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Title: The Winds of Chance

Author: Rex Beach

Release Date: February, 2004  [EBook #5062]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on April 12, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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THE WINDS OF CHANCE

By REX BEACH

Author of "THE SILVER HORDE" "THE SPOILERS" "THE IRON TRAIL" Etc.






CHAPTER I


With an ostentatious flourish Mr. "Lucky" Broad placed a crisp
ten-dollar bill in an eager palm outstretched across his folding-
table.

"The gentleman wins and the gambler loses!" Mr. Broad proclaimed
to the world. "The eye is quicker than the hand, and the dealer's
moans is music to the stranger's ear." With practised touch he
rearranged the three worn walnut-shells which constituted his
stock in trade. Beneath one of them he deftly concealed a pellet
about the size of a five-grain allopathic pill. It was the erratic
behavior of this tiny ball, its mysterious comings and goings,
that had summoned Mr. Broad's audience and now held its observant
interest. This audience, composed of roughly dressed men, listened
attentively to the seductive monologue which accompanied the
dealer's deft manipulations, and was greatly entertained thereby.
"Three tiny tepees in a row and a little black medicine-man
inside." The speaker's voice was high-pitched and it carried like
a "thirtythirty." "You see him walk in, you open the door, and--
you double your money. Awfully simple! Simpully awful! What? As I
live! The gentleman wins ten more--ten silver-tongued song-birds,
ten messengers of mirth--the price of a hard day's toil. Take it,
sir, and may it make a better and a stronger man of you. Times are
good and I spend my money free. I made it packin' grub to
Linderman, four bits a pound, but--easy come, easy go. Now then,
who's next? You've seen me work. I couldn't baffle a sore-eyed
Siwash with snow-glasses."

Lucky Broad's three-legged table stood among some stumps beside
the muddy roadway which did service as the main street of Dyea and
along which flowed an irregular stream of pedestrians; incidental
to his practised manipulation of the polished walnut-shells he
maintained an unceasing chatter of the sort above set down. Now
his voice was loud and challenging, now it was apologetic, always
it stimulated curiosity. One moment he was jubilant and gay, again
he was contrite and querulous. Occasionally he burst forth into
plaintive self-denunciations.

Fixing a hypnotic gaze upon a bland, blue-eyed bystander who had
just joined the charmed circle, he murmured, invitingly: "Better
try your luck, Olaf. It's Danish dice--three chances to win and
one to lose."

The object of his address shook his head. "Aye ant Danish, Aye ban
Norvegen," said he.

"Danish dice or Norwegian poker, they're both the same. I'll deal
you a free hand and it won't cost you a cent. Fix your baby blues
on the little ball and watch me close. Don't let me deceive you.
Now then, which hut hides the grain?"

Noting a half-dozen pairs of eyes upon him, the Norseman became
conscious that he was a center of interest. He grinned half-
heartedly and, after a brief hesitation, thrust forth a clumsy
paw, lifted a shell, and exposed the object of general curiosity.

"You guessed it!" There was commendation, there was pleased
surprise, in Mr. Broad's tone. "You can't fool a foreigner, can
you, boys? My, my! Ain't it lucky for me that we played for fun?
But you got to give me another chance, Lars; I'll fool you yet. In
walks the little pill once more, I make the magic pass, and you
follow me attentively, knowing in your heart of hearts that I'm a
slick un. Now then, shoot, Kid; you can't miss me!"

The onlookers stirred with interest; with eager fingers the
artless Norwegian fumbled in his pocket. At the last moment,
however, he thought better of his impulse, grunted once, then
turned his back to the table and walked away.

"Missed him!" murmured the dealer, with no display of feeling;
then to the group around him he announced, shamelessly: "You got
to lead those birds; they fly fast."

One of Mr. Broad's boosters, he who had twice won for the
Norseman's benefit, carelessly returned his winnings. "Sure!" he
agreed. "They got a head like a turtle, them Swedes."

Mr. Broad carefully smoothed out the two bills and reverently laid
them to rest in his bank-roll. "Yes, and they got bony mouths. You
got to set your hook or it won't hold."

"Slow pickin's," yawned an honest miner with a pack upon his back.
Attracted by the group at the table, he had dropped out of the
procession in the street and had paused long enough to win a bet
or two. Now he straightened himself and stretched his arms. "These
Michael Strogoffs is hep to the old stuff, Lucky. I'm thinking of
joining the big rush. They say this Klondike is some rich."

Inasmuch as there were no strangers in sight at the moment, the
proprietor of the deadfall gave up barking; he daintily folded and
tore in half a cigarette paper, out of which he fashioned a thin
smoke for himself. It was that well-earned moment of repose, that
welcome recess from the day's toil. Mr. Broad inhaled deeply, then
he turned his eyes upon the former speaker.

"You've been thinking again, have you?" He frowned darkly. With a
note of warning in his voice he declared: "You ain't strong enough
for such heavy work, Kid. That's why I've got you packing hay."

The object of this sarcasm hitched his shoulders and the movement
showed that his burden was indeed no more than a cunning
counterfeit, a bundle of hay rolled inside a tarpaulin.

"Oh, I got a head and I've been doing some heavy thinking with
it," the Kid retorted. "This here Dawson is going to be a good
town. I'm getting readied up to join the parade."

"Are you, now?" the shell-man mocked. "I s'pose you got it all
framed with the Canucks to let you through? I s'pose the chief of
police knows you and likes you, eh? You and him is cousins, or
something?"

"Coppers is all alike; there's always a way to square 'em--"

"Lay off that 'squaring' stuff," cautioned a renegade crook,
disguised by a suit of mackinaws and a week's growth of beard into
the likeness of a stampeder. "A thousand bucks and a ton of grub,
that's what the sign says, and that's what it means. They wouldn't
let you over the Line with nine hundred and ninety-nine fifty."

"Right!" agreed a third capper. "It's a closed season on broken
stiffs. You can't monkey with the Mounted Police. When they put
over an edict it lays there till it freezes. They'll make you show
your 'openers' at the Boundary. Gee! If I had 'em I wouldn't
bother to go 'inside.' What's a guy want with more than a thousand
dollars and a ton of grub, anyhow?"

"All the same, I'm about set to hit the trail," stubbornly
maintained the man with the alfalfa pack. "I ain't broke. When you
boys get to Dawson, just ask for Kid Bridges' saloon and I'll open
wine. These woollys can have their mines; me for a hootch-mill on
Main Street."

Lucky addressed his bevy of boosters. "Have I nursed a serpent in
my breast, or has the Kid met a banker's son? Gimme room, boys.
I'm going to shuffle the shells for him and let him double his
money. Keep your eye on the magic pea, Mr. Bridges. Three tiny
tepees in a row--" There was a general laugh as Broad began to
shift the walnut-shells, but Kid Bridges retorted, contemptuously:

"That's the trouble with all you wiseacres. You get a dollar ahead
and you fall for another man's game. I never knew a faro-dealer
that wouldn't shoot craps. No, I haven't met no banker's son and I
ain't likely to in this place. These pilgrims have sewed their
money in their underclothes, and they sleep with their eyes open.
Seems like they'd go blind, but they don't. These ain't Rubes,
Lucky; they're city folks. They've seen three-ringed circuses and
three-shell games, and all that farmer stuff. They've been
'gypped,' and it's an old story to 'em."

"You're dead right," Broad acknowledged. "That's why it's good.
D'you know the best town in America for the shells? Little old New
York. If the cops would let me set up at the corner of Broad and
Wall, I'd own the Stock Exchange in a week. Madison and State is
another good stand; so's Market and Kearney, or Pioneer Square,
down by the totem pole. New York, Chicago, 'Frisco, Seattle,
they're all hick towns. For every city guy that's been stung by a
bee there's a hundred that still thinks honey comes from a fruit.
This rush is just starting, and the bigger it grows the better
we'll do. Say, Kid, if you mush over to Tagish with that load of
timothy on your spine, the police will put you on the wood-pile
for the winter."

While Mr. Lucky Broad and his business associates were thus busied
in discussing the latest decree of the Northwest Mounted Police,
other townsmen of theirs were similarly engaged. Details of this
proclamation--the most arbitrary of any, hitherto--had just
arrived from the International Boundary, and had caused a halt, an
eddy, in the stream of gold-seekers which flowed inland toward the
Chilkoot Pass. A human tide was setting northward from the States,
a tide which swelled and quickened daily as the news of George
Carmack's discovery spread across the world, but at Healy &
Wilson's log-store, where the notice above referred to had been
posted, the stream slowed. A crowd of new-comers from the barges
and steamers in the roadstead had assembled there, and now gave
voice to hoarse indignation and bitter resentment. Late arrivals
from Skagway, farther down the coast, brought word of similar
scenes at that point and a similar feeling of dismay; they
reported a similar increase in the general excitement, too. There,
as here, a tent city was springing up, the wooded hills were
awakening to echoes of unaccustomed life, a thrill and a stir were
running through the wilderness and the odor of spruce fires was
growing heavier with every ship that came.

Pierce Phillips emerged from the trading-post and, drawn by the
force of gravitation, joined the largest and the most excited
group of Argonauts. He was still somewhat dazed by his perusal of
that Police edict; the blow to his hopes was still too stunning,
his disappointment was still too keen, to permit of clear thought.

"A ton of provisions and a thousand dollars!" he repeated,
blankly. Why, that was absurd, out of all possible reason! It
would bar the way to fully half this rushing army; it would turn
men back at the very threshold of the golden North. Nevertheless,
there stood the notice in black and white, a clear and unequivocal
warning from the Canadian authorities, evidently designed to
forestall famine on the foodless Yukon. From the loud arguments
round about him Phillips gathered that opinion on the justice of
the measure was about evenly divided; those fortunate men who had
come well provided commended it heartily, those less fortunate
fellows who were sailing close-hauled were equally noisy in their
denunciation of it. The latter could see in this precautionary
ruling nothing except the exercise of a tyrannical power aimed at
their ruin, and in consequence they voiced threats, and promises
of violence the which Phillips put down as mere resentful
mouthings of no actual significance. As for himself, he had never
possessed anything like a thousand dollars at one time, therefore
the problem of acquiring such a prodigious sum in the immediate
future presented appalling difficulties. He had come north to get
rich, only to find that it was necessary to be rich in order to
get north. A fine situation, truly! A ton of provisions would cost
at least five hundred dollars and the expense of transporting it
across summer swamps and tundras, then up and over that mysterious
and forbidding Chilkoot of which he had heard so much, would bring
the total capital required up to impossible proportions. The
prospect was indeed dismaying. Phillips had been ashore less than
an hour, but already he had gained some faint idea of the country
that lay ahead of him; already he had noted the almost absolute
lack of transportation; already he had learned the price of
packers, and as a result he found himself at an impasse.

One thousand dollars and two hundred pounds! It was enough to dash
high hopes. And yet, strangely enough, Phillips was not
discouraged. He was rather surprised at his own rebound after the
first shock; his reasonless optimism vaguely amazed him, until, in
contemplating the matter, he discovered that his thoughts were
running somewhat after this fashion:

"They told me I couldn't make it; they said something was sure to
happen. Well, it has. I'm up against it--hard. Most fellows would
quit and go home, but I sha'n't. I'm going to win out, somehow,
for this is the real thing. This is Life, Adventure. It will be
wonderful to look back and say: 'I did it. Nothing stopped me. I
landed at Dyea with one hundred and thirty-five dollars, but look
at me now!'"

Thoughts such as these were in his mind, and their resolute nature
must have been reflected in his face, for a voice aroused him from
his meditations.

"It don't seem to faze you much, partner. I s'pose you came
heeled?" Phillips looked up and into a sullen, angry face.

"It nearly kills me," he smiled. "I'm the worst-heeled man in the
crowd."

"Well, it's a darned outrage. A ton of grub? Why, have you seen
the trail? Take a look; it's a man-killer, and the rate is forty
cents a pound to Linderman. It'll go to fifty now--maybe a dollar-
-and there aren't enough packers to handle half the stuff."

"Things are worse at Skagway," another man volunteered. "I came up
yesterday, and they're losing a hundred head of horses a day--
bogging 'em down and breaking their legs. You can walk on dead
carcasses from the Porcupine to the Summit."

A third stranger, evidently one of the well-provided few, laughed
carelessly. "If you boys can't stand the strain you'd better stay
where you are," said he. "Grub's sky-high in Dawson, and mighty
short. I knew what I was up against, so I came prepared. Better go
home and try it next summer."

The first speaker, he of the sullen visage, turned his back,
muttering, resentfully: "Another wise guy! They make me sick! I've
a notion to go through anyhow."

"Don't try that," cautioned the man from Skagway. "If you got past
the Police they'd follow you to hell but what they'd bring you
back. They ain't like our police."

Still meditating his plight, Pierce Phillips edged out of the
crowd and walked slowly down the street. It was not a street at
all, except by courtesy, for it was no more than an open
waterfront faced by a few log buildings and a meandering line of
new white tents. Tents were going up everywhere and all of them
bore painful evidence of their newness. So did the clothes of
their owners for that matter--men's garments still bore their
price-tags. The beach was crowded with piles of merchandise over
which there was much wrangling, barges plying regularly back and
forth from the anchored ships added hourly to the confusion. As
outfits were dumped upon the sand their owners assembled them and
bore them away to their temporary camp sites. In this occupation
every man faced his own responsibilities single-handed, for there
were neither drays nor carts nor vehicles of any sort.

