by Rex Beach
The girl’s hair lay upon her neck and shoulders in tumbled brown masses, while her breast heaved tumultuously at the sudden, grim sight of him. She stepped back against the wall, her wondrous, deep, gray eyes wide and troubled, the blush of modesty struggling with the pallor of dismay.
The picture pained him like a knife-thrust. This girl was for his bitterest enemy—no hope of her was for him. He forgot for a moment that she was false and plotting, then, recalling it, spoke as roughly as he might and stated his errand. Then the old man had appeared on the stairs above, speechless with fright at what he overheard. It was evident that his nerves, so sorely strained by the events of the past week, were now snapped utterly. A human soul naked and panic-stricken is no pleasant sight, so Glenister dropped his eyes and addressed the girl again:
“Don’t take anything with you. Just dress and come with me.”
The creature on the stairs above stammered and stuttered, inquiringly:
“What outrage is this, Mr. Glenister?”
“The people of Nome are up in arms, and I’ve come to save you. Don’t stop to argue.” He spoke impatiently.
“Is this some r-ruse to get me into your power?”
“Uncle Arthur!” exclaimed the girl, sharply. Her eyes met Glenister’s and begged him to take no offence.
“I don’t understand this atrocity. They must be mad!” wailed the Judge. “You run over to the jail, Mr. Glenister, and tell Voorhees to hurry guards here to protect me. Helen, ‘phone to the military post and give the alarm. Tell them the soldiers must come at once.”
“Hold on!” said Glenister. “There’s no use of doing that—the wires are cut; and I won’t notify Voorhees—he can take care of himself. I came to help you, and if you want to escape you’ll stop talking and hurry up.”
“SHE STEPPED BACK AGAINST THE WALL, HER WONDROUS, DEEP, GRAY EYES WIDE AND TROUBLED”
“I don’t know what to do,” said Stillman, torn by terror and indecision. “You wouldn’t hurt an old man, would you? Wait! I’ll be down in a minute.”
He scrambled up the stairs, tripping on his robe, seemingly forgetting his niece till she called up to him, sharply:
“Stop, Uncle Arthur! You mustn’t run away.” She stood erect and determined. “You wouldn’t do that, would you? This is our house. You represent the law and the dignity of the government. You mustn’t fear a mob of ruffians. We will stay here and meet them, of course.”
“Good Lord!” said Glenister. “That’s madness. These men aren’t ruffians; they are the best citizens of Nome. You don’t realize that this is Alaska and that they have sworn to wipe out McNamara’s gang. Come along.”
“Thank you for your good intentions,” she said, “but we have done nothing to run away from. We will get ready to meet these cowards. You had better go or they will find you here.”
She moved up the stairs, and, taking the Judge by the arm, led him with her. Of a sudden she had assumed control of the situation unfalteringly, and both men felt the impossibility of thwarting her. Pausing at the top, she turned and looked down.
“We are grateful for your efforts just the same. Good-night.”
“Oh, I’m not going,” said the young man. “If you stick I’ll do the same.” He made the rounds of the first-floor rooms, locking doors and windows. As a place of defence it was hopeless, and he saw that he would have to make his stand up-stairs. When sufficient time had elapsed he called up to Helen:
“May I come?”
“Yes,” she replied. So he ascended, to find Still-man in the hall, half clothed and cowering, while by the light from the front chamber he saw her finishing her toilet.
“Won’t you come with me—it’s our last chance?” She only shook her head. “Well, then, put out the light. I’ll stand at that front window, and when my eyes get used to the darkness I’ll be able to see them before they reach the gate.”
