by Rex Beach
“That’s his niece,” said some one. “She came up on the first boat—name’s Chester—swell looker, eh?”
Another new-comer attracted even more notice than the limb of the law; a gigantic, well-groomed man, with keen, close-set eyes, and that indefinable easy movement and polished bearing that come from confidence, health, and travel. Unlike the others, he did not dally on the beach nor display much interest in his surroundings; but, with purposeful frown strode through the press, up into the heart of the city. His companion was Struve’s partner, Dunham, a middle-aged, pompous man. They went directly to the offices of Dunham & Struve, where they found the white-haired junior partner.
“Mighty glad to meet you, Mr. McNamara,” said Struve. “Your name is a household word in my part of the country. My people were mixed up in Dakota politics somewhat, so I’ve always had a great admiration for you and I’m glad you’ve come to Alaska. This is a big country and we need big men.”
“Did you have any trouble?” Dunham inquired when the three had adjourned to a private room.
“Trouble,” said Struve, ruefully; “well, I wonder if I did. Miss Chester brought me your instructions O. K. and I got busy right off. But, tell me this—how did you get the girl to act as messenger?”
“There was no one else to send,” answered McNamara. “Dunham intended sailing on the first boat, but he was detained in Washington with me, and the Judge had to wait for us at Seattle. We were afraid to trust a stranger for fear he might get curious and examine the papers. That would have meant—” He moved his hand eloquently.
Struve nodded. “I see. Does she know what was in the documents?”
“Decidedly not. Women and business don’t mix. I hope you didn’t tell her anything.”
“No; I haven’t had a chance. She seemed to take a dislike to me for some reason. I haven’t seen her since the day after she got here.”
“The Judge told her it had something to do with preparing the way for his court,” said Dunham, “and that if the papers were not delivered before he arrived it might cause a lot of trouble—litigation, riots, bloodshed, and all that. He filled her up on generalities till the girl was frightened to death and thought the safety of her uncle and the whole country depended on her.”
“Well,” continued Struve, “it’s dead easy to hire men to jump claims and it’s dead easy to buy their rights afterwards, particularly when they know they haven’t got any—but what course do you follow when owners go gunning for you?”
McNamara laughed.
“Who did that?”
“A benevolent, silver-haired old Texan pirate by the name of Dextry. He’s one half owner in the Midas and the other half mountain-lion; as peaceable, you’d imagine, as a benediction, but with the temperament of a Geronimo. I sent Galloway out to relocate the claim, and he got his notices up in the night when they were asleep, but at 6 A.M. He came flying back to my room and nearly hammered the door down. I’ve seen fright in varied forms and phases, but he had them all, with some added starters.
“‘Hide me out, quick!’ he panted.
“‘What’s up?’ I asked.
“‘I’ve stirred up a breakfast of grizzly bear, smallpox, and sudden death and it don’t set well on my stummick. Let me in.’
“I had to keep him hidden three days, for this gentle-mannered old cannibal roamed the streets with a cannon in his hand, breathing fire and pestilence.”
“Anybody else act up?” queried Dunham.
“No; all the rest are Swedes and they haven’t got the nerve to fight. They couldn’t lick a spoon if they tried. These other men are different, though. There are two of them, the old one and a young fellow. I’m a little afraid to mix it up with them, and if their claim wasn’t the best in the district, I’d say let it alone.”
“I’ll attend to that,” said McNamara.
Struve resumed:
“Yes, gentlemen, I’ve been working pretty hard and also pretty much in the dark so far. I’m groping for light. When Miss Chester brought in the papers I got busy instanter. I clouded the title to the richest placers in the region, but I’m blamed if I quite see the use of it. We’d be thrown out of any court in the land if we took them to law. What’s the game—blackmail?”
“Humph!” ejaculated McNamara. “What do you take me for?”
“Well, it does seem small for Alec McNamara, but I can’t see what else you’re up to.”
“Within a week I’ll be running every good mine in the Nome district.”
