up with somebody." Now there was a brave but cheerless resignation in his words.

Laure pondered for a moment; even more carefully than before she studied her companion. That the result satisfied her she made plain by saying:

"Morris wants men. I can get him to hire you. Would you like to hook up with us?"

"I don't know. It doesn't much matter. Will you have something to drink now?"

"Why should I? They don't give any percentage here. Wait! I'll see Morris and tell you what he says." Leaving Pierce, the speaker hurried to a harassed little man of Hebraic countenance who was engaged in the difficult task of chaperoning this unruly aggregation of talent. To him she said:

"I've found a man for you, Morris."

"Man?"

"To go to Dawson with us. That tall, good-looking fellow at the bar."

Mr. Best was bewildered. "What ails you?" he queried. "I don't want any men, and you know it."

"You want this fellow, and you're going to hire him."

"Am I? What makes you think so?"

"Because it's—him or me," Laure said, calmly.

Mr. Best was both surprised and angered at this cool announcement. "You mean, I s'pose, that you'll quit," he said, belligerently.

"I mean that very thing. The man has money—"

Best's anger disappeared as if by magic; his tone became apologetic. "Oh! Why didn't you say so? If he'll pay enough, and if you want him, why, of course—"

Laure interrupted with an unexpected dash of temper. "He isn't going to pay you anything: you're going to pay him—top wages, too. Understand?"

The unhappy recipient of this ultimatum raised his hands in a gesture of despair. "Himmel! There's no understanding you girls! There's no getting along with you, either. What's on your mind, eh? Are you after him or his coin?"

"I—don't know." Laure was gazing at Phillips with a peculiar expression. "I'm not sure. Maybe I'm after both. Will you be good and hire him, or—"

"Oh, you've got me!" Best declared, with frank resentment. "If you want him, I s'pose I'll have to get him for you, but"—he muttered an oath under his breath—"you'll ruin me. Oy! Oy! I'll be glad when you're all in Dawson and at work."

After some further talk the manager approached Phillips and made himself known. "Laure tells me you want to join our troupe," he began.

"I'll see that he pays you well," the girl urged. "Come on."

Phillips' thoughts were not quite clear, but, even so, the situation struck him as grotesquely amusing. "I'm no song-and- dance man," he said, with a smile. "What would you expect me to do? Play a mandolin?"

"I don't know exactly," Best replied. "Maybe you could help me ride herd on these Bernhardts." He ran a hand through his thin black hair, thinner now by half than when he left the States. "If you could do that, why—you could save my reason."

"He wants you to be a Simon Legree," Laure explained.

The manager seconded this statement by a nod of his head. "Sure! Crack the whip over 'em. Keep 'em in line. Don't let 'em get married. I thought I was wise to hire good-lookers, but—I was crazy. They smile and they make eyes and the men fight for 'em. They steal 'em away. I've had a dozen battles and every time I've been licked. Already four of my girls are gone. If I lose four more I can't open; I'll be ruined. Oy! Such a country! Every day a new love-affair; every day more trouble—"

Laure threw back her dark head and laughed in mischievous delight. "It's a fact," she told Pierce. "The best Best gets is the worst of it. He's not our manager, he's our slave; we have lots of fun with him." Stepping closer to the young man, she slipped her arm within his and, looking up into his face, said, in a low voice: "I knew I could fix it, for I always have my way. Will you go?" When he hesitated she repeated: "Will you go with me or—shall I go with you?"

Phillips started. His brain was fogged and he had difficulty in focusing his gaze upon the eager, upturned face of the girl; nevertheless, he appreciated the significance of this audacious inquiry and there came to him the memory of his recent conversation with the Countess Courteau. "Why do you say that?" he queried, after a moment. "Why do you want me to go?"

Laure's eyes searched his; there was an odd light in them, and a peculiar intensity which he dimly felt but scarcely understood. "I don't know," she confessed. She was no longer smiling, and, although her gaze remained hypnotically fixed upon his, she seemed to be searching her own soul. "I don't know," she said again, "but you have a—call."

In spite of this young woman's charms, and they were numerous enough, Phillips was not strongly drawn to her; resentment, anger, his rankling sense of injury, all these left no room for other emotions. That she was interested in him he still had sense enough to perceive; her amazing proposal, her unmistakable air of proprietorship, showed that much, and in consequence a sort of malicious triumph arose within him. Here, right at hand, was an agency of forgetfulness, more potent by far than the one to which he had first turned. Dangerous? Yes. But his life was ruined. What difference, then, whether oblivion came from alcohol or from the drug of the poppy? Deliberately he shut his ears to inner warnings; he raised his head defiantly.

"I'll go," said he.

"We leave at daylight," Best told him.



CHAPTER XIV

With 'Poleon Doret to be busy was to be contented, and these were busy times for him. His daily routine, with trap and gun, had made of him an early riser and had bred in him a habit of greeting the sun with a song. It was no hardship for him, therefore, to cook his breakfast by candle-light, especially now that the days were growing short. On the morning after his rescue of Sam Kirby and his daughter 'Poleon washed his dishes and cut his wood; then, finding that there was still an hour to spare before the light would be sufficient to run Miles Canon, he lit his pipe and strolled up to the village. The ground was now white, for considerable snow had fallen during the night; the day promised to be extremely short and uncomfortable. 'Poleon, however, was impervious to weather of any sort; his good humor was not dampened in the least.