As Phillips looked on at the disorder along the water's edge, as
he stared up the fir-flanked Dyea valley, whither a steady stream
of traffic flowed, he began to feel a fretful eagerness to join in
it, to be up and going. 'Way yonder through those hills towered
the Chilkoot, and beyond that was the mighty river rushing toward
Dawson City, toward Life and Adventure, for that was what the
gold-fields signified to Phillips. Yes, Life! Adventure! He had
set out to seek them, to taste the flavor of the world, and there
it lay--his world, at least--just out of reach. A fierce
impatience, a hot resentment at that senseless restriction which
chained him in his tracks, ran through the boy. What right had any
one to stop him here at the very door, when just inside great
things were happening? Past that white-and-purple barrier which he
could see against the sky a new land lay, a radiant land of
promise, of mystery, and of fascination; Pierce vowed that he
would not, could not, wait. Fortunes would reward the first
arrivals; how, then, could he permit these other men to precede
him? The world was a good place--it would not let a person starve.

To the young and the foot-free Adventure lurks just over the hill;
Life opens from the crest of the very next divide. It matters not
that we never quite come up with either, that we never quite
attain the summit whence our promises are realized; the ever-
present expectation, the eager straining forward, is the breath of
youth. It was that breath which Phillips now felt in his nostrils.
It was pungent, salty.

He noted a group of people gathered about some center of
attraction whence issued a high-pitched intonation.

"Oh, look at the cute little pea! Klondike croquet, the packer's
pastime. Who'll risk a dollar to win a dollar? It's a healthy
sport. It's good for young and old--a cheeild can understand it.
Three Eskimo igloos and an educated pill!"

"A shell-game!" Pierce Phillips halted in his tracks and stared
incredulously, then he smiled. "A shell-game, running wide open on
the main street of the town!" This WAS the frontier, the very edge
of things. With an odd sense of unreality he felt the world turn
back ten years. He had seen shell-games at circuses and
fairgrounds when he was much younger, but he supposed they had
long since been abandoned in favor of more ingenious and less
discreditable methods of robbery. Evidently, however, there were
some gulls left, for this device appeared to be well patronized.
Still doubting the evidence of his ears, he joined the group.

"The gentleman wins and the gambler loses!" droned the dealer as
he paid a bet. "Now then, we're off for another journey. Who'll
ride with me this time?"

Phillips was amazed that any one could be so simple-minded as to
squander his money upon such a notoriously unprofitable form of
entertainment. Nevertheless, men were playing, and they did not
seem to suspect that the persons whom the dealer occasionally paid
were his confederates.

The operator maintained an incessant monologue. At the moment of
Pierce's arrival he was directing it at an ox-eyed individual,
evidently selected to be the next victim. The fellow was stupid,
nevertheless he exercised some caution at first. He won a few
dollars, then he lost a few, but, alas! the gambling fever mounted
in him and greed finally overcame his hesitation. With an eager
gesture he chose a shell and Phillips felt a glow of satisfaction
at the realization that the man had once more guessed aright.
Drawing forth a wallet, the fellow laid it on the table.

"I'll bet the lump," he cried.

The dealer hesitated. "How much you got in that alligator valise?"

"Two hundred dollars."

"Two hundred berries on one bush!" The proprietor of the game was
incredulous. "Boys, he aims to leave me cleaner than a snow-bird."
Seizing the walnut-shell between his thumb and forefinger, he
turned it over, but instead of exposing the elusive pellet he
managed, by an almost imperceptible forward movement, to roll it
out from under its hiding-place and to conceal it between his
third and fourth fingers. The stranger was surprised, dumfounded,
at sight of the empty shell. He looked on open-mouthed while his
wallet was looted of its contents.

"Every now and then I win a little one," the gambler announced as
he politely returned the bill-case to its owner. He lifted another
shell, and by some sleight-of-hand managed to replace the pellet
upon the table, then gravely flipped a five-dollar gold piece to
one of his boosters.

Phillips's eyes were quick; from where he stood he had detected
the maneuver and it left him hot with indignation. He felt
impelled to tell the victim how he had been robbed, but thought
better of the impulse and assured himself that this was none of
his affair. For perhaps ten minutes he looked on while the sheep-
shearing proceeded.

After a time there came a lull and the dealer raised his voice to
entice new patrons. Meanwhile, he paused to roll a cigarette the
size of a wheat straw. While thus engaged there sounded the hoarse
blast of a steamer's whistle in the offing and he turned his head.
Profiting by this instant of inattention a hand reached across the
table and lifted one of the walnut-shells. There was nothing under
it.

"Five bucks on this one!" A soiled bill was placed beside one of
the two remaining shells, the empty one.

Thus far Phillips had followed the pea unerringly, therefore he
was amazed at the new better's mistake.

The dealer turned back to his layout and winked at the bystanders,
saying, "Brother, I'll bet you ten more that you've made a bad
bet." His offer was accepted. Simultaneously Phillips was seized
with an intense desire to beat this sharper at his own game;
impulsively he laid a protecting palm over the shell beneath which
he knew the little sphere to lie.

"I'll pick this one," he heard himself say.

"Better let me deal you a new hand," the gambler suggested.

"Nothing of the sort," a man at Phillips' shoulder broke in. "Hang
on to that shell, kid. You're right and I'm going down for the
size of his bankroll." The speaker was evidently a miner, for he
carried a bulky pack upon his shoulders. He placed a heavy palm
over the back of Phillips' hand, then extracted from the depths of
his overalls a fat roll of paper money.

The size of this wager, together with the determination of its
owner, appeared briefly to nonplus the dealer. He voiced a
protest, but the miner forcibly overbore it:

"Say, I eat up this shell stuff!" he declared. "It's my meat, and
I've trimmed every tinhorn that ever came to my town. There's
three hundred dollars; you cover it, and you cover this boy's bet,
too." The fellow winked reassuringly at Phillips. "You heard him
say the sky was his limit, didn't you? Well, let's see how high
the sky is in these parts!"

There was a movement in the crowd, whereupon the speaker cried,
warningly: "Boosters, stand back! Don't try to give us the elbow,
or I'll close up this game!" To Pierce he murmured,
confidentially: "We've got him right. Don't let anybody edge you
out." He put more weight upon Phillips' hand and forced the young
man closer to the table.

Pierce had no intention of surrendering his place, and now the
satisfaction of triumphing over these crooks excited him. He
continued to cover the walnut-shell while with his free hand he
drew his own money from his pocket. He saw that the owner of the
game was suffering extreme discomfort at this checkmate, and he
enjoyed the situation.

"I watched you trim that farmer a few minutes ago," Phillips'
companion chuckled. "Now I'm going to make you put up or shut up.
There's my three hundred. I can use it when it grows to six."

"How much are you betting?" the dealer inquired of Phillips.

Pierce had intended merely to risk a dollar or two, but now there
came to him a thrilling thought. That notice at Healy

"Business appears to be picking up," murmured the proprietor of
the game.

Phillips' neighbor continued to hold the boy's hand in a vicelike
grip. Now he leaned forward, saying:

"Look here! Are you going to cover our coin or am I going to smoke
you up?"

"The groans of the gambler is sweet music in their ears!" The
dealer shrugged reluctantly and counted out four hundred and
thirty-five dollars, which he separated into two piles.

A certain shame at his action swept over Phillips when he felt his
companion's grasp relax and heard him say, "Turn her over, kid."

This was diamond cut diamond, of course; nevertheless, it was a
low-down trick and--

Pierce Phillips started, he examined the interior of the walnut-
shell in bewilderment, for he had lifted it only to find it quite
empty.

"Every now and then I win a little one," the dealer intoned,
gravely pocketing his winnings. "It only goes to show you that the
hand--"

"Damnation!" exploded the man at Phillips' side. "Trimmed for
three hundred, or I'm a goat!"

As Pierce walked away some one fell into step with him; it was the
sullen, black-browed individual he had seen at the trading-post.

"So they took you for a hundred and thirty-five, eh? You must be
rolling in coin," the man observed.

Even yet Pierce was more than a little dazed. "Do you know," said
he, "I was sure I had the right shell."

"Why, of course you had the right one." The stranger laughed
shortly. "They laid it up for you on purpose, then Kid Bridges
worked a shift when he held your hand. You can't beat 'em."

Pierce halted. "Was he--was THAT fellow with the pack a booster?"

"Certainly. They're all boosters. The Kid carries enough hay on
his back to feed a team. It's his bed. I've been here a week and I
know 'em." The speaker stared in surprise at Phillips, who had
broken into a hearty laugh. "Look here! A little hundred and
thirty-five must be chicken feed to you. If you've got any more to
toss away, toss it in my direction."

"That's what makes it so funny. You see, I haven't any more. That
was my last dollar. Well, it serves me right. Now I can start from
scratch and win on my own speed."

The dark-browed man studied Phillips curiously. "You're certain'y
game," he announced. "I s'pose now you'll be wanting to sell some
of your outfit. That's why I've been hanging around that game.
I've picked up quite a bit of stuff that way, but I'm still short
a few things and I'll buy--"

"I haven't a pound of grub. I came up second-class."

"Huh! Then you'll go back steerage."

"Oh no, I won't! I'm going on to Dawson." There was a momentary
silence. "You say you've been here a week? Put me up for the
night--until I get a job. Will you?"

The black-eyed man hesitated, then he grinned. "You've got your
nerve, but--I'm blamed if I don't like it," said he. "My brother
Jim is cooking supper now. Suppose we go over to the tent and ask
him."




CHAPTER II


The headwaters of the Dyea River spring from a giant's punch-bowl.
Three miles above timber-line the valley bottom widens out into a
flinty field strewn with boulders which in ages past have lost
their footing on the steep hills forming the sides of the cup.
Between these boulders a thin carpet of moss is spread, but the
slopes themselves are quite naked; they are seamed and cracked and
weather-beaten, their surfaces are split and shattered from the
play of the elements. High up toward the crest of one of them
rides a glacier--a pallid, weeping sentinel which stands guard for
the great ice-caps beyond. Winter snows, summer fogs and rains
have washed the hillsides clean; they are leached out and they
present a lifeless, forbidding front to travelers. In many places
the granite fragments which still encumber them lie piled one
above another in such titanic chaos as to discourage man's puny
efforts to climb over them. Nevertheless, men have done so, and by
the thousands, by the tens of thousands. On this particular
morning an unending procession of human beings was straining up
and over and through the confusion. They lifted themselves by foot
and by hand; where the slope was steepest they crept on all-fours.
They formed an unbroken, threadlike stream extending from
timberline to crest, each individual being dwarfed to microscopic
proportions by the size of his surroundings. They flowed across
the floor of the valley, then slowly, very slowly, they flowed up
its almost perpendicular wall. Now they were lost to sight; again
they reappeared clambering over glacier scars or toiling up steep,
rocky slides; finally they emerged away up under the arch of the
sky.

Looking down from the roof of the pass itself, the scene was
doubly impressive, for the wooded valley lay outstretched clear to
the sea, and out of it came that long, wavering line of ants. They
did, indeed, appear to be ants, those men, as they dragged
themselves across the meadow and up the ascent; they resembled
nothing more than a file of those industrious insects creeping
across the bottom and up the sides of a bath-tub, and the likeness
was borne out by the fact that all carried burdens. That was in
truth the marvel of the scene, for every man on the Chilkoot was
bent beneath a back-breaking load.

Three miles down the gulch, where the upward march of the forests
had been halted, there, among scattered outposts of scrubby spruce
and wind-twisted willow, stood a village, a sprawling, formless
aggregation of flimsy tents and green logs known as Sheep Camp.
Although it was a temporary, makeshift town, already it bulked big
in the minds of men from Maine to California, from the Great Lakes
to the Gulf, for it was the last outpost of civilization, and
beyond it lay a land of mystery. Sheep Camp had become famous by
reason of the fact that it was linked with the name of that Via
Dolorosa, that summit of despair, the Chilkoot. Already it had
come to stand for the weak man's ultimate mile-post, the end of
many journeys.

The approach from the sea was easy, if twelve miles of boulder and
bog, of swamp and nigger-head, of root and stump, can be called
easy under the best of circumstances; but easy it was as compared
with what lay beyond and above it. Nevertheless, many Argonauts
had never penetrated even thus far, and of those who had, a
considerable proportion had turned back at the giant pit three
miles above. One look at the towering barrier had been enough for
them. The Chilkoot was more than a mountain, more than an obstacle
of nature; it was a Presence, a tremendous and a terrifying
Personality which overshadowed the minds of men and could neither
be ignored at the time nor forgotten later. No wonder, then, that
Sheep Camp, which was a part of the Chilkoot, represented, a sort
of acid test; no wonder that those who had moved their outfits
thus far were of the breed the Northland loves--the stout of heart
and of body.

Provisions were cached at frequent intervals all the way up from
the sea, but in the open meadow beneath the thousand-foot wall an
immense supply depot had sprung up. This pocket in the hills had
become an open-air commissary, stocked with every sort of
provender and gear. There were acres of sacks and bundles, of
boxes and bales, of lumber and hardware and perishable stuffs, and
all day long men came and went in relays. One relay staggered up
and out of the canon and dropped its packs, another picked up the
bundles and ascended skyward. Pound by pound, ton by ton, this
vast equipment of supplies went forward, but slowly, oh, so
slowly! And at such effort! It was indeed fit work for ants, for
it arrived nowhere and it never ended. Antlike, these burden-
bearers possessed but one idea--to fetch and to carry; they
traveled back and forth along the trail until they wore it into a
bottomless bog, until every rock, every tree, every landmark along
it became hatefully familiar and their eyes grew sick from seeing
them.

The character of then--labor and its monotony, even in this short
time, had changed the men's characters--they had become pack-
animals and they deported themselves as such. All labor-saving
devices, all mechanical aids, all short cuts to comfort and to
accomplishment, had been left behind; here was the wilderness,
primitive, hostile, merciless. Every foot they moved, every ounce
they carried, was at the cost of muscular exertion. It was only
natural that they should take on the color of their surroundings.

Money lost its value a mile above Sheep Camp said became a thing
of weight, a thing to carry. The standard of value was the pound,
and men thought in hundredweights or in tons. Yet there was no
relief, no respite, for famine stalked in the Yukon and the
Northwest Mounted were on guard, hence these unfortunates were
chained to their grub-piles as galley-slaves are shackled to their
benches.

