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Title: The Iron Trail

Author: Rex Beach

Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5233]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on June 10, 2002]
[Date last updated: July 18, 2005]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRON TRAIL ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.




THE IRON TRAIL

By REX BEACH

Author of "THE AUCTION BLOCK" "RAINBOW'S END" "THE SPOILERS" Etc.




CONTENTS

CHAPTER

    I. IN WHICH THE TIDE TAKES A HAND

   II. HOW A GIRL APPEARED OUT OF THE NIGHT

  III. THE IRISH PRINCE

   IV. HOW A JOURNEY ENDED AT HOPE

    V. WHEREIN WE SEE CURTIS GORDON AND OTHERS

   VI. THE DREAMER

  VII. THE DREAM

 VIII. IN WHICH WE COME TO OMAR

   IX. WHEREIN GORDON SHOWS HIS TEETH

    X. IN WHICH THE DOCTOR SHOWS HIS WIT

   XI. THE TWO SIDES OF ELIZA VIOLET APPLETON

  XII. HOW GORDON FAILED IN HIS CUNNING

 XIII. WE JOURNEY TO A PLACE OF MANY WONDERS

  XIV. HOW THE TRUTH CAME TO ELIZA

   XV. THE BATTLE OF GORDON'S CROSSING

  XVI. THE FRUIT OF THE TEMPEST

 XVII. HOW THE PRINCE BECAME A MAN

XVIII. HOW THE MAN BECAME A PRINCE AGAIN

  XIX. MISS APPLETON MAKES A SACRIFICE

   XX. HOW GORDON CHANGED HIS ATTACK

  XXI. DAN APPLETON SLIPS THE LEASH

 XXII. HOW THE HAZARD WAS PLAYED

XXIII. A NEW CRISIS

 XXIV. GORDON'S FALL

  XXV. PREPARATIONS

 XXVI. THE RACE

XXVII. HOW A DREAM CAME TRUE




I

IN WHICH THE TIDE TAKES A HAND


The ship stole through the darkness with extremest caution,
feeling her way past bay and promontory. Around her was none of
that phosphorescent glow which lies above the open ocean, even on
the darkest night, for the mountains ran down to the channel on
either side. In places they overhung, and where they lay upturned
against the dim sky it could be seen that they were mantled with
heavy timber. All day long the NEBRASKA had made her way through
an endless succession of straits and sounds, now squeezing
through an inlet so narrow that the somber spruce trees seemed to
be within a short stone's-throw, again plowing across some open
reach where the pulse of the north Pacific could be felt. Out
through the openings to seaward stretched the restless ocean, on
across uncounted leagues, to Saghalien and the rim of Russia's
prison-yard.

Always near at hand was the deep green of the Canadian forests,
denser, darker than a tropic jungle, for this was the land of
"plenty waters." The hillsides were carpeted knee-deep with moss,
wet to saturation. Out of every gulch came a brawling stream
whipped to milk-white frenzy; snow lay heavy upon the higher
levels, while now and then from farther inland peered a glacier,
like some dead monster crushed between the granite peaks. There
were villages, too, and fishing-stations, and mines and quarries.
These burst suddenly upon the view, then slipped past with
dreamlike swiftness. Other ships swung into sight, rushed by, and
were swallowed up in the labyrinthine maze astern.

Those passengers of the Nebraska who had never before traversed
the "Inside Passage" were loud in the praises of its
picturesqueness, while those to whom the route was familiar
seemed to find an ever-fresh fascination in its shifting scenes.

Among the latter was Murray O'Neil. The whole north coast from
Flattery to St. Elias was as well mapped in his mind as the face
of an old friend, yet he was forever discovering new vistas,
surprising panoramas, amazing variations of color and topography.
The mysterious rifts and passageways that opened and closed as if
to lure the ship astray, the trackless confusion of islets, the
siren song of the waterfalls, the silent hills and glaciers and
snow-soaked forests--all appealed to him strongly, for he was at
heart a dreamer.