She did as directed, taking her place beside him at the opening, while the Judge crept in and sat upon the bed, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room. The two young people stood so close beside each other that the sweet scent of her person awoke in him an almost irresistible longing. He forgot her treachery again, forgot that she was another’s, forgot all save that he loved her truly and purely, with a love which was like an agony to him. Her shoulder brushed his arm; he heard the soft rustling of her garment at her breast as she breathed. Some one passed in the street, and she laid a hand upon him fearfully. It was very cold, very tiny, and very soft, but he made no move to take it. The moments dragged along, still, tense, interminable. Occasionally she leaned towards him, and he stooped to catch her whispered words. At such times her breath beat warm against his cheek, and he closed his teeth stubbornly. Out in the night a wolfdog saddened the air, then came the sound of others wrangling and snarling in a near-by corral. This is a chickless land and no cock-crow breaks the midnight peace. The suspense enhanced the Judge’s perturbation till his chattering teeth sounded like castanets. Now and then he groaned.
The watchers had lost track of time when their strained eyes detected dark blots materializing out of the shadows.
“There they come,” whispered Glenister, forcing her back from the aperture; but she would not be denied, and returned to his side.
As the foremost figures reached the gate, Roy leaned forth and spoke, not loudly, but in tones that sliced through the silence, sharp, clean, and without warning.
“Halt! Don’t come inside the fence.” There was an instant’s confusion; then, before the men beneath had time to answer or take action, he continued: “This is Roy Glenister talking. I told you not to molest these people and I warn you again. We’re ready for you.”
The leader spoke. “You’re a traitor, Glenister.”
He winced. “Perhaps I am. You betrayed me first, though; and, traitor or not, you can’t come into this house.”
There was a murmur at this, and some one said:
“Miss Chester is safe. All we want is the Judge. We won’t hang him, not if he’ll wear this suit we brought along. He needn’t be afraid. Tar is good for the skin.”
“Oh, my God!” groaned the limb of the law.
Suddenly a man came running down the planked pavement and into the group.
“McNamara’s gone, and so’s the marshal and the rest,” he panted. There was a moment’s silence, and then the leader growled to his men, “Scatter out and rush the house, boys.” He raised his voice to the man in the window. “This is your work—you damned turncoat.” His followers melted away to right and left, vaulted the fence, and dodged into the shelter of the walls. The click, click of Glenister’s Winchester sounded through the room while the sweat stood out on him. He wondered if he could do this deed, if he could really fire on these people. He wondered if his muscles would not wither and paralyze before they obeyed his command.
Helen crowded past him and, leaning half out of the opening, called loudly, her voice ringing clear and true:
“Wait! Wait a moment. I have something to say. Mr. Glenister didn’t warn them. They thought you were going to attack the mines and so they rode out there before midnight. I am telling you the truth, really. They left hours ago.” It was the first sign she had made, and they recognized her to a man.
There were uncertain mutterings below till a new man raised his voice. Both Roy and Helen recognized Dextry.
“Boys, we’ve overplayed. We don’t want these people—McNamara’s our meat. Old bald-face up yonder has to do what he’s told, and I’m ag’in’ this twenty-to-one midnight work. I’m goin’ home.” There were some whisperings, then the original spokesman called for Judge Stillman. The old man tottered to the window, a palsied, terror-stricken object. The girl was glad he could not be seen from below.
“We won’t hurt you this time, Judge, but you’ve gone far enough. We’ll give you another chance, then, if you don’t make good, we’ll stretch you to a lamppost. Take this as a warning.”
“I—s-shall do my d-d-duty,”
said the Judge.
The men disappeared into the darkness, and when they had gone Glenister closed the window, pulled down the shades, and lighted a lamp. He knew by how narrow a margin a tragedy had been averted. If he had fired on these men his shot would have kindled a feud which would have consumed every vestige of the court crowd and himself among them. He would have fallen under a false banner, and his life would not have reached to the next sunset. Perhaps it was forfeit now—he could not tell. The Vigilantes would probably look upon his part as traitorous; and, at the very least, he had cut himself off from their support, the only support the Northland offered him. Henceforth he was a renegade, a pariah, hated alike by both factions. He purposely avoided sight of Stillman and turned his back when the Judge extended his hand with expressions of gratitude. His work was done and he wished to leave this house. Helen followed him down to the door and, as he opened it, laid her hand upon his sleeve.
“Words are feeble things, and I can never make amends for all you’ve done for us.”