Even at this hour the saloons were well patronized, for not only was the camp astir, but also the usual stale crowd of all-night loiterers was not yet sufficiently intoxicated to go to bed. As 'Poleon neared the first resort, the door opened and a woman emerged. She was silhouetted briefly against the illumination from within, and the pilot was surprised to recognize her as Rouletta Kirby. He was upon the point of speaking to her when she collided blindly with a man who had preceded him by a step or two.

The fellow held the girl for an instant and helped her to regain her equilibrium, exclaiming, with a laugh: "Say! What's the matter with you, sister? Can't you see where you're going?" When Rouletta made no response the man continued in an even friendlier tone, "Well, I can see; my eyesight's good, and it tells me you're about the best-looking dame I've run into to-night." Still laughing, he bent his head as if to catch the girl's answer. "Eh? I don't get you. Who d'you say you're looking for?"

'Poleon was frankly puzzled. He resented this man's tone of easy familiarity and, about to interfere, he was restrained by Rouletta's apparent indifference. What ailed the girl? It was too dark to make out her face, but her voice, oddly changed and unnatural, gave him cause for wonderment. Could it be—'Poleon's half-formed question was answered by the stranger who cried, in mock reproach: "Naughty! Naughty! You've had a little too much, that's what's the matter with you. Why, you need a guardeen." Taking Rouletta by the shoulders, the speaker turned her about so that the dim half-light that filtered through the canvas wall of the tent saloon shone full upon her face.

'Poleon saw now that the girl was indeed not herself; there was a childish, vacuous expression upon her face; she appeared to be dazed and to comprehend little of what the man was saying. This was proved by her blank acceptance of his next insinuating words: "Say, it's lucky I stumbled on to you. I been up all night and so have you. S'pose we get better acquainted. What?"

Rouletta offered no objection to this proposal; the fellow slipped an arm about her and led her away, meanwhile pouring a confidential murmur into her ear. They had proceeded but a few steps when 'Poleon Doret strode out of the gloom and laid a heavy hand upon the man.

"My frien'," he demanded, brusquely, "w'ere you takin' dis lady?"

"Eh?" The fellow wheeled sharply. "What's the idea? What is she to you?"

"She ain't not'in' to me. But I seen you plenty tams an'—you ain't no good."

Rouletta spoke intelligibly for the first time: "I've no place to go—no place to sleep. I'm very—tired."

"There you've got it," the girl's self-appointed protector grinned. "Well, I happen to have room for her in my tent." As Doret's fingers sank deeper into his flesh the man's anger rose; he undertook to shake off the unwelcome grasp. "You leggo! You mind your own business—"

"Dis goin' be my biznesse," 'Poleon announced. "Dere's somet'ing fonny 'bout dis—"

"Don't get funny with me. I got as much right to her as you have— " 'Poleon jerked the man off his feet, then flung him aside as if he were unclean. His voice was hoarse with disgust when he cried:

"Get out! Beat it! By Gar! You ain't fit for touch decent gal. You spik wit' her again, I tear you in two piece!"

Turning to Rouletta he said, "Mam'selle, you lookin' for your papa, eh?"

Miss Kirby was clasping and unclasping her fingers, her face was strained, her response came in a mutter so low that 'Poleon barely caught it:

"Danny's gone—gone—Dad, he's—No use fighting it—It's the drink—and there's nothing I can do."

It was 'Poleon's turn to take the girl by the shoulders and wheel her about for a better look at her face. A moment later he led her back into the saloon. She was so oddly obedient, so docile, so unquestioning, that he realized something was greatly amiss. He laid his hand against her flushed cheek and found it to be burning hot, whereupon he hastily consulted the nearest bystanders. They agreed with him that the girl was indeed ill—more than that, she was half delirious.

"Sacre! Wat's she doin' roun' a saloon lak dis?" he indignantly demanded. "How come she's gettin' up biffore daylight, eh?"

It was the bartender who made plain the facts: "She 'ain't been to bed at all, Frenchy. She's been up all night, ridin' herd on old Sam Kirby. He's drinkin', understand? He tried to get some place for her to stay, along about midnight, but there wasn't any. She's been settin' there alongside of the stove for the last few hours and I been sort of keepin' an eye on her for Sam's sake."

Doret breathed an oath. "Dat's nice fader she's got! I wish I let 'im drown."

"Oh, he ain't exactly to blame. He's on a bender—like to of killed a feller in here. Somebody'd ought to take care of this girl till he sobers up."

During this conference Rouletta stood quivering, her face a blank, completely indifferent to her surroundings. 'Poleon made her sit down, and but for her ceaseless whispering she might have been in a trance.

Doret's indignation mounted as the situation became plain to him.

"Fine t'ing!" he angrily declared. "Wat for you fellers leave dis seeck gal settin' up, eh? Me, I come jus' in tam for catch a loafer makin' off wit' her." Again he swore savagely. "Dere's some feller ain't wort' killin'. Wal, I got good warm camp; I tak' her dere, den I fin' dis fader."