Toe to heel, like peons rising from the bowels of a mine, they
bent their backs and strained up that riven rock wall. Blasphemy
and pain, high hopes and black despair, hearts overtaxed and eyes
blind with fatigue, that was what the Chilkoot stood for.
Permeating the entire atmosphere of the place, so that even the
dullest could feel it, was a feverish haste, an apprehensive
demand for speed, more speed, to keep ahead of the pressing
thousands coming on behind.

Pierce Phillips breasted the last rise to the Summit, slipped his
pack-straps, and flung himself full length upon the ground. His
lungs felt as if they were bursting, the blood surged through his
veins until he rocked, his body streamed with sweat, and his legs
were as heavy as if molded from solid iron. He was pumped out,
winded; nevertheless, he felt his strength return with magic
swiftness, for he possessed that marvelous recuperative power of
youth, and, like some fabled warrior, new strength flowed into him
from the earth. Round about him other men were sprawled; some lay
like corpses, others were propped against their packs, a few
stirred and sighed like the sorely wounded after a charge. Those
who had lain longest rose, took up their burdens, and went
groaning over the sky-line and out of sight. Every moment new
faces, purple with effort or white with exhaustion, rose out of
the depths--all were bitten deep with lines of physical suffering.
On buckled knees their owners lurched forward to find resting-
places; in their eyes burned a sullen rage; in their mouths were
foul curses at this Devil's Stairway. There were striplings and
graybeards in the crowd, strong men and weak men, but here at the
Summit all were alike in one particular--they lacked breath for
anything except oaths.

Here, too, as in the valley beneath, was another great depot of
provision piles. Near where Phillips had thrown himself down there
was one man whose bearing was in marked contrast to that of the
others. He sat astride a bulging canvas bag in a leather harness,
and in spite of the fact that the mark of a tump-line showed
beneath his cap he betrayed no signs of fatigue. He was not at all
exhausted, and from the interest he displayed it seemed that he
had chosen this spot as a vantage-point from which to study the
upcoming file rather than as a place in which to rest. This he did
with a quick, appreciative eye and with a genial smile. In face,
in dress, in manner, he was different. For one thing, he was of
foreign birth, and yet he appeared to be more a piece of the
country than any man Pierce had seen. His clothes were of a
pattern common among the native packers, but he wore them with a
free, unconscious grace all his own. From the peak of his Canadian
toque there depended a tassel which bobbed when he talked; his
boots were of Indian make, and they were soft and light and
waterproof; a sash of several colors was knotted about his waist.
But it was not alone his dress which challenged the eye--there was
something in this fellow's easy, open bearing which arrested
attention. His dark skin had been deepened by windburn, his well-
set, well-shaped head bore a countenance both eager and
intelligent, a countenance that fairly glowed with confidence and
good humor.

Oddly enough, he sang as he sat upon his pack. High up on this
hillside, amid blasphemous complaints, he hummed a gay little
song:

       "Chante, rossignol, chante!
        Toi qui a le coeur gai!
        Tu as le coeur a rire
        Mai j'l'ai-t-a pleurer,"

ran his chanson.

Phillips had seen the fellow several times, and the circumstances
of their first encounter had been sufficiently unusual to impress
themselves upon his mind. Pierce had been resting here, at this
very spot, when the Canuck had come up into sight, bearing a
hundred-pound pack without apparent effort. Two flour-sacks upon a
man's back was a rare sight on the roof of the Chilkoot. There
were not many who could master that slope with more than one, but
this fellow had borne his burden without apparent effort; and what
was even more remarkable, what had caused Pierce Phillips to open
his eyes in genuine astonishment, was the fact that the man
climbed with a pipe in his teeth and smoked it with relish. On
that occasion the Frenchman had not stopped at the crest to
breathe, but had merely paused long enough to admire the scene
outspread beneath him; then he had swung onward. Of all the sights
young Phillips had beheld in this new land, the vision of that
huge, unhurried Canadian, smoking, had impressed him deepest. It
had awakened his keen envy, too, for Pierce was beginning to glory
in his own strength. A few days later they had rested near each
other on the Long Lake portage. That is, Phillips had rested; the
Canadian, it seemed, had a habit of pausing when and where the
fancy struck him. His reason for stopping there had been the
antics of a peculiarly fearless and impertinent "camp-robber."
With a crust of bread he had tolled the bird almost within his
reach and was accepting its scolding with intense amusement.
Having both teased and made friends with the creature, he finally
gave it the crust and resumed his journey.

This was a land where brawn was glorified; the tales told oftenest
around the stoves at Sheep Camp had to do with feats of strength
or endurance, they were stories of mighty men and mighty packs, of
long marches and of grim staying powers. Already the names of
certain "old-timers" like Dinsmore and McDonald and Peterson and
Stick Jim had become famous because of some conspicuous exploit.
Dinsmore, according to the legend, had once lugged a hundred and
sixty pounds to the Summit; McDonald had bent a horseshoe in his
hands; Peterson had lifted the stem-piece out of a poling-boat
lodged on the rocks below White Horse; Stick Jim had run down a
moose and killed it with his knife.

From what Phillips had seen of this French Canadian it was plain
that he, too, was an "old-timer," one of that Jovian band of
supermen who had dared the dark interior and robbed the bars of
Forty Mile in the hard days before the El Dorado discovery. Since
this was their first opportunity of exchanging speech, Phillips
ventured to address the man.

"I thought I had a load this morning, but I'd hate to swap packs
with you," he said.

The Frenchman flashed him a smile which exposed a row of teeth
snow-white against his tan. "Ho! You're stronger as me. I see you
plenty tams biffore."

This was indeed agreeable praise, and Pierce showed his pleasure.
"Oh no!" he modestly protested. "I'm just getting broken in."

"Look out you don' broke your back," warned the other. "Dis
Chilkoot she's bad bizness. She's keel a lot of dese sof' fellers.
Dey get seeck in de back. You hear 'bout it?"

"Spinal meningitis. It's partly from exposure."

"Dat's him! Don' never carry too moch; don' be in soch hurry."

Phillips laughed at this caution. "Why, we have to hurry," said
he. "New people are coming all the time and they'll beat us in if
we don't look out."

His comrade shrugged. "Mebbe so; but s'posin' dey do. Wat's de
hodds? She's beeg countree; dere's plenty claims."

"Are there, really?" Phillips' eyes brightened. "You're an old-
timer; you've been 'inside.' Do you mean there's plenty of gold
for all of us?"

"Dere ain't 'nuff gold in all de worl' for some people."

"I mean is Dawson as rich as they say it is?"

"Um--m! I don' know."

"Didn't you get in on the strike?"

"I hear 'bout 'im, but I'm t'inkin' 'bout oder t'ings."

Phillips regarded the speaker curiously. "That's funny. What
business are you in?"

"My bizness? Jus' livin'." The Canadian's eyes twinkled. "You don'
savvy, eh--? Wal, dat's biccause you're lak dese oder feller--
you're in beeg hurry to be reech. Me--?" He shrugged his brawny
shoulders and smiled cheerily. "I got plenty tam. I'm loafer. I
enjoy myse'f--"

"So do I. For that matter, I'm enjoying myself now. I think this
is all perfectly corking, and I'm having the time of my young
life. Why, just think, over there"--Pierce waved his hand toward
the northward panorama of white peaks and purple valleys--
"everything is unknown!" His face lit up with some restless desire
which the Frenchman appeared to understand, for he nodded
seriously. "Sometimes it scares me a little."

"Wat you scare' 'bout, you?"

"Myself, I suppose. Sometimes I'm afraid I haven't the stuff in me
to last."

"Dat's good sign." The speaker slipped his arms into his pack-
harness and adjusted the tumpline to his forehead preparatory to
rising. "You goin' mak' good 'sourdough' lak me. You goin' love de
woods and de hills wen you know 'em. I can tell. Wal, I see you
bimeby at Wite 'Orse."

"White Horse? Is that where you're going?"

"Yes. I'm batteau man; I'm goin' be pilot."

"Isn't that pretty dangerous work? They say those rapids are
awful."

"Sure! Everybody scare' to try 'im. W'en I came up dey pay me
fifty dollar for tak' one boat t'rough. By gosh! I never mak' so
moch money--tree hondred dollar a day. I'm reech man now. You lak
get reech queeck? I teach you be pilot. Swif' water, beeg noise!
Plenty fun in dat!" The Canadian threw back his head and laughed
loudly. "W'at you say?"

"I wouldn't mind trying it," Pierce confessed, "but I have no
outfit. I'm packing for wages. I'll be along when I get my grub-
stake together."

"Good! I go purty queeck now. W'en you come, I tak' you t'rough de
canyon free. In one day I teach you be good pilot. You ask for
'Poleon Doret. Remember?"

"I say!" Phillips halted the cheerful giant as he was about to
rise. "Do you know, you're the first man who has offered to do me
a favor; you're the only one who hasn't tried to hold me back and
climb over me. You're the first man I've seen with--with a smile
on his face."

The speaker nodded. "I know! It's peety, too. Dese poor feller is
scare', lak' you. Dey don' onderstan'. But bimeby, dey get wise;
dey learn to he'p de oder feller, dey learn dat a smile will carry
a pack or row a boat. You remember dat. A smile and a song, she'll
shorten de miles and mak' fren's wid everybody. Don' forget w'at I
tell you."

"Thank you, I won't," said Pierce, with a flicker of amusement at
the man's brief sermon. This Doret was evidently a sort of
backwoods preacher.

"Adieu!" With another flashing smile and a wave of his hand the
fellow joined the procession and went on over the crest.

It had been pleasant to exchange even these few friendly words,
for of late the habit of silence had been forced upon Pierce
Phillips. For weeks now he had toiled among reticent men who
regarded him with hostility, who made way for him with reluctance.
Haste, labor, strain had numbed and brutalized them; fatigue had
rendered them irritable, and the strangeness of their environment
had made them both fearful and suspicious. There was no good-
fellowship, no consideration on the Chilkoot. This was a race
against time, and the stakes went to him who was most ruthless.
Phillips had not exaggerated. Until this morning, he had received
no faintest word of encouragement, no slightest offer of help. Not
once had a hand been outstretched to him, and every inch he had
gained had been won at the cost of his own efforts and by reason
of his own determination.

He was yet warm with a wordless gratitude at the Frenchman's cheer
when a figure came lurching toward him and fell into the space
Doret had vacated. This man was quite the opposite of the one who
had just left; he was old and he was far from robust. He fell face
downward and lay motionless. Impulsively Phillips rose and removed
the new-comer's pack.

"That last lift takes it out of you, doesn't it?" he inquired,
sympathetically.

After a moment the stranger lifted a thin, colorless face
overgrown with a bushy gray beard and began to curse in a gasping
voice.

The youth warned him. "You're only tiring yourself, my friend.
It's all down-hill from here."

The sufferer regarded Phillips from a pair of hard, smoky-blue
eyes in which there lurked both curiosity and surprise.

"I say!" he panted. "You're the first white man I've met in two
weeks."

Pierce laughed. "It's the result of a good example. A fellow was
decent to me just now."

"This is the kind of work that gives a man dead babies," groaned
the stranger. "And these darned trail-hogs!" He ground his teeth
vindictively. "'Get out of the way!' 'Hurry up, old man!' 'Step
lively, grandpa!' That's what they say. They snap at your heels
like coyotes. Hurry? You can't force your luck!" The speaker
struggled into a sitting posture and in an apologetic tone
explained: "I dassent lay down or I'll get rheumatism. Tough guys-
-frontiersmen--Pah!" He spat out the exclamation with disgust,
then closed his eyes again and sank back against his burden.
"Coyotes! That's what they are! They'd rob a carcass, they'd gnaw
each other's bones to get through ahead of the ice."

Up out of the chasm below came a slow-moving file of Indian
packers. Their eyes were bent upon the ground, and they stepped
noiselessly into one another's tracks. The only sound they made
came from their creaking pack-leathers. They paused briefly to
breathe and to take in their surroundings, then they went on and
out of sight.

When they had disappeared the stranger spoke in a changed tone.
"Poor devils! I wonder what they've done. And you?" he turned to
Phillips. "What sins have you committed?"

"Oh, just the ordinary ones. But I don't look at it that way. This
is a sort of a lark for me, and I'm having a great time. It's
pretty fierce, I'll admit, but--I wouldn't miss it for anything.
Would you?"

"WOULD I? In a minute! You're young, I'm old. I've got rheumatism
and--a partner. He can't pack enough grub for his own lunch, and I
have to do it all. He's a Jonah, too--born on Friday, or
something. Last night somebody stole a sack of our bacon. Sixty
pounds, and every pound had cost me sweat!" Again the speaker
ground his teeth vindictively. "Lord! I'd like to catch the fellow
that did it! I'd take a drop of blood for every drop of sweat that
bacon cost. Have you lost anything?"

"I haven't anything to lose. I'm packing for wages to earn money
enough to buy an outfit."

After a brief survey of Phillips' burden, the stranger said,
enviously: "Looks like you wouldn't have to make more than a trip
or two. I wish I could pack like you do, but I'm stove up. At
that, I'm better than my partner! He couldn't carry a tune." There
was a pause. "He eats good, though; eats like a hired man and he
snores so I can't sleep. I just lie awake nights and groan at the
joints and listen to him grow old. He can't even guard our grub-
pile."

"The Vigilantes will put a stop to this stealing," Pierce
ventured.

"Think so? Who's going to keep an eye on them? Who's going to
strangle the Stranglers? Chances are they're the very ones that
are lifting our grub. I know these citizens' committees." Whatever
the physical limitations of the rheumatic Argonaut, it was plain
that his temper was active and his resentment strong.

Phillips had cooled off by this time; in fact, the chill breath of
the snow-fields had begun to penetrate his sodden clothing,
therefore he prepared to take up his march.