“For us!” cried Roy, with a break in his voice. “Do you think I sacrificed my honor, betrayed my friends, killed my last hope, ostracized myself, for ‘us’? This is the last time I’ll trouble you. Perhaps the last time I’ll see you. No matter what else you’ve done, however, you’ve taught me a lesson, and I thank you for it. I have found myself at last, I’m not an Eskimo any longer—I’m a man!”
“You’ve always been that,” she said. ‘I don’t understand as much about this affair as I want to, and it seems to me that no one will explain it. I’m very stupid, I guess; but won’t you come back to-morrow and tell it to me?”
“No,” he said, roughly. “You’re not of my people. McNamara and his are no friends of mine, and I’m no friend of theirs.” He was half down the steps before she said, softly:
“Good-night, and God bless you—friend.”
She returned to the Judge, who was in a pitiable state, and for a long time she labored to soothe him as though he were a child. She undertook to question him about the things which lay uppermost in her mind and which this night had half revealed, but he became fretful and irritated at the mention of mines and mining. She sat beside his bed till he dozed off, puzzling to discover what lay behind the hints she had heard, till her brain and body matched in absolute weariness. The reflex of the day’s excitement sapped her strength till she could barely creep to her own couch, where she rolled and sighed—too tired to sleep at once. She awoke finally, with one last nervous flicker, before complete oblivion took her. A sentence was on her mind—it almost seemed as though she had spoken it aloud:
“The handsomest woman in the North . . . but Glenister ran away.”
CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH THE TRUTH BEGINS TO BARE ITSELF
IT was nearly noon of the next day when Helen awoke to find that McNamara had ridden in from the Creek and stopped for breakfast with the Judge. He had asked for her, but on hearing the tale of the night’s adventure would not allow her to be disturbed. Later, he and the Judge had gone away together.
Although her judgment approved the step she had contemplated the night before, still the girl now felt a strange reluctance to meet McNamara. It is true that she knew no ill of him, except that implied in the accusations of certain embittered men; and she was aware that every strong and aggressive character makes enemies in direct proportion to the qualities which lend him greatness. Nevertheless, she was aware of an inner conflict that she had not foreseen. This man who so confidently believed that she would marry him did not dominate her consciousness.
She had ridden much of late, taking long, solitary gallops beside the shimmering sea that she loved so well, or up the winding valleys into the foot-hills where echoed the roar of swift waters or glinted the flash of shovel blades. This morning her horse was lame, so she determined to walk. In her early rambles she had looked timidly askance at the rough men she met till she discovered their genuine respect and courtesy. The most unkempt among them were often college-bred, although, for that matter, the roughest of the miners showed abundant consideration for a woman. So she was glad to allow the men to talk to her with the fine freedom inspired by the new country and its wide spaces. The wilderness breeds a chivalry all its own.
Thus there seemed to be no danger abroad, though they had told the girl of mad dogs which roamed the city, explaining that the hot weather affects powerfully the thick-coated, shaggy “malamoots.” This is the land of the dog, and whereas in winter his lot is to labor and shiver and starve, in summer he loafs, fights, grows fat, and runs mad with the heat.
Helen walked far and, returning, chose an unfamiliar course through the outskirts of the town to avoid meeting any of the women she knew, because of that vivid memory of the night before. As she walked swiftly along she thought that she heard faint cries far behind her. Looking up, she noted that it was a lonely, barren quarter and that the only figure in sight was a woman some distance away. A few paces farther on the shouts recurred—more plainly this time, and a gunshot sounded. Glancing back, she saw several men running, one bearing a smoking revolver, and heard, nearer still, the snarling hubbub of fighting dogs. In a flash the girl’s curiosity “became horror, for, as she watched, one of the dogs made a sudden dash through the now subdued group of animals and ran swiftly along the planking on which she stood. It was a handsome specimen of the Eskimo malamoot—tall, gray, and coated like a wolf, With the speed, strength, and cunning of its cousin. Its head hung low and swung from side to side as it trotted, the motion flecking foam and slaver. The creature had scattered the pack, and now, swift, menacing, relentless, was coming towards Helen. There was no shelter near, no fence, no house, save the distant one towards which the other woman was making her way. The men, too far away to protect her, shouted hoarse warnings.