"Sam won't be no good to you. What she needs is a doctor, and she needs him quick," the bartender averred.

"Eh bien! I fin' him, too! Mam'selle"—'Poleon turned to the girl- -"you're bad seeck, dat's fac'. You care for stop in my tent?" The girl stared up at him blankly, uncomprehendingly; then, drawn doubtless by the genuine concern in his troubled gaze, she raised her hand and placed it in his. She left it there, the small fingers curling about his big thumb like those of a child. "Poor li'l bird!" The woodsman's brow puckered, a moisture gathered in his eyes. "Dis is hell, for sure. Come, den, ma petite, I fin' a nes' for you." He raised her to her feet; then, removing his heavy woolen coat, he placed it about her frail shoulders. When she was snugly buttoned inside of it he led her out into the dim gray dawn; she went with him obediently.

As they breasted the swirling snowflakes Doret told himself that, pending Sam Kirby's return to sanity, this sick girl needed a woman's care quite as much as a doctor's; naturally his thoughts turned to the Countess Courteau. Of all the women in White Horse, the Countess alone was qualified to assume charge of an innocent child like this, and he determined to call upon her as soon as he had summoned medical assistance.

When, without protest, Rouletta followed him into his snug living- quarters, Doret thought again of the ruffian from whom he had rescued her and again he breathed a malediction. The more fully he became aware of the girl's utter helplessness the angrier he grew, and the more criminal appeared her father's conduct. White Horse made no pretense at morality; it was but a relay station, a breathing-point where the mad rush to the Klondike paused; there was neither law nor order here; the women who passed through were, for the most part, shameless creatures; the majority of the men were unruly, unresponsive to anything except an appeal to their animal appetites. Sympathy, consideration, chivalry had all but vanished in the heat of the great stampede. That Sam Kirby should have abandoned his daughter to such as these was incredible, criminal. Mere intoxication did not excuse it, and 'Poleon vowed he would give the old man a piece of his mind at the first opportunity.

His tent was still warm; a few sticks of dry spruce caused the little stove to grow red; he helped Rouletta to lie down upon his bed, then he drew his blankets over her.

"You stay here li'l while, eh?" He rested a comforting hand upon her shoulder. "'Poleon goin' find your papa now. Bimeby you goin' feel better."

He was not sure that she understood him, for she continued to mutter under her breath and began to roll her head as if in pain. Then he summoned all the persuasiveness he could. "Dere now, you're safe in 'Poleon's house; he mak' you well dam' queeck."

A good many people were stirring when the pilot climbed once more to the stumpy clearing where the village stood, and whomsoever he met he questioned regarding Sam Kirby; it did not take him long to discover the latter's whereabouts. But 'Poleon's delay, brief as it had been, bore tragic consequences. Had he been a moment or two earlier he might have averted a catastrophe of far-reaching effect, one that had a bearing upon many lives.

The Gold Belt Saloon had enjoyed a profitable all-night patronage; less than an hour previously Morris Best had rounded up the last of his gay song-birds and put an end to their carnival. The poker game, however, was still in progress at the big round table. Already numerous early risers were hurrying in to fortify themselves against the raw day just breaking, and among these last-named, by some evil whim of fate, chanced to be the man for whom Sam Kirby had so patiently waited. The fellow had not come seeking trouble—no one who knew the one-armed gambler's reputation sought trouble with him—but, learning that Kirby was still awake and in a dangerous mood, he had entered the Gold Belt determined to protect himself in case of eventualities.

Doret was but a few seconds behind the man, but those few seconds were fateful. As the pilot stepped into the saloon he beheld a sight that was enough to freeze him motionless. The big kerosene lamps, swung from the rafter braces above, shed over the interior a peculiar sickly radiance, yellowed now by reason of the pale morning light outside. Beneath one of the lamps a tableau was set. Sam Kirby and the man he had struck the night before were facing each other in the center of the room, and Doret heard the gambler cry:

"I've been laying for you!"

Kirby's usually impassive face was a sight; it was fearfully contorted; it was the countenance of a maniac. His words were loud and uncannily distinct, and the sound of them had brought a breathless hush over the place. At the moment of Doret's entrance the occupants of the saloon seemed petrified; they stood rooted in their tracks as if the anger in that menacing voice had halted them in mid-action. 'Poleon, too, turned cold, for it seemed to him that he had opened the door upon a roomful of wax figures posed in theatric postures. Then in the flash of an eye the scene dissolved into action, swift and terrifying.

What happened was so unexpected, it came with such a lack of warning, that few of the witnesses, even though they beheld every move, were able later to agree fully upon details. Whether Kirby actually fired the first shot, or whether his attempt to do so spurred his antagonist to lightning quickness, was long a matter of dispute. In a flash the room became a place of deafening echoes. Shouts of protest, yells of fright, the crash of overturning furniture, the stamp of fleeing feet mingled with the loud explosion of gunshots—pandemonium.

Fortunately the troupe of women who had been here earlier were gone and the tent was by no means crowded. Even so, there were enough men present to raise a mighty turmoil. Some of them took shelter behind the bar, others behind the stove and the tables; some bolted headlong for the door; still others hurled themselves bodily against the canvas walls and ripped their way out.