McNamara’s voice was calm but decisive, his glance keen and alert, while about him clung such a breath of power and confidence that it compelled belief even in the face of this astounding speech.
In spite of himself, Wilton Struve, lawyer, rake, and gentlemanly adventurer, felt his heart leap at what the other’s daring implied. The proposition was utterly past belief, and yet, looking into the man’s purposeful eyes, he believed.
“That’s big—awful big—too big,” the younger man murmured. “Why, man, it means you’ll handle fifty thousand dollars a day!”
Dunham shifted his feet in the silence and licked his dry lips.
“Of course it’s big, but Mr. McNamara’s the biggest man that ever came to Alaska,” he said.
“And I’ve got the biggest scheme that ever came north, backed by the biggest men in Washington,” continued the politician. “Look here!” He displayed a type-written sheet bearing parallel lists of names and figures. Struve gasped incredulously.
“Those are my stockholders and that is their share in the venture. Oh, yes; we’re incorporated—under the laws of Arizona—secret, of course; it would never do for the names to get out. I’m showing you this only because I want you to be satisfied who’s behind me.”
“Lord! I’m satisfied,” said Struve, laughing nervously. “Dunham was with you when you figured the scheme out and he met some of your friends in Washington and New York. If he says it’s all right, that settles it. But say, suppose anything went wrong with the company and it leaked out who those stockholders are?”
“There’s no danger. I have the books where they will be burned at the first sign. We’d have had our own land laws passed but for Sturtevant of Nevada, damn him. He blocked us in the Senate. However, my plan is this.” He rapidly outlined his proposition to the listeners, while a light of admiration grew and shone in the reckless face of Struve.
“By heavens! you’re a wonder!” he cried, at the close, “and I’m with you body and soul. It’s dangerous—that’s why I like it.”
“Dangerous?” McNamara shrugged his shoulders. “Bah! Where is the danger? We’ve got the law—or rather, we are the law. Now, let’s get to work.”
It seemed that the Boss of North Dakota was no sluggard. He discarded coat and waistcoat and tackled the documents which Struve laid before him, going through them like a whirlwind. Gradually he infected the others with his energy, and soon behind the locked doors of Dunham & Struve there were only haste and fever and plot and intrigue.
As Helen Chester led the Judge towards the flamboyant, three-storied hotel she prattled to him light-heartedly. The fascination of a new land already held her fast, and now she felt, in addition, security and relief. Glenister saw them from a distance and strode forward to greet them.
He beheld a man of perhaps threescore years, benign of aspect save for the eyes, which were neither clear nor steady, but had the trick of looking past one. Glenister thought the mouth, too, rather weak and vacillating; but the clean-shaven face was dignified by learning and acumen and was wrinkled in pleasant fashion.
“My niece has just told me of your service to her,” the old gentleman began. “I am happy to know you, sir.
“Besides being a brave knight and assisting ladies in distress, Mr. Glenister is a very great and wonderful man,” Helen explained, lightly. “He owns the Midas.” “Indeed!” said the old man, his shifting eyes now resting full on the other with a flash of unmistakable interest. “I hear that is a wonderful min
e. Have you begun work yet?”
“No. We’ll commence sluicing day after to-morrow. It has been a late spring. The snow in the gulch was deep and the ground thaws slowly. We’ve been building houses and doing dead work, but we’ve got our men on the ground, waiting.”
“I am greatly interested. Won’t you walk with us to the hotel? I want to hear more about these wonderful placers.”
“Well, they are great placers,” said the miner, as the three walked on together; “nobody knows how great because we’ve only scratched at them yet. In the first place the ground is so shallow and the gold is so easy to get, that if nature didn’t safeguard us in the winter we’d never dare leave our claims for fear of ‘snipers.’ They’d run in and rob us.”
“How much will the Anvil Creek mines produce this summer?” asked the Judge.
“It’s hard to tell, sir; but we expect to average five thousand a day from the Midas alone, and there are other claims just as good.”
“Your title is all clear, I dare say, eh?”