Helen did not scream nor hesitate—she turned and ran, terror-stricken, towards the distant cottage. She was blind with fright and felt an utter certainty that the dog would attack her before she could reach safety. Yes—there was the quick patter of his pads close up behind her; her knees weakened; the sheltering door was yet some yards away. But a horse, tethered near the walk, reared and snorted as the flying pair drew near. The mad creature swerved, leaped at the horse’s legs, and snapped in fury. Badly frightened at this attack, the horse lunged at his halter, broke it, and galloped away; but the delay had served for Helen, weak and faint, to reach the door. She wrenched at the knob. It was locked. As she turned hopelessly away, she saw that the other woman was directly behind her, and was, in her turn, awaiting the mad animal’s onslaught, but calmly, a tiny revolver in her hand.
“Shoot!” screamed Helen. “Why don’t you shoot?” The little gun spoke, and the dog spun around, snarling and yelping. The woman fired several times more before it lay still, and then remarked, calmly, as she “broke” the weapon and ejected the shells:
“The calibre is too small to be good for much.”
Helen sank down upon the steps.
“How well you shoot!” she gasped. Her eyes were on the gray bundle whose death agonies had thrust it almost to her feet. The men had run up and were talking excitedly, but after a word with them the woman turned to Helen.
“You must come in for a moment and recover your-self,” she said, and led her inside.
It was a cosey room in which the girl found herself—more than that—luxurious. There was a piano with scattered music, and many of the pretty, feminine things that Helen had not seen since leaving home. The hostess had stepped behind some curtains for an instant and was talking to her from the next room.
“That is the third mad dog I have seen this month. Hydrophobia is becoming a habit in this neighborhood” She returned, bearing a tiny silver tray with decanter and glasses.
“You’re all unstrung, but this brandy will help you—if you don’t object to a swallow of it. Then come right in here and lie down for a moment and you’ll be all right.” She spoke with such genuine kindness and sympathy that Helen flashed
a grateful glance at her. She was tall, slender, and with a peculiar undulating suggestion in her movements, as though she had been bred to the clinging folds of silken garments. Helen watched the charm of her smile, the friendly solicitude of her expression, and felt her heart warm towards this one kind woman in Nome.
“You’re very good,” she answered; “but I’m all right now. I was badly frightened. It was wonderful, your saving me.” She followed the other’s graceful motion as she placed her burden on the table, and in doing so gazed squarely at a photograph of Roy Glenister.
“Oh—!” Helen exclaimed, then paused as it flashed over her who this girl was. She looked at her quickly. Yes, probably men would consider the woman beautiful, with that smile. The revelation came with a shock, and she arose, trying to mask her confusion.
“Thank you so much for your kindness. I’m quite myself now and I must go.”
Her change of face could not escape the quick perceptions of one schooled by experience in the slights of her sex. Times without number Cherry Malotte had marked that subtle, scornful change in other women, and reviled herself for heeding it. But in some way this girl’s manner hurt her worst of all. She betrayed no sign, however, save a widening of the eyes and a certain fixity of smile as she answered:
“I wish you would stay until you are rested, Miss—” She paused with out-stretched hand.
“Chester. My name is Helen Chester. I’m Judge Stillman’s niece,” hurried the other, in embarrassment.
Cherry Malotte withdrew her proffered hand and her face grew hard and hateful.
“Oh! So you are Miss Chester—and I—saved you!” She laughed harshly.
Helen strove for calmness. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said, coolly. “I appreciate your service to me.” She moved towards the door.
“Wait a moment. I want to talk to you.” Then, as Helen paid no heed, the woman burst out, bitterly: “Oh, don’t be afraid! I know you are committing an unpardonable sin by talking to me, but no one will see you, and in your code the crime lies in being discovered. Therefore, you’re quite safe. That’s what makes me an outcast–I was found out. I want you to know, however, that, bad as I am, I’m better than you, for I’m loyal to those that like me, and I don’t betray my friends.”