The duel was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Sam Kirby's opponent reeled backward and fetched up against the bar; above the din his hoarse voice rose:

"He started it! You saw him! Tried to kill me!"

He waved a smoking pistol-barrel at the gambler, who had sunk to his knees. Even while he was shouting out his plea for justification Kirby slid forward upon his face and the fingers of his outstretched hand slowly unloosed themselves from his gun.

It had been a shocking, a sickening affair; the effect of it had been intensified by reason of its unexpectedness, and now, although it was over, excitement gathered fury. Men burst forth from their places of concealment and made for the open air; the structure vomited its occupants out into the snow.

'Poleon Doret had been swept aside, then borne backward ahead of that stampede, and at length found himself wedged into a corner. He heard the victor repeating: "You saw him. Tried to kill me!" The speaker turned a blanched face and glaring eyes upon those witnesses who still remained. "He's Sam Kirby. I had to get him or he'd have got me." He pressed a hand to his side, then raised it; it was smeared with blood. In blank stupefaction the man stared at this phenomenon.

Doret was the first to reach that motionless figure sprawled face down upon the floor; it was he who lifted the gray head and spoke Kirby's name. A swift examination was enough to make quite sure that the old man was beyond all help. Outside, curiosity had done its work and the human tide was setting back into the wrecked saloon. When 'Poleon rose with the body in his arms he was surrounded by a clamorous crowd. Through it he bore the limp figure to the cloth-covered card-table, and there, among the scattered emblems of Sam Kirby's calling, 'Poleon deposited his burden. By those cards and those celluloid disks the old gambler had made his living; grim fitness was in the fact that they should carpet his bier.

When 'Poleon Doret had forced his way by main strength out of the Gold Belt Saloon, he removed his cap and, turning his face to the wind, he breathed deeply of the cool, clean air. His brow was moist; he let the snowflakes fall upon it the while he shut his eyes and strove to think. Engaged thus, he heard Lucky Broad address him.

With the speaker was Kid Bridges; that they had come thither on the run was plain, for they were panting.

"What's this about Kirby?" Lucky gasped.

"We heard he's just been croaked!" the Kid exclaimed.

'Poleon nodded. "I seen it all. He had it comin' to him," and with a gesture he seemed to brush a hideous picture from before his eyes.

"Old Sam! DEAD!"

Broad, it seemed, was incredulous. He undertook to bore his way into the crowd that was pressing through the saloon door, but Doret seized him.

"Wait!" cried the latter. "Dat ain't all; dat ain't de worst."

"Say! Where's Letty?" Bridges inquired. "Was she with him when it happened? Does she know—"

"Dat's w'at I'm goin' tell you." In a few words 'Poleon made known the girl's condition, how he had happened to encounter her, and how he had been looking for her father when the tragedy occurred. His listeners showed their amazement and their concern.

"Gosh! That's tough!" It was Broad speaking. "Me 'n' the Kid had struck camp and was on our way down to fix up our boat when we heard about the killin'. We couldn't believe it, for Sam—"

"Seems like it was a waste of effort to save that outfit," Bridges broke in. "Sam dead and Letty dyin'—all in this length of time! She's a good kid; she's goin' to feel awful. Who's goin' to break the news to her?"

"I don' know." 'Poleon frowned in deep perplexity. "Dere's doctor in dere now," he nodded toward the Gold Belt. "I'm goin' tak' him to her, but she mus' have woman for tak' care of her. Mebbe Madame la Comtesse—"

"Why, the Countess is gone! She left at daylight. Me 'n' the Kid are to follow as soon as we get our skiff fixed."

"Gone?"

"Sure!"

"Sacre! De one decent woman in dis place, Wal!" 'Poleon shrugged. "Dose dance-hall gal' is got good heart—"

"Hell! They pulled out ahead of our gang Best ran his boats through the White Horse late yesterday and he was off before it was light. I know, because Phillips told me. He's joined out with 'em—blew in early and got his war-bag. He left the Countess flat."

Doret was dumfounded at this news and he showed his dismay.

"But—dere's no more women here!" he stammered. "Dat young lady she's seeck; she mus' be nurse'. By Gar! Who's goin' do it, eh?"

The three of them were anxiously discussing the matter when they were joined by the doctor to whom 'Poleon had referred. "I've done all there is to do here," the physician announced. "Now about Kirby's daughter. You say she's delirious?" The pilot nodded. He told of Rouletta's drenching on the afternoon previous and of the state in which he had just found her. "Jove! Pneumonia, most likely. It sounds serious, and I'm afraid I can't do much. You see I'm all ready to go, but—of course I'll do what I can."

"Who's goin' nurse her?" 'Poleon demanded for a second time. "Dere ain't no women in dis place."

The physician shook his head. "Who indeed? It's a wretched situation! If she's as ill as you seem to think, why, we'll have to do the best we can, I suppose. She probably won't last long. Come!" Together he and the French Canadian hurried away.



CHAPTER XV

It was afternoon when Lucky Broad and Kid Bridges came to 'Poleon Doret's tent and called its owner outside.