"Going through to Linderman?" queried the other man. "So am I. If
you'll wait a second I'll join you. Maybe we can give each other a
hand."

The speaker's motive was patent; nevertheless, Phillips obligingly
acceded to his request, and a short time later assisted him into
his harness, whereupon they set out one behind the other. Pierce's
pack was at least double the weight of his companion's, and it
gave him a pleasurable thrill to realize that he was one of the
strong, one of the elect; he wondered pityingly how long this
feeble, middle-aged man could last.

Before they had tramped far, however, he saw that the object of
his pity possessed a quality which was lacking in many of the
younger, stronger stampeders--namely, a grim determination, a
dogged perseverance--no poor substitute, indeed, for youth and
brawn. Once the man was in motion he made no complaint, and he
managed to maintain a very good pace.

Leaving the crest of Chilkoot behind them, the travelers bore to
the right across the snowcap, then followed the ridge above Crater
Lake. Every mile or two they rested briefly to relieve their
chafed and aching shoulders. They exchanged few words while they
were in motion, for one soon learns to conserve his forces on the
trail, but when they lay propped against their packs they talked.

Phillips' abundant vigor continued to evoke the elder man's frank
admiration; he eyed the boy approvingly and plied him with
questions. Before they had traveled many miles he had learned what
there was to learn, for Pierce answered his questions frankly and
told him about the sacrifice his family had made in order to send
him North, about the trip itself, about his landing at Dyea, and
all the rest. When he came to the account of that shell-game the
grizzled stranger smiled.

"I've lived in wide-open countries all my life," said the latter,
"but this beats anything I ever saw. Why, the crooks outnumber the
honest men and they're running things to suit themselves. One of
'em tried to lay me. ME!" He chuckled as if the mere idea was
fantastically humorous. "Have you heard about this Soapy Smith?
He's the boss, the bell-cow, and he's made himself mayor of
Skagway. Can you beat it? I'll bet some of his men are on our
Citizens' Committee at Sheep Camp. They need a lot of killing,
they do, and they'll get it. What did you do after you lost your
money?"

"I fell in with two brothers and went to packing."

"Went partners with them?'

"No, they--" Phillips' face clouded, he hesitated briefly. "I
merely lived with them and helped them with their outfit from time
to time. We're at Sheep Camp now, and I share their tent whenever
I'm there. I'm about ready to pull out and go it alone." "Right!
And don't hook up with anybody." The old man spoke with feeling.
"Look at me. I'm nesting with a dodo--darned gray-whiskered
milliner! He's so ornery I have to hide the ax every time I see
him. I just yearn to put him out of his misery, but I dassent. Of
course he has his points--everybody has; he's a game old rooster
and he loves me. That's all that saves him."

Phillips was greatly interested to learn that two men so unfitted
for this life, this country, should have essayed the hardships of
the Chilkoot trail. It amazed him to learn that already most of
their outfit was at Linderman.

"Do you mean to say that you have done all the packing for
yourself and your partner?" he inquired.

"N--no. Old Jerry totters across with a package of soda-crackers
once in a while. You must have heard him; he creaks like a gate.
Of course he eats up all the crackers before he gets to Linderman
and then gorges himself on the heavy grub that I've lugged over,
but in spite of that we've managed to make pretty good time."
After a moment of meditation he continued: "Say! You ought to see
that old buzzard eat! It's disgusting, but it's interesting. It
ain't so much the expense that I care about as the work. Old Jerry
ought to be in an institution--some place where they've got wheel-
chairs and a big market-garden. But he's plumb helpless, so I
can't cut him loose and let him bleach his bones in a strange
land. I haven't got the heart."

They were resting at the Long Lake outlet, some time later, when
the old man inquired:

"I presume you've got a camp at Linderman, eh?"

"No. I have some blankets cached there and I sleep out whenever I
can't make the round trip."

"Round trip? Round trip in one day? Why, that's thirty miles!"

"Real miles, too. This country makes a man of a fellow. I wouldn't
mind sleeping out if I were sure of a hot meal once in a while,
but money is no good this side of the Summit, and these people
won't even let a stranger use their stoves."

"You can't last long at that, my boy."

Phillips smiled cheerfully. "I don't have to last much longer. I
sent a thousand dollars to Dyea this morning by Jim McCaskey, one
of the fellows I live with. He's going to put it in Healy he's
altogether different to us tenderfeet. He made me rather ashamed
of myself."

The elderly man nodded. "Most pioneers are big-calibered. I'm a
sort of pioneer myself, but that infernal partner of mine has
about ruined my disposition. Take it by and large, though, it pays
a man to be accommodating."




CHAPTER III


Having crossed the high barrens, Phillips and his companion
dropped down to timber-line and soon arrived at Linderman, their
journey's end. This was perhaps the most feverishly busy camp on
the entire thirty-mile Dyea trail, but, unlike the coast towns,
there was no merrymaking, no gaiety, no gambling here. Linderman's
fever came from overwork, not from overplay. A tent village had
sprung up at the head of the lake, and from dawn until dark it
echoed to the unceasing sound of ax and hammer, of plane and saw.
The air was redolent with the odor of fresh-cut spruce and of
boiling tar, for this was the shipyard where an army of Jasons
hewed and joined and fitted, each upon a bark of his own making.
Half-way down the lake was the Boundary, and a few miles below
that again was the customs station with its hateful red-jacketed
police. Beyond were uncharted waters, quite as perilous, because
quite as unknown, as those traversed by that first band of
Argonauts. Deep lakes, dark canons, roaring rapids lay between
Linderman and the land of the Golden Fleece, but the nearer these
men approached those dangers the more eagerly they pressed on.

Already the weeding-out process had gone far and the citizens of
Linderman were those who had survived it. The weak and the
irresolute had disappeared long since; these fellows who labored
so mightily to forestall the coming winter were the strong and the
fit and the enduring--the kind the North takes to herself.

In spite of his light pack, Phillips' elderly trailmate was all
but spent. He dragged his feet, he stumbled without reason, the
lines in his face were deeply set, and his bearded lips had
retreated from his teeth in a grin of exhaustion.

"Yonder's the tent," he said, finally, and his tone was eloquent
of relief.

In and out among canvas walls and taut guy-ropes the travelers
wound their way, emerging at length upon a gravelly beach where
vast supplies of provisions were cached. All about, in various
stages of construction, were skeletons of skiffs, of scows, and of
barges; the ground was spread with a carpet of shavings and
sawdust.

Pierce's companion paused; then, after an incredulous stare, he
said: "Look! Is that smoke coming from my stovepipe?"

"Why, yes!"

There could be no mistake about it; from the tent in question
arose the plain evidence that a lively fire was burning inside.

"Well, I'll be darned!" breathed the elder man. "Somebody's jumped
the cache."

"Perhaps your partner--"

"He's in Sheep Camp." The speaker laboriously loosened his pack
and let it fall, then with stiff, clumsy fingers he undid the top
buttons of his vest and, to Pierce's amazement, produced a large-
calibered revolver, which he mechanically cocked and uncocked
several times, the while his eyes remained hypnotically fixed upon
the telltale streamer of smoke. Not only did his action appear to
be totally uncalled for, but he himself had undergone a startling
transformation and Phillips was impelled to remonstrate.

"Here! What the deuce--?" he began.

"Listen to me!" The old man spoke in a queer, suppressed tone, and
his eyes, when he turned them upon his fellow-packer, were even
smokier than usual. "Somebody's up to a little thievin', most
likely, and it looks like I had 'em red-handed. I've been layin'
for this!"

Pierce divested himself of his pack-harness, then said, simply,
"If that's the case, I'll give you a hand."

"Better stand back," the other cautioned him. "I don't need any
help--this is my line." The man's fatigue had fallen from him; of
a sudden he had become surprisingly alert and forceful. He stole
forward, making as little noise as possible, and Phillips followed
at his back. They came to a pause within arm's-length of the tent
flaps, which they noted were securely tied.

"Hello inside!" The owner spoke suddenly and with his free hand he
jerked at one of the knots.

There came an answering exclamation, a movement; then the flaps
were seized and firmly held.

"You can't come in!" cried a voice.

"Let go! Quick!" The old man's voice was harsh.

"You'll have to wait a minute. I'm undressed."

Phillips retreated a step, as did the other man; they stared at
each other.

"A woman!" Pierce breathed.

"Lord!" The owner of the premises slowly, reluctantly sheathed his
weapon under his left arm.

"I invited myself in," the voice explained--it was a deep-pitched
contralto voice. "I was wet and nobody offered to let me dry out,
so I took possession of the first empty tent I came to. Is it
yours?"

"It is--half of it. I'm mighty tired and I ain't particular how
you look, so hurry up." As the two men returned for their loads
the speaker went on, irritably. "She's got her nerve! I s'pose
she's one of these actresses. There's a bunch of 'em on the trail.
Actresses!" He snorted derisively. "I bet she smells of cologne,
and, gosh! how I hate it!"

When he and Pierce returned they were admitted promptly enough,
and any lingering suspicions of the trespasser's intent were
instantly dissipated. The woman was clad in a short, damp
underskirt which fell about to her knees; she had drawn on the
only dry article of apparel in sight, a man's sweater jacket; she
had thrust her bare feet into a pair of beaded moccasins; on a
line attached to the ridgepole over her head sundry outer garments
were steaming. Phillips' first thought was that this woman
possessed the fairest, the whitest, skin he had ever seen; it was
like milk. But his first impressions were confused, for
embarrassment followed quickly upon his entrance and he felt an
impulse to withdraw. The trespasser was not at all the sort of
person he had expected to find, and her complete self-possession
at the intrusion, her dignified greeting, left him not a little
chagrined at his rudeness. She eyed both men coolly from a pair of
ice-blue eyes--eyes that bespoke her nationality quite as plainly
as did her features, her dazzling complexion, and her head of
fine, straight flaxen hair. She was Scandinavian, she was a
Norsewoman; that much was instantly apparent. She appeared to
derive a certain malicious pleasure now from the consternation her
appearance evoked; there was a hint of contempt, of defiance, in
her smile. In a voice so low-pitched that its quality alone saved
it from masculinity, she said:

"Pray don't be distressed; you merely startled me, that's all. My
Indians managed to get hold of some hootch at Tagish and upset our
canoe just below here. It was windy and of course they couldn't
swim--none of them can, you know--so I had hard work to save them.
I've already explained how I happened to select this particular
refuge. Your neighbors--" her lip curled disdainfully, then she
shrugged. "Well, I never got such a reception as they gave me, but
I suppose they're cheechakos. I'll be off for Dyea early in the
morning. If you can put me up for the night I'll pay you well."

During this speech, delivered in a matter-of-fact, business-like
tone, the owner of the tent had managed to overcome his first
surprise; he removed his hat now and began with an effort:

"I'm a bad hand at begging pardons, miss, but you see I've been
suffering the pangs of bereavement lately over some dear, departed
grub. I thought you were a thief and I looked forward to the
pleasure of seeing you dance. I apologize. Would you mind telling
me where you came from?"

"From Dawson." There was a silence the while the flaxen-haired
woman eyed her interrogator less disdainfully. "Yes, by poling-
boat and birch-bark. I'm not fleeing the law; I'm not a cache-
robber."

"You're--all alone?"

The woman nodded. "Can you stow me away for the night? You may
name your own price."

"The price won't cripple you. I'm sorry there ain't some more
women here at Linderman, but--there ain't. We had one--a doctor's
wife, but she's gone."

"I met her at Lake Marsh."

"We've a lot more coming, but they're not here. My name is Linton.
The more-or-less Christian prefix thereto is Tom. I've got a
partner named Jerry. Put the two together, and drink hearty. This
young man is Mr.--" The speaker turned questioningly upon
Phillips, who made himself known. "I'm a family man. Mr. Phillips
is a--well, he's a good packer. That's all I know about him. I'm
safe and sane, but he's about the right age to propose marriage to
you as soon as he gets his breath. A pretty woman in this country
has to expect that, as you probably know."

The woman smiled and shook hands with both men, exchanging a grip
as firm and as strong as theirs. "I am the Countess Courteau,"
said she.

"The--which?" Mr. Linton queried, with a start.

The Countess laughed frankly. "It is French, but I'm a Dane. I
think my husband bought the title--they're cheap in his country.
He was a poor sort of count, and I'm a poor sort of countess. But
I'm a good cook--a very good cook indeed--and if you'll excuse my
looks and permit me to wear your sweater I'll prepare supper."

Linton's eyes twinkled as he said, "I've never et with the
nobility and I don't know as I'd like their diet, for a steady
thing, but--the baking-powder is in that box and we fry with bacon
grease."

Wood and water were handy, the Countess Courteau had a quick and
capable way, therefore supper was not long delayed. The tent was
not equipped for housekeeping, hence the diners held their plates
in their laps and either harpooned their food from the frying-pan
or ladled it from tin cans, but even so it had a flavor to-night
so unaccustomed, so different, that both men grasped the poignant
fact that the culinary art is mysteriously wedded to female hands.
Mr. Linton voiced this thought in his own manner.

"If a countess cooks like this," he observed, "I'd sure love to
board with a duke." Later, while the dishes were being washed and
when his visitor had shown no intention of explaining her presence
in further detail, he said, whimsically: "See here, ma'am, our
young friend has been watching you like he was afraid you'd
disappear before he gets an eyeful, and it's plain to be seen that
he's devoured by curiosity. As for me, I'm totally lacking in that
miserable trait, and I abhor it in others; but all the same, if
you don't see fit to tell us pretty quick how you came to pole up
from Dawson and what in Heaven's name a woman like you is doing
here, a lone and without benefit of chaperon, I shall pass away in
dreadful agony."

"It's very simple," the Countess told him. "I have important
business 'outside.' I couldn't go down the river, for the Yukon is
low, the steamers are aground on the flats, and connections at St.
Michael's are uncertain at best. Naturally I came up against the
stream. I've been working 'up-stream' all my life." She flashed
him a smile at this latter statement. "As for a chaperon--I've
never felt the need of one. Do you think they're necessary in this
country?"

