The Yukon Trail: A Tale of the North

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER XXIX

  "DON'T TOUCH HIM! DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH HIM!"

  Gordon overslept. His plan had been to reach Kusiak at the end of along day's travel, but that had meant getting on the trail with thefirst gleam of light. When he opened his eyes Mrs. Olson was callinghim to rise.

  He dressed and stepped out into the cold, crisp morning. From the hillcrotch the sun was already pouring down a great, fanlike shaft of lightacross the snow vista. Swiftwater Pete passed behind him on his way tothe stable and called a cheerful good-morning in his direction.

  Mrs. Olson had put the stove outside the tent and Gordon lifted it tothe spot where they did the cooking.

  "Good-morning, neighbor," he called to Sheba. "Sleep well?"

  The little rustling sounds within the tent ceased. A face appeared inthe doorway, the flaps drawn discreetly close beneath the chin.

  "Never better. Is my breakfast ready yet?"

  "Come and help me make it. Mrs. Olson is waiting on Holt."

  "When I'm dressed." The smiling face disappeared. "Dublin Bay" soundedin her fresh young voice from the tent. Gordon joined in the song as helit the fire and sliced bacon from a frozen slab of it.

  The howling of the huskies interrupted the song. They had evidentlyheard something that excited them. Gordon listened. Was it in his fancyonly that the breeze carried to him the faint jingle of sleigh-bells?The sound, if it was one, died away. The cook turned to his job.

  He stopped sawing at the meat, knife and bacon both suspended in theair. On the hard snow there had come to him the crunch of a foot behindhim. Whose? Sheba was in the tent, Swiftwater at the stable, Mrs. Olsonin the house. Slowly he turned his head.

  What Elliot saw sent the starch through his body. He did not move aninch, still sat crouched by the fire, but every nerve was at tension,every muscle taut. For he was looking at a rifle lying negligently inbrown, steady hands. They were very sure hands, very competent ones. Heknew that because he had seen them in action. The owner of the hands wasColby Macdonald.

  The Scotch-Canadian stood at the edge of a willow grove. His face wasgrim as the day of judgment.

  "Don't move," he ordered.

  Elliot laughed irritably. He was both annoyed and disgusted.

  "What do you want?" he snapped.

  "You."

  "What's worrying you now? Do you think I'm jumping my bond?"

  "You're going back to Kusiak with me--to give a life for the one youtook."

  "What's that?" cried Gordon, surprised.

  "Just as I'm telling you. I've been on your heels ever since you lefttown. You and Holt are going back with me as my prisoners."

  "But what for?"

  "For robbing the bank and murdering Robert Milton, as you know wellenough."

  "Is this another plant arranged for me by you and Selfridge?" demandedElliot.

  Macdonald ignored the question and lifted his voice. "Come out of thattent, Holt,--and come with your hands up unless you want your head blownoff."

  "Holt isn't in that tent, you damned idiot. If you want to know--"

  "Come _now_, if you expect to come alive," cut in the Scotchmanominously. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and covered the shadowthrown by the sun on the figure within.

  Gordon flung out a wild protest and threw the frozen slab of bacon atthe head of Macdonald. With the same motion he launched his own bodyacross the stove. A fifth of a second earlier the tent flap had openedand Sheba had come out.

  The sight of her paralyzed Macdonald and saved her lover's life.It distracted the mine-owner long enough for him to miss his chance.A bullet struck the stove and went off at a tangent through the tentcanvas not two feet from where Sheba stood. A second went speedingtoward the sun. For Gordon had followed the football player's instinctand dived for the knees of his enemy.

  They went down together. Each squirming for the upper place, theyrolled over and over. The rifle was forgotten. Like cave men theyfought, crushing and twisting each other's muscles with the blind lustof primordials to kill. As they clinched with one arm, they strucksavagely with the other. The impact of smashing blows on naked fleshsounded horribly cruel to Sheba.

  She ran forward, calling on each by name to stop. Probably neither knewshe was there. Their whole attention was focused on each other. Not foran instant did their eyes wander, for life and death hung on the issue.Chance had lit the spark of their resentment, but long-banked passionswere blazing fiercely now.

  They got to their feet and fought toe to toe. Sledge-hammer blows beatupon bleeding and disfigured faces. No thought of defense as yet wasin the mind of either. The purpose of each was to bruise, maim, makehelpless the other. But for the impotent little cries of Sheba no soundbroke the stillness save the crunch of their feet on the hard snow,the thud of heavy fists on flesh, and the throaty snarl of their deep,irregular breathing.

  Gid Holt, from the window of the cabin, watched the battle with shiningeyes. He exulted in every blow of Gordon; he suffered with him when thesmashing rights and lefts of Macdonald got home. He shouted jeers,advice, threats, encouragement. If he had had ten thousand dollarswagered on the outcome he could not have been more excited.