"We're hitched up and ready to say 'gid-dap,' but we came back to see how Letty's getting along," the former explained.

'Poleon shook his head doubtfully; his face was grave. "She's bad seeck."

"Does she know about old Sam?"

"She ain't know not'in'. She's crazee altogether. Poor li'l gal, she's jus' lak baby. I'm scare' as hell."

The confidence-men stared at each other silently; then they stared at Doret. "What we goin' to do about it?" the Kid inquired, finally.

'Poleon was at a loss for an answer; he made no secret of his anxiety. "De doctor say she mus' stay right here—"

"HERE?"

"He say if she get cold once more—pouf! She die lak dat! Plenty fire, plenty blanket, medicine every hour, dat's all. I'm prayin' for come along some woman—any kin' of woman at all—I don' care if she's squaw."

"There ain't any skirts back of us. Best's outfit was the last to leave Linderman. There won't be any more till after the freeze- up."

"Eh bien! Den I s'pose I do de bes' I can. She's poor seeck gal in beeg, cold countree wit' no frien's, no money—"

"No money?" Broad was startled. "Why, Sam was 'fat'! He had a bank-roll—"

"He lose five t'ousan' dollar' playin' card las' night. Less 'n eighty dollar' dey lef' him. Eighty dollar' an'—dis." From the pocket of his mackinaw 'Poleon drew Kirby's revolver, that famous single-action six-shooter, the elaborate ivory grip of which was notched in several places. Broad and his partner eyed the weapon with intense interest.

"That's Agnes, all right!" the former declared. "And that's where old Sam kept his books." He ran his thumb-nail over the significant file-marks on the handle. "Looks like an alligator had bit it."

Bridges was even more deeply impressed by the announcement of Kirby's losses than was his partner. "Sam must of been easy pickin', drunk like that. He was a gamblin' fool when he was right, but I s'pose he couldn't think of nothin' except fresh meat for Agnes. Letty had him tagged proper, and I bet she'd of saved him if she hadn't of gone off her nut. D'you think she's got a chance?"

"For get well?" 'Poleon shrugged his wide shoulders. "De doctor say it's goin' be hard pull. He's goin' stay so long he can, den— wal, mebbe 'noder doctor come along. I hope so."

"If she does win out, then what?" Broad inquired.

'Poleon considered the question. "I s'pose I tak' her back to Dyea an' send her home. I got some dog."

Lucky studied the speaker curiously; there was a peculiar hostile gleam in his small, colorless eyes. "Medicine every hour, and a steady fire, you say. You don't figger to get much sleep, do you?"

"Non. No. But me, I'm strong feller; I can sleep hangin' up by de ear if I got to."

"What's the big idea?"

"Eh?" Doret was frankly puzzled. "Wat you mean, 'beeg idea'?"

"What d'you expect to get out of all this?"

"M'sieu'!" The French Canadian's face flushed, he raised his head and met the gaze of the two men. There was an air of dignity about him as he said: "Dere's plenty t'ing in dis worl' we don' get pay' for. You didn't 'spect no pay yesterday when you run de W'ite 'Orse for save dis gal an' her papa, did you? No. Wal, I'm woodsman, river-man; I ain't dam' stampeder. Dis is my countree, we're frien's together long tam; I love it an' it loves me. I love de birds and hanimals, an' dey're frien's wit' me also. 'Bout spring-tam, w'en de grub she's short, de Canada jays dey come to visit me, an' I feed dem; sometam' I fin' dere's groun-squirrel's nest onder my tent, an' mebbe mister squirrel creep out of his hole, t'inkin' summer is come. Dat feller he's hongry; he steal my food an' he set 'longside my stove for eat him. You t'ink I hurt dose he'pless li'l t'ing? You s'pose I mak' dem pay for w'at dey eat?"

'Poleon was soaring as only his free soul could soar; he indicated the tent at his back, whence issued the sound of Rouletta Kirby's ceaseless murmurings.

"Dis gal—she's tiny snowbird wit' broken wing. Bien! I fix her wing de bes' I can. I mak' her well an' I teach her to fly again. Dat's all." Broad and Bridges had listened attentively, their faces impassive. Lucky was the first to speak.

"Letty's a good girl, y'understand. She's different to these others—"

'Poleon interrupted with a gesture of impatience. "It ain't mak' no difference if she's good or bad. She's seeck."

"Me 'n' the Kid have done some heavy thinkin', an' we'd about decided to get a high stool and take turns lookin' out Letty's game, just to see that her bets went as they laid, but I got a hunch you're a square guy. What D'YOU think, Kid?"

Mr. Bridges nodded his head slowly. "I got the same hunch. The point is this," he explained. "We can't very well throw the Countess—we got some of her outfit—and, anyhow, we'd be about as handy around an invalid as a coupla cub bears. I think we'll bow out. But, Frenchy"—the gambler spoke with intense earnestness— "if ever we hear a kick from that gal we'll—we'll foller you like a track. Won't we, Lucky?"

"We'll foller him to hell!" Mr. Broad feelingly declared.

Gravely, ceremoniously, the callers shook hands with Doret, then they returned whence they had come. They went their way; Rouletta's delirium continued; 'Poleon's problem increased daily; meanwhile, however, the life of the North did not slacken a single pulse-beat.