"Does your husband, Count--"

"My husband doesn't count. That's the trouble." The speaker
laughed again and without the faintest trace of embarrassment. "He
has been out of the picture for years." She turned to Phillips and
inquired, abruptly, "What is the packing price to Sheep Camp?"

"Fifty cents a pound, coming this way. Going back it is nothing,"
he told her, gallantly.

"I haven't much to carry, but if you'll take it I'll pay you the
regular price. I'd like to leave at daylight."

"You seem to be in a rush," Mr. Linton hazarded, mildly.

"I am. Now, then, if you don't mind I'll turn in, for I must be in
Dyea to-morrow night."

Pierce Phillips had said little during the meal or thereafter, to
be sure, nevertheless, he had thought much. He had indeed used his
eyes to good purpose, and now he regretted exceedingly that the
evening promised to be so short. The more he saw of this
unconventional countess the more she intrigued his interest. She
was the most unusual woman he had ever met and he was eager to
learn all about her. His knowledge of women was peculiarly
elemental; his acquaintance with the sex was extremely limited.
Those he had known in his home town were one kind, a familiar
kind; those he had encountered since leaving home were, for the
most part, of a totally different class and of a type that awoke
his disapproval. To a youth of his training and of his worldly
experience the genus woman is divided into two species--old women
and young women. The former are interesting only in a motherly
way, and demand nothing more than abstract courtesy. They do not
matter. The latter, on the contrary, separate themselves again
into two families or suborders--viz., good women and bad women.
The demarcation between the two branches of the suborder is
distinct; there is nothing common to the two. Good women are good
through and through--bad ones are likewise thoroughly bad. There
are no intermediate types, no troublesome variations, no hybrids
nor crosses.

The Countess Courteau, it seemed to him, was a unique specimen and
extremely hard to classify, in that she was neither old nor young-
-or, what was even more puzzling, in that she was both. In years
she was not far advanced--little older than he, in fact--but in
experience, in wisdom, in self-reliance she was vastly his
superior; and experience, he believed, is what makes women old. As
to the family, the suborder to which she belonged, he was at an
utter loss to decide. For instance, she accepted her present
situation with a sang-froid equaling that of a camp harpy, a few
of whom Pierce had seen; then, too, she was, or had been, married
to a no-account foreigner to whom she referred with a calloused
and most unwifely flippancy; moreover, she bore herself with a
freedom, a boldness, quite irreconcilable to the modesty of so-
called "good women." Those facts were enough to classify her
definitely, and yet despite them she was anything but common, and
it would have taken rare courage indeed to transgress that
indefinable barrier of decorum with which she managed to surround
herself. There was something about her as cold and as pure as blue
ice, and she gave the same impression of crystal clarity. All in
all, hers was a baffling personality and Phillips fell asleep with
the riddle of it unanswered. He awoke in the morning with it still
upon his mind.

The Countess Courteau had been first to arise; she was fully
dressed and the sheet-iron stove was glowing when her companions
roused themselves. By the time they had returned from the lake she
had breakfast ready.

"Old Jerry is going to be awful sore at missing this court
function," Mr. Linton told her during the meal. "He's a great
ladies' man, Old Jerry is."

"Perhaps I shall meet him."

"You wouldn't like him if you did; nobody likes him, except me,
and I hate him." Linton sighed. "He's a handicap to a young man
like me."

"Why don't you send him home?"

"Home? Old Jerry would die before he'd turn back. He'd lift his
muzzle and bay at the very idea until some stranger terminated
him. Well, he's my cross; I s'pose I've got to bear him."

"Who is Mr. Linton?" the Countess inquired, as she and Pierce left
the village behind them.

"Just an ordinary stampeder, like the rest of us. I think."

"He's more than that. He's the kind who'll go through and make
good. I dare say his partner is just like him."

Phillips approved of the Countess Courteau this morning even more
thoroughly than he had on the evening previous, and they had not
walked far before he realized that as a traveler she was the equal
of him or of any man. She was lithe and strong and light of foot;
the way she covered ground awoke his sincere admiration. She did
not trouble to talk much and she dispensed with small talk in
others; she appeared to be absorbed in her own affairs, and only
when they rested did she engage in conversation. The more Phillips
studied her and the better acquainted he became with her the
larger proportions did she assume. Not only was she completely
mistress of herself, but she had a forceful, compelling way with
others; there was a natural air of authority about her, and she
managed in some subtle manner to invest herself and her words with
importance. She was quite remarkable.

Now, the trail breeds its own peculiar intimacy; although the two
talked little, they nevertheless got to know each other quite
well, and when they reached the Summit, about midday, Phillips
felt a keen regret that their journey was so near its end.

A mist was drifting up from the sea; it obscured the valley below
and clung to the peaks like ragged garments. Up and out of this
fog came the interminable procession of burden-bearers. The
Countess paused to observe them and to survey the accumulation of
stores which crowned the watershed.

"I didn't dream so many were coming," said she.

"It's getting worse daily," Pierce told her. "Dyea is jammed, and
so is Skagway. The trails are alive with men."

"How many do you think will come?"

"There's no telling. Twenty, thirty, fifty thousand, perhaps.
About half of them turn back when they see the Chilkoot."

"And the rest will wish they had. It's a hard country; not one in
a hundred will prosper."

They picked their way down the drunken descent to the Scales, then
breasted the sluggish human current to Sheep Camp.

A group of men were reading a notice newly posted upon the wall of
the log building which served as restaurant and hotel, and after
scanning it Pierce explained:

"It's another call for a miners' meeting. We're having quite a
time with cache-robbers. If we catch them we'll hang them."

The Countess nodded. "Right! They deserve it. You know we don't
have any stealing on the 'inside.' Now, then, I'll say good-by."
She paid Pierce and extended her hand to him. "Thank you for
helping me across. I'll be in Dyea by dark."

"I hope we'll meet again," he said, with a slight flush.

The woman favored him with one of her generous, friendly smiles.
"I hope so, too. You're a nice boy. I like you." Then she stepped
into the building and was gone.

"A nice boy!" Phillips was pained. A boy! And he the sturdiest
packer on the pass, with perhaps one exception! That was hardly
just to him. If they did meet again--and he vowed they would--he'd
show her he was more than a boy. He experienced a keen desire to
appear well in her eyes, to appear mature and forceful. He asked
himself what kind of man Count Courteau could be; he wondered if
he, Pierce Phillips, could fall in love with such a woman as this,
an older woman, a woman who had been married. It would be queer to
marry a countess, he reflected.

As he walked toward his temporary home he beheld quite a gathering
of citizens, and paused long enough to note that they were being
harangued by the confidence-man who had first initiated him into
the subtleties of the three-shell game. Mr. Broad had climbed upon
a raised tent platform and was presenting an earnest argument
against capital punishment. Two strangers upon the fringe of the
crowd were talking, and Pierce heard one of them say:

"Of course he wants the law to take its course, inasmuch as there
isn't any law. He's one of the gang."

"The surest way to flush a covey of crooks is to whistle for old
Judge Lynch," the other man agreed. "Listen to him!"

"Have they caught the cache-robbers?" Phillips made bold to
inquire.

"No, and they won't catch them, with fellows like that on the
committee. The crooks hang together and we don't. If I had my way
that's just what they'd do--hang together. I'd start in by bending
a limb over that rascal."

Phillips had attended several of these indignation meetings and,
remembering that all of them bad proved purposeless, he went on
toward the McCaskey brothers' tent. He and the McCaskeys were not
the closest of friends, in spite of the fact that they had done
him a favor--a favor, by the way. for which he had paid many times
over--nevertheless, they were his most intimate acquaintances and
he felt an urgent desire to tell them about his unusual
experience. His desire to talk about the Countess Courteau was
irresistible.

But when he entered the tent his greeting fell flat, for Joe, the
elder McCaskey, addressed him sharply, almost accusingly:

"Say, it's about time you showed up!"

"What's the matter?" Pierce saw that the other brother was
stretched out in his blankets and that his head was bandaged.
"Hello!" he cried. "What ails Jim? Is he sick?"

"Sick? Worse than sick," Joe grumbled. "That money of yours is to
blame for it. It's a wonder he isn't dead."

"My money? How?" Phillips was both mystified and alarmed.

Jim raised himself in his blankets and said, irritably: "After
this you can run your own pay-car, kid. I'm through, d'you hear?"

"Speak out. What's wrong?"

"Jim was stuck up, that's what's wrong. That's enough, isn't it?
They bent a six-gun over his head and grabbed your coin. He's got
a dent in his crust the size of a saucer!"

Phillips' face whitened slowly. "My money! Robbed!" he gasped.
"JIM! Who did it? How could you let them?"

The younger McCaskey fell back weakly; he waved a feeble gesture
at his brother. "Joe'll tell you. I'm dizzy; my head ain't right
yet."

"A stranger stopped him--asked him something or other--and another
guy flattened him from behind. That's all he remembers. When he
came to he found he'd been frisked. He was still dippy when he got
home, so I put him to bed. He got up and moved around a bit this
morning, but he's wrong in his head."

Phillips seated himself upon a candle-box. "Robbed!" he exclaimed,
weakly. "Broke--again! Gee! That was hard money! It was the first
I ever earned!"

Joe McCaskey's dark face was doubly unpleasant as he frowned down
upon the youth. "Thinking about nothing except your coin, eh? Why
don't you think about Jim? He did you a favor and 'most lost his
life."

"Oh, I'm sorry--of course!" Phillips rose heavily and crossed to
the bed. "I didn't mean to appear selfish. I don't blame you, Jim.
I'll get a doctor for you, then you must describe the hold-ups.
Give me a hint who they are and I'll go after them."

The younger brother rolled his head in negation and mumbled,
sullenly: "I'm all right. I don't want a doctor."

Joe explained for him: "He never saw the fellows before and he
don't seem to remember much about them. That's natural enough.
Your money's gone clean, kid, and a yelp won't get you anything.
The crooks are organized and if you set up a holler they'll get
all of us. They'll alibi anybody you accuse--it's no trick to
alibi a pal--"

"Isn't it?" The question was uttered unexpectedly; it came from
the front of the tent and startled the occupants thereof, who
turned to behold a stranger just entering their premises. He was
an elderly man; he possessed a quick, shrewd eye; he had poked the
tent flap aside with the barrel of a Colt's revolver. Through the
door-opening could be seen other faces and the bodies of other men
who had likewise stolen up unheard. During the moment of amazement
following his first words these other men crowded in behind him.

"Maybe it 'll be more of a trick than you figure on." The
stranger's gray mustache lifted in a grin that was not at all
friendly.

"What the blazes--?" Joe McCaskey exploded.

"Go easy!" the intruder cautioned him. "We've been laying around,
waiting for your pal to get back." With a movement of the revolver
muzzle he indicated Phillips. "Now then, stretch! On your toes and
reach high. You there, get up!" He addressed himself to Jim, who
rose from his bed and thrust his hands over his bandaged head.
"That's nice!" the stranger nodded approvingly. "Now don't startle
me; don't make any quick moves or I may tremble this gun off--
she's easy on the trigger." To his friends he called, "Come in,
gentlemen; they're gentle."

There were four of the latter; they appeared to be substantial
men, men of determination. All were armed.

Pierce Phillips' amazement gave way to indignation. "What is this,
an arrest or a hold-up?" he inquired.

"It's right smart of both," the leader of the posse drawled, in a
voice which betrayed the fact that he hailed from somewhere in the
far Southwest. "We're in quest of a bag of rice--a bag with a rip
in it and 'W. K.' on the side. While I slap your pockets, just to
see if you're ironed, these gentlemen are goin' to look over your
outfit."

"This is an outrage!" Jim McCaskey complained. "I'm just getting
over one stick-up. I'm a sick man."

"Sure!" his brother exclaimed, furiously. "You're a pack of fools!
What d'you want, anyhow?"

"We want you to shut up! See that you do." The old man's eyes
snapped. "If you've got to say something, tell us how there
happens to be a trail of rice from this man's cache"--he indicated
one of his companions--"right up to your tent."

The McCaskeys exchanged glances. Phillips turned a startled face
upon them.

"It isn't much of a trail, but it's enough to follow."

For a few moments nothing was said, and meanwhile the search of
the tent went on. When Pierce could no longer remain silent he
broke out:

"There's some mistake. These boys packed this grub from Dyea and I
helped with some of it."

"Aren't you partners?" some one inquired.

Joe McCaskey answered this question. "No. He landed broke. We felt
sorry for him and took him in."

Joe was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the searchers.
"Here it is!" said the man. He had unearthed a bulging canvas sack
which he flung down for inspection. "There's my mark, 'W. K.,' and
there's the rip. I knew we had 'em right!"

After a brief examination the leader of the posse turned to his
prisoners, whose hands were still held high, saying:

"Anything you can think of in the way of explanations you'd better
save for the miners' meeting. It's waitin' to welcome you. We'll
put a guard over this plunder till the rest of it is identified.
Now, then, fall in line and don't crowd. After you, gentlemen."

Pierce Phillips realized that it was useless to argue, for his
words would not be listened to, therefore he followed the
McCaskeys out into the open air. The odium of this accusation was
hard to bear; he bitterly resented his situation and something
told him he would have to fight to clear himself; nevertheless, he
was not seriously concerned over the outcome. Public feeling was
high, to be sure; the men of Sheep Camp were in a dangerous frame
of mind and their actions were liable to be hasty, ill-considered-
-their verdict was apt to be fantastic--but, secure in the
knowledge of his innocence, Pierce felt no apprehension. Rather he
experienced a thrill of excitement at the contretemps and at the
ordeal which he knew was forthcoming.

The Countess Courteau had called him a boy. This wasn't a boy's
business; this was a real man-sized adventure.