“Absolutely, except for one jumper, and we don’t take him seriously. A fellow named Galloway relocated us one night last month, but he didn’t allege any grounds for doing so, and we could never find trace of him. If we had, our title would be as clean as snow again.” He said the last with a peculiar inflection.
“You wouldn’t use violence, I trust?”
“Sure! Why not? It has worked all right heretofore.”
“But, my dear sir, those days are gone. The law is here and it is the duty of every one to abide by it.”
“Well, perhaps it is; but in this country we consider a man’s mine as sacred as his family. We didn’t know what a lock and key were in the early times and we didn’t have any troubles except famine and hardship. It’s different now, though. Why, there have been more claims jumped around here this spring than in the whole length and history of the Yukon.”
They had reached the hotel, and Glenister paused, turning to the girl as the Judge entered. When she started to follow, he detained her.
“I came down from the hills on purpose to see you. It has been a long week—”
“Don’t talk that way,” she interrupted, coldly. “I don’t care to hear it.”
“See here—what makes you shut me out and wrap yourself up in your haughtiness? I’m sorry for what I did that night—I’ve told you so repeatedly. I’ve wrung my soul for that act till there’s nothing left but repentance.”
“It is not that,” she said, slowly. “I have been thinking it over during the past month, and now that I have gained an insight into this life I see that it wasn’t an unnatural thing for you to do. It’s terrible to think of, but it’s true. I don’t mean that it was pardonable,” she continued, quickly, “for it wasn’t, and I hate you when I think about it, but I suppose I put myself into a position to invite such actions. No; I’m sufficiently broad-minded not to blame you unreasonably, and I think I could like you in spite of it, just for what you have done for me; but that isn’t all. There is something deeper. You saved my life and I’m grateful, but you frighten me, always. It is the cruelty in your strength, it is something away back in you—lustful, and ferocious, and wild, and crouching.”
He smiled wryly.
“It is my local color, maybe—absorbed from this country. I’ll try to change, though, if you want me to. I’ll let them rope and throw and brand me. I’ll take on the graces of civilization and put away revenge and ambition and all the rest of it, if it will make you like me any better. Why, I’ll even promise not to violate the person of our claim-jumper if I catch him; and Heaven knows that means that Samson has parted with his locks.”
“I think I could like you if you did,” she said, “but you can’t do it. You are a savage.”
There are no clubs nor marts where men foregather for business in the North—nothing but the saloon, and this is all and more than a club. Here men congregate to drink, to gamble, and to traffic.
It was late in the evening when Glenister entered the Northern and passed idly down the row of games, pausing at the crap-table, where he rolled the dice when his turn came. Moving to the roulette-wheel, he lost a stack of whites, but at the faro “lay-out” his luck was better, and he won a gold coin on the “high-card.” Whereupon he promptly ordered a round of drinks for the men grouped about him, a formality always precedent to overtures of general friendship.
As he paused, glass in hand, his eyes were drawn to a man who stood close by, talking earnestly. The aspect of the stranger challenged notice, for he stood high above his companions with a peculiar grace of attitude in place of the awkwardness common in men of great stature. Among those who were listening intently to the man’s carefully modulated tones, Glenister recognized Mexico Mullins, the ex-gambler who had given Dextry the warning at Unalaska. As he further studied the listening group, a drunken man staggered uncertainly through the wide doors of the saloon and, gaining sight of the tall stranger, blinked, then approached him, speaking with a loud voice:
“Well, if ’tain’t ole Alec McNamara! How do, ye ole pirate!”
McNamara nodded and turned his back coolly upon the new-comer.
“Don’t turn your dorsal fin to me; I wan to talk to
Ye.”
McNamara continued his calm discourse till he received a vicious whack on the shoulder; then he turned for a moment to interrupt his assailant’s garrulous profanity:
“Don’t bother me. I am engaged.”
“Ye won’ talk to me, eh? Well, I’m goin’ to talk to you, see? I guess you’d listen if I told these people all I know about you. Turn around here.”