Never since their earliest associations had Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk found themselves in such absolute accord, in such complete harmony of understanding, as during the days that immediately followed their reconciliation. Each man undertook to outdo the other in politeness; each man forced himself to be considerate, and strove at whatever expense to himself to lighten the other's burdens; all of their relations were characterized by an elaborate, an almost mid-Victorian courtesy. A friendly rivalry in self-sacrifice existed between them; they quarreled good-naturedly over the dish-washing, that disgusting rite which tries the patience of every grown man; when there was wood to be cut they battled with each other for the ax.

But there is a limit to politeness; unfailing sunshine grows tedious, and so does a monotonous exercise of magnanimity.

While it had been an easy matter to cut their rowboat in two, the process of splicing it together again had required patience and ingenuity, and it had resulted in delay. By the time they arrived at Miles Canon, therefore, the season was far advanced and both men, without knowing it, were in a condition of mind to welcome any sort of a squall that would serve to freshen the unbearably stagnant atmosphere of amiability in which they were slowly suffocating.

Here for the first time the results of their quarrel arose to embarrass them; they could find no pilot who would risk his life in a craft so badly put together as theirs. After repeated discouragements the partners took counsel with each other; reluctantly they agreed that they were up against it.

"Seems like I've about ruined us," Mr. Quirk acknowledged, ruefully.

"You? Why, Jerry, it was my fault we cut the old ship in two," Mr. Linton declared.

The former speaker remonstrated, gently. "Now, Tom, it's just like you to take the blame, but it was my doin's; I instigated that fratricidal strife."

Sweetly but firmly Linton differed with his partner. "It ain't often that you're wrong, Jerry, old boy—it ain't more than once or twice in a lifetime—but you're wrong now. I'm the guilty wretch and I'd ought to hang for it. My rotten temper—"

"Pshaw! You got one of the nicest dispositions I ever see—in a man. You're sweeter 'n a persimmon. I pecked at you till your core was exposed. I'm a thorn in the flesh, Tom, and folks wouldn't criticize you none for doin' away with me."

"You're 'way off. I climbed you with my spurs—"

"Now, Tom!" Sadly Mr. Quirk wagged his gray head. "I don't often argue with anybody, especially with you, but the damnable idea of dividin' our spoils originated in my evil mind and I'm goin' to pay the penalty. I'll ride this white-pine outlaw through by myself. You ear him down till I get both feet in the stirrups, then turn him a-loose; I'll finish settin' up and I won't pull leather."

"How you talk! Boats ain't like horses; it'll take a good oarsman to navigate these rapids—"

"Well?" Quirk looked up quickly. "I'm a good oarsman." There was a momentary pause. "Ain't I?"

Mr. Linton hastily remedied his slip of the tongue. "You're a bear!" he asserted, with feeling. "I don't know as I ever saw a better boatman than you, for your weight and experience, but— there's a few things about boats that you never had the chance to pick up, you being sort of a cactus and alkali sailor. For instance, when you want a boat to go 'gee' you have to pull on the 'off' oar. It's plumb opposite to the way you steer a horse."

"Sure! Didn't I figger that out for the both of us? We 'most had a runaway till I doped it out."

Now this was a plain perversion of fact, for it was Tom who had made the discovery. Mr. Linton was about to so state the matter when he reflected that doubtless Jerry's intentions were honest and that his failing memory was to blame for the misstatement. It was annoying to be robbed of the credit for an important discovery, of course, but Tom swallowed his resentment.

"The point is this," he said, with a resumption of geniality. "You'd get all wet in them rapids, Jerry, and—you know what that means. I'd rather take a chance on drowning myself than to nurse you through another bad cold."

It was a perfectly sincere speech—an indirect expression of deep concern that reflected no little credit upon the speaker's generosity. Tom was exasperated, therefore, when Jerry, by some characteristic process of crooked reasoning, managed to misinterpret it. Plaintively the latter said:

"I s'pose I AM a handicap to you, Tom. You're mighty consid'rate of my feelin's, not to throw it up to me any oftener than you do."

"I don't throw it up to you none. I never did. No, Jerry, I'll row the boat. You go overland and keep your feet dry."

"A lot of good that would do." Mr. Quirk spoke morosely. "I'd starve to death walkin' around if you lost the grub."

This struck Tom Linton as a very narrow, a very selfish way of looking at the matter. He had taken no such view of Jerry's offer; he had thought less about the grub than about his partner's safety. It was an inconsiderate and unfeeling remark. After a moment he said:

"You know I don't throw things up to you, Jerry. I ain't that kind." Mr. Quirk stirred uneasily. "You didn't mean to say that, did you?"

What Jerry would have answered is uncertain, for his attention at the moment was attracted by a stranger who strode down the bank and now accosted him and his partner jointly.

"Bonjour, m'sieu's!" said the new-comer. "I'm lookin' for buy some lemon'. You got some, no?"

Mr. Quirk spoke irritably. "Sure. We've got a few, but they ain't for sale."

The stranger—Quirk remembered him as the Frenchman, Doret, whom he had seen at Sheep Camp—smiled confidently.