"Gee! What a day this has been!" he said to himself.




CHAPTER IV


The story of the first trial at Sheep Camp is an old one, but it
differs with every telling. In the hectic hurry of that gold-rush
many incidents were soon forgotten and such salient facts as did
survive were deeply colored, for those were colorful days. That
trial marked an epoch in early Yukon history, for, although its
true significance was unsensed at the time, it really signalized
the dawn of common honesty on the Chilkoot and the Chilkat trails,
and it was the first move taken toward the disruption of organized
outlawry--a bitter fight, by the way, which ended only in the
tragic death of Soapy Smith and the flight of his notorious
henchmen. Although the circumstances of the Sheep Camp
demonstration now seem shocking, they did not seem so at the time,
and they served a larger purpose than was at first apparent; not
only did theft become an unprofitable and an uninteresting
occupation thereafter, but also the men who shaped a code and drew
first blood in defense of it experienced a beneficial reaction and
learned to fit the punishment to the crime--no easy lesson to
learn where life runs hot and where might is right.

The meeting was in session and it had been harangued into a
dangerous frame of mind when Pierce Phillips and the two McCaskeys
were led before it. A statement by the leader of the posse,
corroborated by the owner of the missing sack of rice, roused the
audience to a fury. Even while these stories were being told there
came other men who had identified property of theirs among the
provision piles inside the McCaskey tent, and when they, too, had
made their reports the crowd began to mill; there were demands for
a speedy trial and a swift vengeance.

These demands found loudest echo among the outlaw element for
which Lucky Broad had acted as mouthpiece. Although the members of
that band were unknown--as a matter of fact, no man knew his
neighbor--nevertheless it was plain that there was an organization
of crooks and that a strong bond of understanding existed between
them. Now, inasmuch as the eye of suspicion had been turned away
from them, now that a herring had been dragged across the trail,
their obstructive tactics ended and they, too, became noisy in
their clamor that justice be done.

The meeting was quickly organized along formal lines and a
committee of three was appointed to conduct the hearing. The
chairman of this committee-he constituted himself chairman by
virtue of the fact that he was first nominated--made a ringing
speech in which he praised his honesty, his fairness, and his
knowledge of the law. He complimented the miners for their acumen
in selecting for such a position of responsibility a man of his
distinguished qualifications. It was plain that he believed they
had chosen wisely. Then, having inquired the names of his two
committeemen, he likewise commended them in glowing terms,
although of course he could not praise them quite as unstintedly
as he had praised himself. Still, he spoke well of them and
concluded by stating that so long as affairs were left in his
hands justice would be safeguarded and the rights of this
miserable, cringing trio of thieves would be protected, albeit
killing, in his judgment, was too mild a punishment for people of
their caliber.

"Hear! Hear!" yelled the mob.

Pierce Phillips listened to this speech with a keenly personal and
yet a peculiarly detached interest. The situation struck him as
unreal, grotesque, and the whole procedure as futile. Under other
circumstances it would have been grimly amusing; now he was
uncomfortably aware that it was anything but that. There was no
law whatever in the land save the will of these men; in their
hands lay life or death, exoneration or infamy. He searched the
faces round about him, but could find signs neither of friendship
nor of sympathy. This done, he looked everywhere for a glimpse of
a woman's straw-colored hair and was relieved to discover that the
Countess Courteau was not in the audience. Doubtless she had left
for Dyea and was already some distance down the trail. He breathed
easier, for he did not wish her to witness his humiliation, and
her presence would have merely added to his embarrassment.

The prosecution's case was quickly made, and it was a strong one.
Even yet the damning trickle of rice grains could be traced
through the moss and mire directly to the door of the prisoners'
tent, and the original package, identified positively by its
owner, was put in evidence. This in itself was enough; testimony
from the other men who had likewise recovered merchandise they had
missed and mourned merely strengthened the case and further
inflamed the minds of the citizens.

From the first there had never been a doubt in Phillips' mind that
the McCaskeys were guilty. The facts offered in evidence served
only to explain certain things which had puzzled him at various
times; nevertheless, his indignation and his contempt for them
were tempered with regrets, for he could not but remember that
they had befriended him. It was of course imperative that he
establish his own innocence, but he determined that in so doing he
would prejudice their case as little as possible. That was no more
than the merest loyalty.

When it came tune to hear the defense, the McCaskeys stared at
Pierce coolly; therefore he climbed to the tent platform and faced
his accusers.

He made known his name, his birthplace, the ship which had borne
him north. He told how he had landed at Dyea, how he had lost his
last dollar at the gambling-table, how he had appealed to the
McCaskey boys, and how they had given him shelter. That chance
association, he took pains to explain, had continued, but had
never ripened into anything more, anything closer; it was in no
wise a partnership; he had nothing to do with them and they had
nothing to do with him. Inasmuch as the rice had been stolen
during the previous night, he argued that he could have had no
hand in the theft, for he had spent the night in Linderman, which
fact he offered to prove by two witnesses.

"Produce them," ordered the chairman.

"One of them is still at Linderman, the other was here in Sheep
Camp an hour ago. She has probably started for Dyea by this time."

"A woman?"

"Yes, sir. I brought her across."

"What is her name?"

Phillips hesitated. "The Countess Courteau," said he. There was a
murmur of interest; the members of the committee conferred with
one an other.

"Do you mean to tell us that you've got a titled witness?" the
self-appointed spokesman inquired. His face wore a smile of
disbelief; when the prisoner flushed and nodded he called out over
the heads of the crowd:

"Countess Courteau!" There was no answer. "Do any of you gentlemen
know the Countess Courteau?" he inquired.

His question was greeted by a general laugh.

"Don't let him kid you," cried a derisive voice.

"Never heard of her, but I met four kings last night," yelled
another.

"Call the Marquis of Queensberry," shouted still a third.

"Countess Courteau!" repeated the chairman, using his hands for a
megaphone.

The cry was taken up by other throats. "Countess Courteau!
Countess Courteau!" they mocked. "Come, Countess! Nice Countess!
Pretty Countess!" There was a ribald note to this mockery which
caused Phillips' eyes to glow.

"She and the count have just left the palace. Let's get along with
the hangin'," one shrill voice demanded.

"You won't hang me!" Phillips retorted, angrily.

"Be not so sure," taunted the acting judge. "Inasmuch as your
countess appears to be constituted of that thin fabric of which
dreams are made; inasmuch as there is no such animal--"

"Hol' up!" came a peremptory challenge. "M'sieu Jodge!" It was the
big French Canadian whom Pierce had met on the crest of the
divide; he came forward now, pushing his resistless way through
the audience. "Wat for you say dere ain't nobody by dat name, eh?"
He turned his back to the committee and addressed the meeting.
"Wat for you hack lak dis, anyhow? By gosh! I heard 'bout dis
lady! She's ol'-timer lak me."

"Well, trot her out! Where is she?"

"She's on her way to Dyea," Pierce insisted. "She can't be far--"

'Poleon Doret was angry. "I don' listen to no woman be joke 'bout,
you hear? Dis boy spik true. He was in Linderman las' night, for I
seen him on top of Chilkoot yesterday myse'f, wit' pack on his
back so beeg as a barn."

"Do you know the accused?" queried the spokesman.

'Poleon turned with a shrug. "Non! No! But--yes, I know him li'l
bit. Anybody can tell he's hones' boy. By Gar! She's strong
feller, too--pack lak hell!"

Pierce Phillips was grateful for this evidence of faith,
inconclusive as it was in point of law. He was sorry, therefore,
to see the Frenchman, after replying shortly, impatiently, to
several senseless cross-questions, force his way out of the crowd
and disappear, shaking his head and muttering in manifest disgust
at the temper of his townsmen.

But although one friend had gone, another took his place--a
champion, by the way, whom Pierce would never have suspected of
being such. Profiting by the break in the proceedings, Lucky Broad
spoke up.

"Frenchy was right--this kid's on the square," he declared. "I'm
the gentleman who gathered his wheat at Dyea--he fairly fed it to
me, like he said--so I guess I'm acquainted with him. We're all
assembled up to mete out justice, and justice is going to be met,
but, say! a sucker like this boy wouldn't KNOW enough to steal!"

It was doubtful if this witness, well-intentioned as he was,
carried conviction, for, although his followers took their cue
from him and applauded loudly, their very manifestations of faith
aroused suspicion among the honest men present.

One of the latter, a red-faced, square-shouldered person, thrust a
determined countenance close to Broad's and cried, angrily: "Is
that so? Well, I'm for hangin' anybody you boost!"

This sentiment met with such instantaneous second that the
confidence-man withdrew precipitately. "Have it your own way," he
gave in, with an airy gesture. "But take it from me you're a bunch
of boobs. Hangin' ain't a nice game, and the guy that hollers
loudest for it is usually the one that needs it worst."

It took some effort on the part of the chairman to bring the
meeting to order so that the hearing could be resumed.

Phillips went on with his story and told of spending the night
with Tom Linton, then of his return to Sheep Camp to learn that he
had been robbed of all his savings. Corroboration of this
misfortune he left to the oral testimony of the two brothers
McCaskey and to the circumstantial evidence of Jim's bandaged
head.

While it seemed to him that he had given a simple, straightforward
account of himself which would establish his innocence, so far, at
least, as it applied to the theft of the sack of rice, he was
uncomfortably aware that evidence of systematic pilfering had been
introduced and that evidence he had not met except indirectly. His
proof seemed good so far as it went, but it did not go far, and he
believed it all too likely that his hearers still considered him
an accomplice, at the best.

Jim McCaskey was next called and Pierce made way for him. The
younger brother made a poor start, but he warmed up to his own
defense, gaining confidence and ease as he talked.

In the first place, both he and Joe were innocent of this
outrageous charge--as innocent as unborn babes--and this air of
suspicion was like to smother them. This Jim declared upon his
honor. The evidence was strong, he admitted, but it was purely
circumstantial, and he proposed to explain it away. He proposed to
tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth;
letting the blame fall where it would and leaving the verdict
entirely up to his hearers. Joe would substantiate his every
statement.

It was quite true that he and his brother had been Good
Samaritans; they had opened their doors and had taken in this
young man when he was hungry and homeless, but that was their
habit. They had fed him, they had shared their blankets with him,
they had helped him in a thousand ways, not without serious
inconvenience to themselves. Why, only on the day before the
speaker himself had volunteered to take the young man's earnings
to Dyea for safekeeping, thereby letting himself in for an
unmerciful mauling, and suffering a semi-fractured skull, the
marks of which would doubtless stay with him for a long time.

Phillips had left camp early the previous morning, to be sure, and
he had not come home until an hour or two ago, but where he had
gone, how he had occupied himself during his absence, where he had
spent the night, of course the speaker had no way of knowing.
Phillips was often absent at night; he came and he went at all
hours, and neither Joe nor the witness ever questioned him,
believing his statements that he was packing for hire. Neither his
brother nor he had ever seen that sack of rice antil it was
uncovered by the posse, and as for the other plunder, it was all
part and parcel of an outfit which their guest had been assembling
for some time. They supposed, of course, that he had bought it,
bit by bit, with his earnings.

Pierce Phillips listened in speechless amazement, scarcely
believing his own ears, the while Jim McCaskey struck the fetters
from his own and his brother's limbs and placed them upon his. It
seemed impossible that such a story could carry weight, but from
all indications it did. When Joe McCaskey took the center of the
stage and glibly corroborated his brother's statements Pierce
interrupted him savagely, only to be warned that he'd better be
silent.

"That's all we've got to say," concluded the elder of the precious
pair when he had finished. "You can judge for yourselves who did
the stealing. Jim and I've got all the grub we want; this fellow
hasn't any."

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" The chairman addressed
himself to Phillips.

"I have." Pierce again took the stand. "You're making a great
mistake," he said, earnestly. "These men have lied; they're trying
to save themselves at my expense. I've told you everything, now I
demand that you wait to hear the Countess Courteau or Mr. Linton.
They'll prove where I spent last night, at least."

"Mr. Chairman!" A stranger claimed general attention. "I've
listened to the evidence and it's strong enough for me. The grub
didn't get up and walk away by itself; somebody took it. Grub is
more than grub in this country; it's more than money; it's a man's
life, that's what it is. Now, then, the McCaskeys had an outfit
when they landed; they didn't need to steal; but this fellow, this
dirty ingrate, he hadn't a pound. I don't swallow his countess
story and I don't care a hoot where he was last night. Let's
decide first what punishment a thief gets, then let's give it to
him."

"Hear! Hear!" came the cry.

"Hanging is good enough for thieves!" shouted the choleric
individual who had so pointedly made known his distrust of Lucky
Broad. "I say stretch 'em."

"Right! Let's make an example!"

"Hang him!" There rose a hoarse chorus of assent to this
suggestion, whereupon the chairman stepped forward.

"All those in favor of hanging--" he began. But again he was
interrupted by 'Poleon Doret, who once more bored his way into the
crowd, crying:

"Wait! I got somet'ing to say." He was breathing heavily, as if
from a considerable exertion; perspiration stood upon his face;
his eyes were flashing. He vaulted lightly to the platform, then
flung out his long arms, crying: "You hack lak crazee mans. Wat
talk is dis 'bout hangin'? You ain't wild hanimals!"

The red-faced advocate of the noose who had spoken a moment before
answered him in a loud voice:

"I paid hard money for my grub and I've packed every pound of it
on my back. You can take a mark's life by stealing his matches the
same as by shooting him. I want to see thieves on the end of a
rope."

Doret bent down to him. "All right, m'sieu! You want blood; we
give it to you. Bring on dat rope. I'll put it on dis boy's neck
if you'll do de pullin'. For me, I ain't care 'bout killin' no-
body, but you--you're brave man. You hang on tight w'ile dis boy
he keeck, an' strangle, an' grow black in de face. It's goin' mak
you feel good all over!"