  Swiftwater Pete, drawn by the cries of Sheba, came running from thestable. As he passed the window, Holt caught him by the arm.

  "What are you aimin' to do, Pete? Let 'em alone. Let 'em go to it.They got to have it out. Stop 'em now and they'll get at it with guns."

  Sheba ran up, wringing her hands. "Stop them, please. They're killingeach other."

  "Nothing of the kind, girl. You let 'em alone, Pete. The kid'sthere every minute, ain't he? Gee, that's a good one, boy.Seven--eleven--ninety-two. 'Attaboy!"

  Macdonald had slipped on the snow and gone down to his hands and knees.Swift as a wildcat the younger man was on top of him. Hampered though hewas by his parka, the Scotchman struggled slowly to his feet again. Hewas much the heavier man, and in spite of his years the stronger. Themuscles stood out in knots on his shoulders and across his back, whereason the body of his more slender opponent they flowed and rippled inrounded symmetry. Active as a heather cat, Elliot was far the quickerof the two.

  Half-blinded by the hammering he had received, Gordon changed his methodof fighting. He broke away from the clinch and sidestepped the bull-likerush of his foe, covering up as well as he could from the onset.Macdonald pressed the attack and was beaten back by hard, straight leftsand rights to the unprotected face.

  The mine-owner shook the matted hair from his swollen eyes and rushedagain. He caught an uppercut flush on the end of the chin. It did noteven stop him. The weight of his body was in the blow he lashed up fromhis side.

  The knees of Elliot doubled up under him like the blade of a jackknife.He sank down slowly, turned, got to his hands and knees, and tried toshake off the tons of weight that seemed to be holding him down.

  Macdonald seized him about the waist and flung him to the ground. Uponthe inert body the victor dropped, his knees clinching the torso of theunconscious man.

  "Now, Pete. Go to him," urged Holt wildly.

  But before Swiftwater could move, before the great fist of Macdonaldcould smash down upon the bleeding face upturned to his, a sharp blowstruck the flesh of the raised forearm and for the moment stunned themuscles. The Scotch-Canadian lifted a countenance drunk with rage,passion-tossed.

  Slowly the light of reason came back into his eyes. Sheba was standingbefore him, his rifle in her hand. She had struck him with the butt ofit.

  "Don't touch him! Don't you dare touch him!" she challenged.

  He looked at her long, then let his eyes fall to the battered face ofhis enemy. Drunkenly he got to his feet and leaned against a willow.His forces were spent, his muscles weighted as with lead. But it was notthis alone that made his breath come short and raggedly.

  Sheba had flung herself down beside her lover. She had caught himtightly in her arms so that his disfigured face lay against her warmbosom. In the eyes lifted to those of the mine-owner wa
s anunconquerable defiance.

  "He's mine--mine, you murderer," she panted fiercely. "If you kill him,you must kill me first."

  The man she had once promised to marry was looking at a different womanfrom the girl he had known. The soft, shy youth of her was gone. She wasa forest mother of the wilds ready to fight for her young, a wife readyto go to the stake for the husband of her choice. An emotion primitiveand poignant had transformed her.

  His eyes burned at her the question his parched lips and throat couldscarcely utter. "So you ... love him?"

  But though it was in form a question he knew already the answer. For thefirst time in his life he began to taste the bitterness of defeat.Always he had won what he coveted by brutal force or his stark will. Butit was beyond him to compel the love of a girl who had given her heartto another.

  "Yes," she answered.

  Her hair in two thick braids was flung across her shoulders, her darkhead thrown back proudly from the rounded throat.

  Macdonald smiled, but there was no mirth in his savage eyes. "Do youknow what I want with him--why I have come to get him?"

  "No."

  "I've come to take him back to Kusiak to be hanged because he murderedMilton, the bank cashier."

  The eyes of the woman blazed at him. "Are you mad?"

  "It's the truth." Macdonald's voice was curt and harsh. "He and Holtwere robbing the bank when Milton came back from the dance at the club.The cowards shot down the old man like a dog. They'll hang for it if itcosts me my last penny, so help me God."

  "You say it's the truth," she retorted scornfully. "Do you think I don'tknow you now--how you twist and distort facts to suit your ends? Howlong is it since your jackal had him arrested for assaulting you--whenWally Selfridge knew--and you knew--that he had risked his life for youand had saved yours by bringing you to Diane's after he had bandagedyour wounds?"

  "That was different. It was part of the game of politics we wereplaying."

  "You admit that you and your friends lied then. Is it like you couldpersuade me that you're telling the truth now?"

  The big Alaskan shrugged. "Believe it or not as you like. Anyhow, he'sgoing back with me to Kusiak--and Holt, too, if he's here."

  An excited cackle cut into the conversation, followed by a drawlingannouncement from the window. "Your old tillicum is right here, Mac.What's the use of waiting? Why don't you have your hanging-bee now?"