"Oh yes! Everyt'ing is for sale if you pay 'nough for him," said he.

Now this fellow had broken the thread of a conversation into which a vague undertone of acrimony was creeping—a conversation that gave every indication of developing into an agreeable and soul- satisfying difference of opinion, if not even into a loud and free-spoken argument of the old familiar sort. To have the promise of an invigorating quarrel frustrated by an idiotic diversion concerning lemons caused both old men to turn their pent-up exasperation upon the speaker.

"We've got use for our lemons and we're going to keep them," said Tom. "We're lemon-eaters—full of acid—that's us."

"We wouldn't give lemon aid to nobody." Jerry grinned in malicious enjoyment of his own wit.

"You got how many?" 'Poleon persisted.

"Oh, 'bout enough! Mebbe a dozen or two."

"I buy 'em. Dere's poor seeck lady—"

Tom cut in brusquely. "You won't buy anything here. Don't tell us your troubles. We've got enough of our own, and poverty ain't among the number."

"W'at trouble you got, eh? Me, I'm de trouble man. Mebbe I fix 'em."

Sourly the partners explained their difficulty. When 'Poleon understood he smiled again, more widely.

"Good! I mak' bargain wit' you, queeck. Me, I'm pilot of de bes' an' I tak' your boat t'rough for dose lemon'."

The elderly men sat up; they exchanged startled glances.

"D'you mean it?"

"I'm goin' have dose lemon'."

"Can't you buy any in the saloons?"

"No. Wal, w'at you say?"

Tom inquired of his partner, "Reckon you can get along without 'em, Jerry?"

"Why, I been savin' 'em for you."

"Then it's a go!"

"One t'ing you do for me, eh?" 'Poleon hesitated momentarily. "It's goin' tak' tam for fin' dam' fool to he'p me row dat bateau, but—I fin' him. Mebbe you set up wit' li'l seeck gal while I'm gone. What?" In a few words he made known the condition of affairs at his camp, and the old men agreed readily enough. With undisguised relief they clambered stiffly out of their boat and followed the French Canadian up the trail. As they toiled up the slope 'Poleon explained:

"De doctor he's go to Dawson, an' t'ree day dis gal been layin' seeck—crazee in de head. Every hour medicine, all de tam fire in de stove! Sapre! I'm half 'sleep."

"We'll set up with her as long as you want," Tom volunteered. "Being a family man myself, I'm a regular nurse."

"Me, too," Jerry exclaimed. "I never had no family, but I allus been handy around hosses, and hosses is the same as people, only bigger—"

Mr. Linton stifled a laugh at this remark. "That'll show you!" said he. "You leave it to me, Jerry."

"Well, ain't they?"

"No."

"They are, too."

"Plumb different."

The argument waxed hot; it had reached its height when 'Poleon laid a finger upon his lips, commanding silence. On tiptoe he led the two men into his tent. When he had issued instructions and left in search of a boatman the partners seated themselves awkwardly, their caps in their hands. Curiously, apprehensively, they studied the fever-flushed face of the delirious girl.

"Purty, ain't she?" Jerry whispered.

Tom nodded. "She's sick, all right, too," he said in a similar tone; then, after a moment: "I've been thinking about them lemons. We're getting about a hundred dollars a dozen for 'em. Kind of a rotten trick, under the circumstances. I'm sorry you put it up to that feller the way you did."

Mr. Quirk stiffened, his eyes widened in astonishment.

"Me? I didn't put it up to him. You done it. They're your lemons."

"How d'you figure they're mine?"

"You bought 'em, didn't you?"

"I PAID for 'em, if that's what you mean, but I bought 'em for you, same as I bought that liquor. You've et most of 'em, and you've drank most of the whisky. You needed it worse than I did, Jerry, and I've always considered—"

Now any reference, any reflection upon his physical limitations, however remote or indirect, aroused Jerry's instant ire. "At it again, ain't you?" he cried, testily. "I s'pose you'll forget about that whisky in four or five years. I hope so—"

"'Sh-h!" Tom made a gesture commanding silence, for Jerry had unconsciously raised his voice. "What ails you?" he inquired, sweetly.

"Nothin' ails me," Jerry muttered under his breath. "That's the trouble. You're allus talkin' like it did—like I had one foot in the grave and was gaspin' my last. I'm hard as a hickory-nut. I could throw you down and set on you."

Mr. Linton opened hia bearded lips, then closed them again; he withdrew behind an air of wounded dignity. This, he reflected, was his reward for days of kindness, for weeks of uncomplaining sacrifice. Jerry was the most unreasonable, the most difficult person he had ever met; the more one did for him the crankier he became. There was no gratitude in the man, his skin wouldn't hold it. Take the matter of their tent, for instance: how would the old fellow have managed if he, Tom, had not, out of pure compassion, taken pity on him and rescued him from the rain back there at Linderman? Had Jerry remembered that act of kindness? He had not. On the contrary, he had assumed, and maintained, an attitude of indulgence that was in itself an offense—yes, more than an offense. Tom tried to center his mind upon his partner's virtues, but it was a difficult task, for honesty compelled him to admit that Jerry assayed mighty low when you analyzed him with care. Mr. Linton gave up the effort finally with a shake of his head.