"Rats! _I_ won't do the trick, but--"

"Somebody mus' do de pullin'." 'Poleon grinned. "He ain't goin'
hang himse'f. Mebbe you got pardner w'at lak give you hand, eh?"
He raised his head and laughed at the crowd. "Messieurs, you see
how 'tis. It tak' brave man to hang a feller lak dis. Some day
policeman's goin' come along an' say: 'By Gar, I been lookin' for
you long tarn. De new jodge at Dyea he tell me you murder a boy at
Sheep Camp. S'pose you come wit' me an' do little hangin'
yourse'f.' No, messieurs! We ain't Hinjuns; we're good sensible
peoples, eh?"

A member of the committee, one who had hitherto acted a passive
part, now stepped forward.

"Frenchy has put it right," he acknowledged. "We'll have courts in
this country some day, and we'll have to answer to them. Miners'
law is all right, so far as it goes, but I won't be a party to a
murder. That's what this would be, murder. If you're going to talk
hanging, you can take me off of your committee."

Lucky Broad uttered a yelp of encouragement. "Hangin' sounds
better 'n it feels," he declared. "Think it over, you family men.
When you make your stakes and go home, little Johnny's going to
climb onto your knee and say, 'Papa, tell me why you hung that man
at Sheep Camp,' and you'll say, 'Why, son, we hung him because he
stole a sack of rice.' Like hell you will!"

'Poleon Doret regained public attention by saying, "Messieurs, I
got s'prise for you." He lifted himself to his toes and called
loudly over the heads of the assembled citizens, "Dis way,
madame." From the direction he was looking there came a swiftly
moving figure, the figure of a tall woman with straw-gold hair.
Men gave way before her. She hurried straight to the tent
platform, where 'Poleon leaned down, took her beneath her arms,
and swung her lightly up beside him. "Madame de Countess
Courteau," he announced; then with a flourish he swept off his
knitted cap and bowed to the new-comer. To those beneath him he
cried, sharply, "Tak' off dose hat or I knock dem off."

The Countess, too, had evidently made haste, for she was breathing
deeply. She flashed a smile at Pierce Phillips, then said, so that
all could hear:

"I understand you accuse this young man of stealing something last
night. Well, he was in Linderman. He brought me over to-day."

"We don't care so much about the rice; this stealing has been
going on for a long time," a bystander explained.

"True. But the rice was stolen last night, wasn't it? The man who
stole it probably stole the other stuff."

"They're two to one," Pierce told her. "They're trying to saw it
off on me."

The Countess turned and stared at the McCaskey brothers, who met
her look defiantly. "Ban!" she exclaimed. "I haven't heard the
evidence, for I was on my way to Dyea when Mr.--" She glanced
inquiringly at 'Poleon.

He bowed again. "Doret," said he. "Napoleon Doret."

"--when Mr. Doret overtook me, but I'm willing to wager my life
that this boy isn't a thief." Again she smiled at Phillips, and he
experienced a tumult of conflicting emotions. Never had he seen a
woman like this one, who radiated such strength, such confidence,
such power. She stood there like a goddess, a splendid creature
fashioned of snow and gold; she dominated the assembly. He was
embarrassed that she should find him in this predicament, shamed
that she should be forced to come to his assistance; nevertheless,
he was thrilled at her ready response.

It was the elder McCaskey who next claimed attention. "We've made
our spiel," he began; then he launched into a repetition of his
former statement of facts.

The Countess stepped to Pierce's side, inquiring, quickly, "What
is this, a joke?"

"I thought so at first, but it looks as if I'll be cutting figure
eights on the end of a tent-rope."

"What makes them think you did the stealing?"

"The McCaskeys swear I did. You see, I had no outfit of my own--"

"Are you broke?"

"N--no! I wasn't yesterday. I am now." In a few sentences Pierce
made known the facts of his recent loss, and pointed to Jim
McCaskey's bandaged head.

When the elder brother had concluded, the Countess again addressed
the meeting. "You men take it for granted that Phillips did the
stealing because he needed grub," said she. "As a matter of fact
he wasn't broke, he had a thousand dollars, and--"

"Say! Who hired you to argue this case?" It was Jim McCaskey
speaking. He had edged his way forward and was scowling darkly at
the woman. "What's the idea, anyhow? Are you stuck on this kid?"

The Countess Courteau eyed her interrogator coolly, her cheeks
maintained their even coloring, her eyes were as icy blue as ever.
It was plain that she was in no wise embarrassed by his
insinuation.

Very quietly she said: "I'll tell you whether I am if you'll tell
me who got his thousand dollars. Was it your brother?" Jim
McCaskey recoiled; his face whitened. "Who hit you over the head?"
the woman persisted. "Did he?"

"That's none of your business," Jim shouted. "I want to know what
you're doing in this case. You say the kid was in Linderman last
night. Well, I say--you're a--! How d'you know he was there? How
d'you know he didn't steal that rice before he left, for that
matter?"

"I know he was in Linderman because I was with him."

"With him? All night?" The speaker grinned insultingly.

"Yes, all night. I slept in the same tent with him and--"

"Now I've got your number," the younger McCaskey cried, in
triumph.

"Bah!" The Countess shrugged unconcernedly. "As for the rice being
stolen before he--"

"'Countess.' Ha!" Jim burst forth again. "Swell countess you are!
The Dyea dance-halls are full of 'countesses' like you--counting
percentage checks. Boys, who are you going to believe? She slept
all night--"

McCaskey got no further, for with a cry of rage Pierce Phillips
set his muscles and landed upon him. It was a mighty blow and it
found lodgment upon the side of its victim's face.

Jim McCaskey went down and his assailant, maddened completely by
the feel of his enemy's flesh, lunged forward to stamp him beneath
his heels. But stout arms seized him, bodies intervened, and he
was hurled backward. A shout arose; there was a general scramble
for the raised platform. There were yells of:

"Shame!"

"Hang on to him!"

"Stretch him up!"

"Dirty ingrate!"

Phillips fought with desperation; his struggles caused the
structure to creak and to strain; men piled over it and joined in
the fight. He was whining and sobbing in his fury.

Meanwhile ready hands had rescued Jim from the trampling feet and
now held his limp body erect.

It was the clarion call of the Countess Courteau which first made
itself heard above the din. She had climbed to the railing and was
poised there with one arm outflung, a quivering finger leveled at
Jim McCaskey's head.

"Look!" she cried. "Look, men--AT HIS HEAD! There's proof that
he's been lying!" The victim of the assault had lost his cap in
the scuffle, and with it had gone the bandage. His head was bare
now, and, oddly enough, it showed no matted hair, no cut, no
bruise, no swelling. It was, in fact, a perfectly normal, healthy,
well-preserved cranium.

Phillips ceased his struggles; he passed a shaking hand over his
eyes to clear his vision; his captors released him and crowded
closer to Jim McCaskey, who was now showing the first signs of
returning consciousness.

"He told you he was held up--that his skull was cracked, didn't
he?" The Countess threw back her head and laughed unrestrainedly.
"My! But you men are fools! Now, then, who do you suppose got
young Phillips' money? Use your wits, men."

There was a great craning of necks, a momentary hush, the while
Jim McCaskey rolled his head loosely, opened his eyes, and stared
wildly about.

The Countess bent down toward him, and now her cheeks had grown
white, her blue eyes were flaming.

"Well, my man," she cried, in a shaking voice, "now you know what
kind of a woman I am. 'Counting percentage checks,' eh?" She
seemed upon the point of reaching out and throttling Jim with her
long strong fingers. "Let's see you and your precious brother do a
little counting. Count out a thousand dollars for this boy.
Quick!"

It was 'Poleon Doret who searched the palsied victim. While other
hands restrained the older brother he went through the younger one
and, having done so, handed Pierce Phillips a bulky envelope
addressed in the latter's handwriting.

"She's yours, eh?" 'Poleon inquired.

Phillips made a hasty examination, then nodded.

The Countess turned once more to the crowd. "I move that you
apologize to Mr. Phillips. Are you game?" Her question met with a
yell of approval. "Now, then, there's a new case on the docket,
and the charge is highway robbery. Are you ready to vote a
verdict?" Her face was set, her eyes still flashed.

"Guilty!" came with a roar.

"Very well. Hang the ruffians if you feel like it!"

She leaped down from her vantage-point, and without a word,
without a glance behind her set out along the Dyea trail.




CHAPTER V


"Looked kind of salty for a spell, didn't it?" The grizzled leader
of the posse, he who had effected the capture of the thieves, was
speaking to Pierce. "Well, I'm due for a private apology. I hope
you cherish no hard feelings. Eh?"

"None whatever, sir. I'm only too glad to get out whole and get my
money back. It was quite an experience." Already Phillips' mind
had ranged the events of the last crowded hour into some sort of
order; his fancy had tinged them with a glamour already turning
rosy with romance, and he told himself that his thrills had been
worth their price.

"Lucky that woman showed up. Who is she?" Phillips shook his head.
In his turn he inquired, "What are you going to do with the
McCaskeys?"

The elder man's face hardened. "I don't know. This talk about
hangin' makes me weary. I'd hang 'em; I'd kick a bar'l out from
under either of 'em. I've done such things and I never had any bad
dreams."

But it was plain that the sentiment favoring such extreme
punishment had changed, for a suggestion was made to flog the
thieves and send them out of the country. This met with instant
response. A motion was put to administer forty lashes and it was
carried with a whoop.

Preparations to execute the sentence were immediately instituted.
A scourge was prepared by wiring nine heavy leather thongs to a
whip-handle, the platform was cleared, and a call was issued for a
man to administer the punishment. Some delay ensued at this point,
but finally a burly fellow volunteered, climbed to the stage, and
removed his canvas coat.

Since the younger McCaskey appeared to be still somewhat dazed
from the rough handling he had suffered, his brother was thrust
forward. The latter was stripped to the waist, his wrists were
firmly bound, then trussed up to one of the stout end-poles of the
tent-frame which, skeleton-like, stood over the platform. This
done, the committee fell back, and the wielder of the whip stepped
forward.

The crowd had watched these grim proceedings intently; it became
quite silent now. The hour was growing late, the day had been
overcast, and a damp chill that searched the marrow was settling
as the short afternoon drew to a close. The prisoner's naked body
showed very white beneath his shock of coal-black hair; his flesh
seemed tender and the onlookers stared at it in fascination.

Joe McCaskey was a man of nerve; he held himself erect; there was
defiance in the gaze which he leveled at the faces below him. But
his brother Jim was not made of such stern, stuff--he was the
meaner, the more cowardly of the pair--and these methodical
preparations, the certainty of his own forthcoming ordeal, bred in
him a desperate panic. The sight of his brother's flesh bared to
the bite of the lash brought home to him the horrifying
significance of a flogging, and then, as if to emphasize that
significance, the executioner gave his cat-o'-nine-tails a
practice swing. As the lashes hissed through the air the victim at
the post stiffened rigidly, but his brother, outside the
inclosure, writhed in his tracks and uttered a faint moan.
Profiting by the inattention of his captors, Jim McCaskey summoned
his strength and with an effort born of desperation wrenched
himself free. Hands grasped at him as he bolted, bodies barred his
way, but he bore them down; before the meaning of the commotion
had dawned upon the crowd at large he had fought his way out and
was speeding down the street. But fleet-footed men were at his
heels, a roar of rage burst from the mob, and in a body it took up
the chase. Down the stumpy, muddy trail went the pursuit, and
every command to halt spurred the fleeing man to swifter flight.
Cabin doors opened; people came running from their tents; some
tried to fling themselves in the way of the escaping criminal;
packers toiling up the trail heard the approaching clamor, shook
off their burdens and endeavored to seize the figure that came
bounding ahead of it. But Jim dodged them all. Failing in their
attempt to intercept him, these newcomers joined the chase, and
the fugitive, once the first frenzy of excitement had died in him,
heard their footsteps gaining on him. He was stark mad by now;
black terror throttled him. Then some one fired a shot; that shot
was followed by others; there came a scattered fusillade, and with
a mighty leap Jim McCaskey fell. He collapsed in midair; he was
dead when his pursuers reached him.

Mob spirit is a peculiar thing; its vagaries are difficult to
explain or to analyze. Some trivial occurrence may completely
destroy its temper, or again merely serve to harden it and give it
edge. In this instance the escape, the flight, the short, swift
pursuit and its tragic ending, had the effect, not of sobering the
assembled citizens of Sheep Camp, not of satisfying their long-
slumbering rage, but of inflaming it, of intoxicating them to a
state of insane triumph. Like the Paris mobs that followed
shouting, in the wake of the tumbrels bound for the guillotine,
these men came trooping back to the scene of execution, and as
they came they bellowed hoarsely and they waved their arms.

Men react powerfully to environment; they put on rough ways with
rough clothes. Smooth pavements, soap and hot water, safety-
razors, are strong civilizing agents, but a man begins to revert
in the time it takes his beard to grow. These fellows had left the
world they knew behind them; they were in a world they knew not.
Old standards had fallen, new standards had been reared, new
values had attached to crime, therefore they demanded that the
business in hand go on. Such was the spirit of the Chilkoot trail.

At the first stroke of the descending whip a howl went up--a
merciless howl, a howl of fierce exultation. Joe McCaskey rocked
forward upon the balls of his feet; his frame was racked by a
spasm of agony; he strained at his thongs until his shoulder
muscles swelled. The flesh of his back knotted and writhed; livid
streaks leaped out upon it, then turned crimson and began to
trickle blood.

"ONE!" roared the mob.

The wielder of the scourge swung his weapon again; again the
leather strips wrapped around the victim's ribs and laid open
their defenseless covering.

"TWO!"

McCaskey lunged forward, then strained, backward; the tent-frame
creaked as he pulled at it. His head was drawn far back between
his shoulders, his face was convulsed, and his gums were bared in
a skyward grin. If he uttered any sound it was lost in the uproar.