His voice was menacing and attracted general notice. Observing this, McNamara addressed him, his words dropping clear, concise, and cold:
“Don’t talk to me. You are a drunken nuisance. Go away before something happens to you.”
Again he turned away, but the drunken man seized and whirled him about, repeating his abuse, encouraged by this apparent patience.
“Your pardon for an instant, gentlemen.” McNamara laid a large white and manicured hand upon the flannel sleeve of the miner and gently escorted him through the entrance to the sidewalk, while the crowd smiled.
As they cleared the threshold, however, he clenched his fist without a word and, raising it, struck the sot fully and cruelly upon the jaw. His victim fell silently, the back of his head striking the boards with a hollow thump; then, without even observing how he lay, McNamara re-entered the saloon and took up his conversation where he had been interrupted. His voice was as evenly regulated as his movements, betraying not a sign of anger, excitement, or bravado. He lit a cigarette, extracted a note-book, and jotted down certain memoranda supplied him by Mexico Mullins.
All this time the body lay across the threshold without a sign of life. The buzz of the roulette-wheel was resumed and the crap-dealer began his monotonous routine. Every eye was fixed on the nonchalant man at the bar, but the unconscious creature outside the threshold lay unheeded, for in these men’s code it behooves the most humane to practise a certain aloofness in the matter of private brawls.
Having completed his notes, McNamara shook hands gravely with his companions and strode out through the door, past the bulk that sprawled across his path, and, without pause or glance, disappeared.
A dozen willing, though unsympathetic, hands laid the drunkard on the roulette-table, where the bartender poured pitcher upon pitcher of water over him.
“He ain’t hurt none to speak of,” said a bystander; then added, with enthusiasm:
“But say! There’s a man in this here camp!”
CHAPTER VI
AND A MINB IS JUMPED
“WHO’S your new shift boss?” Glenister inquired of his partner, a few days later, indicating a man in the cut below, busied in setting a line of sluices.
“That’s old ‘Slapjack’ Simms, friend of mine from up Dawson way.”
Glenister laughed immoderately, for the object was unusually tall and loos
e-jointed, and wore a soiled suit of yellow mackinaw. He had laid off his coat, and now the baggy, bilious trousers hung precariously from his angular shoulders by suspenders of alarming frailty. His legs were lost in gum boots, also loose and cavernous, and his entire costume looked relaxed and flapping, so that he gave the impression of being able to shake himself out of his raiment, and to rise like a burlesque Aphrodite. His face was overgrown with a grizzled tangle that looked as though it had been trimmed with button-hole scissors, while above the brush heap grandly soared a shiny, dome-like head.
“Has he always been bald?”
“Naw! He ain’t bald at all. He shaves his nob. In the early days he wore a long flowin’ mane which was inhabited by crickets, tree-toads, and such fauna. It got to be a hobby with him finally, so that he growed superstitious about goin’ uncurried, and would back into a comer with both guns drawed if a barber came near him. But once Hank—that’s his real name—undertook to fry some slapjacks, and in givin’ the skillet a heave, the dough lit among his forest primeval, jest back of his ears, soft side down. Hank polluted the gulch with langwidge which no man had ought to keep in himself without it was fumigated. Disreppitableness oozed out through him like sweat through an ice-pitcher, an’ since then he’s been known as Slapjack Simms, an’ has kept his head shingled smooth as a gun bar’l. He’s a good miner, though; ain’t none better—an’ square as a die.”
Sluicing had begun on the Midas. Long sinuous lengths of canvas hose wound down the creek bottom from the dam, like gigantic serpents, while the roll of gravel through the flumes mingled musically with the rush of waters, the tinkle of tools, and the song of steel on rock. There were four “strings” of boxes abreast, and the heaving line of shovellers ate rapidly into the creek bed, while teams with scrapers splashed through the tail races in an atmosphere of softened profanity. In the big white tents which sat back from the bluffs, fifty men of the night shift were asleep; for there is no respite here—no night, no Sunday, no halt, during the hundred days in which the Northland lends herself to pillage.