"What you wigwaggin' about?" Jerry inquired, curiously. Tom made no answer. After a moment the former speaker whispered, meditatively: "I'D have GIVE him the lemons if he'd asked me for 'em. Sick people need lemons."

"Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't," Mr. Linton whispered, shortly.

"Lemons is acid, and acid cuts phlegm."

"Lemons ain't acid; they're alkali."

This statement excited a derisive snort from Mr. Quirk. "Alkali! My God! Ever taste alkali?" Jerry had an irritating way of asserting himself in regard to matters of which he knew less than nothing; his was the scornful certainty of abysmal ignorance.

"Did you ever give lemons to sick folks?" Tom inquired, in his turn.

"Sure! Thousands."

Now this was such an outrageous exaggeration that Linton was impelled to exclaim:

"RATS! You never SAW a thousand sick folks."

"I didn't say so. I said I'd given thousands of lemons—"

"Oh!" Tom filled his pipe and lit it, whereupon his partner breathed a sibilant warning:

"Put out that smudge! D'you aim to strangle the girl?"

With a guilty start the offender quenched the fire with his thumb.

"The idea of lightin' sheep-dip in a sick-room!" Mr. Quirk went on. With his cap he fanned violently at the fumes.

"You don't have to blow her out of bed," Tom growled. Clumsily he drew the blankets closer beneath the sick girl's chin, but in so doing he again excited his companion's opposition.

"Here!" Jerry protested. "She's burnin' up with fever. You blanket 'em when they've got chills." Gently he removed the covers from Rouletta's throat.

Linton showed his contempt for this ridiculous assertion by silently pulling the bedding higher and snugly tucking it in. Jerry promptly elbowed him aside and pulled it lower. Tom made an angry gesture, and for a third time adjusted the covers to suit himself, whereupon Jerry immediately changed them to accord with his ideas.

Aggressively, violently, but without words this time, the partners argued the matter. They were glaring at each other, they had almost come to blows when, with a start, Jerry looked at his watch. Swiftly he possessed himself of the medicine-glass and spoon; to Tom he whispered:

"Quick! Lift her up."

Linton refused. "Don't you know ANYTHING?" he queried. "Never move a sick person unless you have to. Give it to her as she lays."

"How you goin' to feed medicine out of a spoon to anybody layin' down?" the other demanded.

"Easy!" Tom took the glass and the teaspoon; together the two men bent over the bed.

But Linton's hands were shaky; when he pressed the spoon to Rouletta's lips he spilled its contents. The girl rolled her head restlessly.

"Pshaw! She moved."

"She never moved," Jerry contradicted. "You missed her." From his nostrils issued that annoying, that insulting, snort of derision which so sorely tried his partner's patience. "You had a fair shot at her, layin' down, Tom, and you never touched her."

"Maybe I'd have had better luck if you hadn't jiggled me."

"Hell! Who jiggled—?"

"'Sh—h!" Once more Mr. Quirk had spoken aloud. "If you've got to holler, go down by the rapids."

After several clumsy attempts both men agreed that their patient had doubtless received the equivalent of a full dose of medicine, so Tom replaced the glass and spoon. "I'm a little out of practice," he explained.

"I thought you done fine." Jerry spoke with what seemed to be genuine commendation. "You got it into her nose every time."

Tom exploded with wrath and it was Jerry's turn to command silence.

"Why don't you hire a hall?" the latter inquired. "Or mebbe I better tree a 'coon for you so you can bark as loud as you want to. Family man! Huh!" Linton bristled aggressively, but the whisperer continued:

"One head of children don't make a family any more 'n one head of heifers makes a herd."

Tom paled; he showed his teeth beneath his gray mustache. Leaning forward, he thrust his quivering bearded face close to the hateful countenance opposite him. "D'you mean to call my daughter a heifer?" he demanded, in restrained fury.

"Keep them whiskers to yourself," Jerry snapped. "You can't pick a row with me, Tom; I don't quarrel with nobody. I didn't call your daughter a heifer, and you know I didn't. No doubt she would of made a fine woman if she'd of grown up, but—Say! I bet I know why you lost her. I bet you poured so much medicine in her crib that she drownded." Jerry giggled at this thought.

"That ain't funny," the other rumbled. "If I thought you meant to call a member of my family a heifer—"

"You've called your wife worse 'n that. I've heard you."

"I meant everything I said. She was an old catamount and—"

"Prob'bly she was a fine woman." Jerry had a discourteous habit of interrupting. "No wonder she walked out and left you flat—she was human. No doubt she had a fine character to start with. So did I, for that matter, but there's a limit to human endurance."

"You don't have to put up with me any longer than you want to," Linton stormed, under his breath. "We can get a divorce easy. All it takes is a saw."

"You made that crack once before, and I called your bluff!" Jerry's angry face was now out-thrust; only with difficulty did he maintain a tone inaudible to the sick girl. "Out of pity I helped you up and handed you back your crutches. But this time I'll let you lay where you fall. A hundred dollars a dozen for lemons! For a poor little sick girl! You 'ain't got the bowels of a shark!"