"THREE!"

It was a frightful punishment. The man's flesh was being stripped
from his bones.

"FOUR!"

"FIVE!"

The count went on monotonously, for the fellow with the whip swung
slowly, putting his whole strength behind every blow. When it had
climbed to eight the prisoner's body was dripping with blood, his
trousers-band was sodden with it. When it had reached ten he hung
suspended by his wrists and only a fierce involuntary muscular
reaction answered the caress of the nine lashes.

Forty stripes had been voted as the penalty, but 'Poleon Doret
vaulted to the platform, seized the upraised whip, and tore it
from the executioner's hand. He turned upon the crowd a
countenance white with fury and disgust.

"Enough!" he shouted. "By Gar! You keel him next! If you mus' w'ip
somebody, w'ip me; dis feller is mos' dead." He strode to the post
and with a slash of his hunting-knife cut McCaskey down. This
action was greeted by an angry yell of protest; there was a rush
toward the platform, but 'Poleon was joined by the leader of the
posse, who scrambled through the press and ranged himself in
opposition to the audience. The old man was likewise satiated with
this torture; his face was wet with sweat; beneath his drooping
gray mustache his teeth were set.

"Back up, you hyenas!" he cried, shrilly. "The show's over. The
man took his medicine and he took it like a man. He's had enough."

"Gimme the whip. I'll finish the job," some one shouted.

The former speaker bent forward abristle with defiance.

"You try it!" he spat out. "You touch that whip, and by God, I'll
kill you!" He lent point to this threat by drawing and cocking his
six-shooter. "If you men ain't had enough blood for one day, I'll
let a little more for you." His words ended in a torrent of
profanity. "Climb aboard!" he shrilled. "Who's got the guts to
try?"

Doret spoke to him shortly, "Dese men ain't goin' mak' no trouble,
m'sieu'." With that he turned his back and, heedless of the
clamor, began to minister to the bleeding man. He had provided
himself with a bottle of lotion, doubtless some antiseptic
snatched from the canvas drugstore down the street, and with this
he wet a handkerchief; then he washed McCaskey's lacerated back. A
member of the committee joined him in this work of mercy; soon
others came to their assistance, and gradually the crowd began
breaking up. Some one handed the sufferer a drink of whisky, which
revived him considerably, and by the time he was ready to receive
his upper garments he was to some extent master of himself.

Joe McCaskey accepted these attentions without a word of thanks,
without a sign of gratitude. He appeared to be numbed, paralyzed,
by the nervous shock he had undergone, and yet he was not
paralyzed, for his eyes were intensely alive. They were wild,
baleful; his roving glance was like poison to the men it fell
upon.

"You're due to leave camp," he was told, "and you're going to take
the first boat from Dyea. Is there anything you want to say.
anything you want to do, before you go?"

"I--want something to--eat," Joe answered, hoarsely. "I'm hungry."
These were the first words he had uttered; they met with
astonishment; nevertheless he was led to the nearest restaurant.
Surrounded by a silent, curious group, he crouched over the board
counter and wolfed a ravenous meal. When he had finished he rose,
turned, and stared questioningly at the circle of hostile faces;
his eyes still glittered with that basilisk glare of hatred and
defiance. There was something huge, disconcerting, about the man.
Not once had he appealed for mercy, not once had he complained,
not once had he asked about his brother; he showed neither
curiosity nor concern over Jim's fate, and now he betrayed the
utmost indifference to his own. He merely shifted that venomous
stare from one face to another as if indelibly to photograph each
and every one of them upon his mind.

But the citizens of Sheep Camp were not done with him yet. His
hands were again bound, this time behind him; a blanket roll was
roped upon his shoulders, upon his breast was hung a staring
placard which read:

"I am a thief! Spit on me and send me along."

Thus decorated, he met his crowning indignity. Extending from the
steps of the restaurant far down the street twin rows of men had
formed, and this gauntlet Joe McCaskey was forced to run. He bore
this ordeal as he had borne the other. Men jeered at him, they
flung handfuls of wet moss and mud at him, they spat upon him,
some even struck him, bound as he was.

Sickened at the sight, Pierce Phillips witnessed the final chapter
of this tragedy into which the winds of chance had blown him. For
one instant only did his eyes meet those of his former tentmate,
but during that brief glance the latter made plain his undying
hatred. McCaskey's gaze intensified, his upper lip drew back in a
grimace similar to that which he had lifted to the sky when agony
ran through his veins like fire; he seemed to concentrate the last
ounce of his soul's energy in the sending of some wordless
message. Hellish fury, a threat too baneful, too ominous, for
expression dwelt in that stare; then a splatter of mire struck him
in the face and blotted it out.

When the last jeer had died away, when the figure of Joe McCaskey
had disappeared into the misty twilight, Phillips drew a deep
breath. What a day this had been, what a tumult he had lived
through, what an experience he had undergone! This was an
adventure! He had lived, he had made an enemy. Life had come his
way, and the consciousness of that fact caused him to tingle. This
would be something to talk about; what would the folks back home
say to this? And the Countess--that wonderful woman of ice and
fire! That superwoman who could sway the minds of men, whose wit
was quicker than light. Well, she had saved him, saved his good
name, if not his neck, and his life was hers. Who was she? What
mission brought her here? What hurry crowded on her heels? What
idle chance had flung them into each other's arms? Or was it idle
chance? Was there such a thing as chance, after all? Were not
men's random fortunes all laid out in conformity with some obscure
purpose to form a part of some intricate design? Dust he was, dust
blown upon the breath of the North, as were these other human
atoms which had been borne thither from the farthest quarters of
the earth; but when that dust had settled would it not arrange
itself into patterns mapped out at the hour of birth or long
before? Somehow he believed that such would be the case.

As for the Countess, his way was hers, her way was his; he could
not bear to think of losing her. She was big, she was great, she
drew him by the spell of some strange magic.

The peppery old man who, with Doret's help, had defied the miners'
meeting approached him to inquire:

"Say, why didn't old Tom come back with you from Linderman?"

"Old Tom?"

"Sure! Old Tom Linton. We're pardners. I'm Jerry Quirk."

"He was tired out."

"Tired!" Mr. Quirk snorted derisively. "What tired him? He can't
tote enough grub to satisfy his own hunger. Me, I'm double-
trippin'--relayin' our stuff to the Summit and breakin' my back at
it. I can't make him understand we'd ought to keep the outfit
together; he's got it scattered like a mad woman's hair. But old
Tom's in the sere and yellow leaf: he's onnery. like all old men.
I try to humor him, but--here's a limit." The speaker looked Pierce
over shrewdly. "You said you was packin' for wages. Well, old Tom
ain't any help to me. You look strong. Mebbe I could hire you."

Phillips shook his head. "I don't want work just now," said he.
"I'm going to Dyea in the morning."

Jim McCaskey was buried where he had fallen, and there beside the
trail, so that all who passed might read and ponder, the men of
Sheep Camp raised a board with this inscription:

"Here lies the body of a thief."




CHAPTER VI


A certain romantic glamour attaches to all new countries, but not
every man is responsive to it. To the person who finds enjoyment,
preoccupation, in studying a ruin or in contemplating glories,
triumphs, dramas long dead and gone, old buildings, old cities,
and old worlds sound a resistless call. The past is peopled with
impressive figures, to be sure; it is a tapestry into which are
woven scenes of tremendous significance and events of the greatest
moment, and it is quite natural, therefore, that the majority of
people should experience greater fascination in studying it than
in painting new scenes upon a naked canvas with colors of their
own imagining. To them new countries are crude, uninteresting. But
there is another type of mind which finds a more absorbing spell
in the contemplation of things to come than of things long past;
another temperament to which the proven and the tried possess a
flat and tasteless flavor. They are restless, anticipative people;
they are the ones who blaze trails. To them great cities,
established order, the intricate structure of well-settled life,
are both monotonous and oppressive; they do not thrive well
thereunder. But put them out on the fringe of things, transplant
them to wild soil, and the sap runs, they flower rankly.

To Pierce Phillips the new surroundings into which he had been
projected were intensely stimulating; they excited him as he had
never been excited, and each day he awoke to the sense of new
adventures. Life, as he had known it, had always been good--and
full, too, for that matter--and he had hugely enjoyed it;
nevertheless, it had impressed upon him a sense of his own
insignificance. He had been lost, submerged, in it. Here, on the
threshold of a new world, he had begun to find himself, and the
experience was delightful. By some magic he had been lifted to a
common level with every other man, and no one had advantage over
him. The momentous future was as much his as theirs and the God of
Luck was in charge of things.

There was a fever in the very air he breathed, the food he ate,
the water he drank. Life ran at a furious pace and it inspired in
him supreme exhilaration to be swept along by it. Over all this
new land was a purple haze of mystery--a sense of the Unknown
right at hand. The Beyond was beckoning; it was as if great
curtains had parted and he beheld vistas of tremendous promise.
Keenest of all, perhaps, was his joy at discovering himself.

Appreciation of this miraculous rebirth was fullest when, at rare
intervals, he came off the trail and back to Dyea, for then he
renewed his touch with that other world, and the contrast became
more evident.

Dyea throbbed nowadays beneath a mighty head of steam; it had
grown surprisingly and it was intensely alive. Phillips never came
back to it without an emotional thrill and a realization of great
issues, great undertakings, in process of working out. The
knowledge that he had a part in them aroused in him an
intoxicating pleasure.

Dyea had become a metropolis of boards and canvas, of logs and
corrugated iron. Stores had risen, there were hotels and lodging-
houses, busy restaurants and busier saloons whence came the sounds
of revelry by night and by day. It was a healthy revelry, by the
way, like the boisterous hilarity of a robust boy. Dyea was just
that--an overgrown, hilarious boy. There was nothing querulous or
sickly about this child; it was strong, it was sturdy, it was
rough; it romped with everybody and it grew out of its clothes
overnight. Every house, every tent, in the town was crowded;
supply never quite overtook demand.

Pack-animals were being imported, bridges were being built, the
swamps were being hastily corduroyed; there was talk of a tramway
up the side of the Chilkoot, but the gold rush increased daily,
and, despite better means of transportation, the call for packers
went unanswered and the price per pound stayed up. New tribes of
Indians from down the coast had moved thither, babies and baggage,
and they were growing rich. The stampede itself resembled the
spring run of the silver salmon--it was equally mad, equally
resistless. It was equally wasteful, too, for birds and beasts of
prey fattened upon it and the outsetting current bore a burden of
derelicts.

Values were extravagant; money ran like water; the town was wide
open and it took toll from every new-comer. The ferment was kept
active by a trickle of outgoing Klondikers, a considerable number
of whom passed through on their way back to the States. These men
had been educated to the liberal ways of the "inside" country and
were prodigal spenders. The scent of the salt sea, the sight of
new faces, the proximity of the open world, were like strong drink
to them, hence they untied their mooseskin "pokes" and scattered
the contents like sawdust. Their tales of the new El Dorado
stimulated a similar recklessness among their hearers.

To a boy like Pierce Phillips, in whom the spirit of youth was a
flaming torch, all this spelled glorious abandon, a supreme riot
of Olympic emotions.

Precisely what reason he had for coming to town this morning he
did not know; nevertheless, he was drawn seaward as by a mighty
magnet. He told himself that ordinary gratitude demanded that he
thank the Countess Courteau for her service to him, but as a
matter of fact he was less interested in voicing his gratitude
than in merely seeing her again. He was not sure but that she
would resent his thanks; nevertheless, it was necessary to seek
her out, for already her image was nebulous, and he could not
piece together a satisfactory picture of her. She obsessed his
thoughts, but his intense desire to fix her indelibly therein had
defeated its purpose and had blurred the photograph. Who was she?
What was she? Where was she going? What did she think of him? The
possibility that she might leave Dyea before answering those
questions spurred him into a gait that devoured the miles.

But when he turned into the main street of the town his haste
vanished and a sudden embarrassment overtook him. What would he
say to her, now that he was here? How would he excuse or explain
his obvious pursuit? Would she see through him? If so, what light
would kindle in those ice-blue eyes? The Countess was an unusual
woman. She knew men, she read them clearly, and she knew how to
freeze them in their tracks. Pierce felt quite sure that she would
guess his motives, therefore he made up his mind to dissemble
cunningly. He decided to assume a casual air and to let chance
arrange their actual meeting. When he did encounter her, a quick
smile of pleased surprise on his part, a few simple words of
thanks, a manly statement that he was glad she had not left before
his duties permitted him to look her up, and she would be
completely deceived. Thereafter fate would decree how well or how
badly they got acquainted. Yes, that was the way to go about it.

Having laid out this admirable program, he immediately defied it
by making a bee-line for the main hotel, a big board structure
still in process of erection. His feet carried him thither in
spite of himself. Like a homing-pigeon he went, and instinct
guided him unerringly, for he found the Countess Courteau in the
office.

She was dressed as on the day before, but by some magic she had
managed to freshen and to brighten herself. In her hand she held
her traveling-bag; she was speaking to the proprietor as Pierce
stepped up behind her.

"Fifteen thousand dollars as it stands," he heard her say. "That's
my price. I'll make you a present of the lumber. The Queen leaves
in twenty minutes."

The proprietor began to argue, but she cut him short: "That's my
last word. Three hundred per cent, on your money."

"But--"

"Think it over!" Her tone was cool, her words were crisp. "I take
the lighter in ten minutes." She turned to find Phillips at her
shoulder.

"Good morning!" Her face lit up with a smile; she extended her
hand, and he seized it as a fish swallows a bait. He blushed
redly.

"I'm late," he stammered. "I mean I--I hurried right in to tell
you--"

"So they didn't hang you?"

"No! You were wonderful! I couldn't rest until I had told you how
deeply grateful--"

"Nonsense!" The Countess shrugged her shoulders. "I'm glad you
came before I left."

"You're not--going away?" he queried, with frank apprehension.

"