Yet he did not forget that scenery such as this, lovely as it is
by day, may be dangerous at night, for he knew the weakness of
steel hulls. On some sides his experience and business training
had made him sternly practical and prosaic. Ships aroused no
manner of enthusiasm in him except as means to an end. Railroads
had no glamour of romance in his eyes, for, having built a number
of them, he had outlived all poetic notions regarding the "iron
horse," and once the rails were laid he was apt to lose interest
in them. Nevertheless, he was almost poetic in his own quiet way,
interweaving practical thoughts with fanciful visions, and he
loved his dreams. He was dreaming now as he leaned upon the
bridge rail of the Nebraska, peering into the gloom with watchful
eyes. From somewhere to port came the occasional commands of the
officer on watch, echoed instantly from the inky interior of the
wheelhouse. Up overside rose the whisper of rushing waters; from
underfoot came the rhythmic beat of the engines far below. O'Neil
shook off his mood and began to wonder idly how long it would be
before Captain Johnny would be ready for his "nightcap."

He always traveled with Johnny Brennan when he could manage it,
for the two men were boon companions. O'Neil was wont to live in
Johnny's cabin, or on the bridge, and their nightly libation to
friendship had come to be a matter of some ceremony.

The ship's master soon appeared from the shadows--a short, trim
man with gray hair.

"Come," he cried, "it's waiting for us."

O'Neil followed into Brennan's luxurious, well-lit quarters,
where on a mahogany sideboard was a tray holding decanter,
siphon, and glasses, together with a bottle of ginger ale. The
captain, after he had mixed a beverage for his passenger, opened
the bottle for himself. They raised their glasses silently.

"Now that you're past the worst of it," remarked O'Neil, "I
suppose you'll turn in. You're getting old for a hard run like
this, Johnny."

Captain Brennan snorted. "Old? I'm a better man than you, yet.
I'm a teetotaler, that's why. I discovered long ago that salt
water and whiskey don't mix."

O'Neil stretched himself out in one of Brennan's easy-chairs.
"Really," he said, "I don't understand why a ship carries a
captain. Now of what earthly use to the line are you, for
instance, except for your beauty, which, no doubt, has its value
with the women? I'll admit you preside with some grace at the
best table in the dining-salon, but your officers know these
channels as well as you do. They could make the run from Seattle
to Juneau with their eyes shut."

"Indeed they could not; and neither could I."

"Oh, well, of course I have no respect for you as a man, having
seen you without your uniform."

The captain grinned in thorough enjoyment of this raillery. "I'll
say nothing at all of my seamanship," he said, relapsing into the
faintest of brogues, "but there's no denying that the master of a
ship has many unpleasant and disgusting duties to perform. He has
to amuse the prominent passengers who can't amuse themselves, for
one thing, and that takes tact and patience. Why, some people
make themselves at home on the bridge, in the chart-room, and
even in my living-quarters, to say nothing of consuming my
expensive wines, liquors, and cigars."

"Meaning me?"

"I'm a brutal seafaring man, and you'll have to make allowances
for my well-known brusqueness. Maybe I did mean you. But I'll say
that next to you Curtis Gordon is the worst grafter I ever saw."

"You don't like Gordon, do you?" O'Neil queried with a change of
tone.

"I do not! He went up with me again this spring, and he had his
widow with him, too."

"His widow?"

"You know who I mean--Mrs. Gerard. They say it's her money he's
using in his schemes. Perhaps it's because of her that I don't
like him."

"Ah-h! I see."

"You don't see, or you wouldn't grin like an ape. I'm a married
man, I'll have you know, and I'm still on good terms with Mrs.
Brennan, thank God. But I don't like men who use women's money,
and that's just what our friend Gordon is doing. What money the
widow didn't put up he's grabbed from the schoolma'ams and
servant-girls and society matrons in the East. What has he got to
show them for it?"

"A railroad project, a copper-mine, some coal claims--"

"Bah! A menagerie of wildcats!"

"You can't prove that. What's your reason for distrusting him?"

"Well, for one thing, he knows too much. Why, he knows
everything, he does. Art, literature, politics, law, finance, and
draw poker have no secrets from him. He's been everywhere--and
back--twice; he speaks a dozen different languages. He out-argued
me on poultry-raising and I know more about that than any man
living. He can handle a drill or a coach-and-four; he can tell
all about the art of ancient Babylon; and he beat me playing
cribbage, which shows that he ain't on the level. He's the best-
informed man outside of a university, and he drinks tea of an
afternoon--with his legs crossed and the saucer balanced on his
heel. Now, it takes years of hard work for an honest man to make
a success at one thing, but Gordon never failed at anything. I
ask you if a living authority on all the branches of human
endeavor and a man who can beat me at 'crib' doesn't make you
suspicious."

"Not at all. I've beaten you myself!"

"I was sick," said Captain Brennan.

"The man is brilliant and well educated and wealthy. It's only
natural that he should excite the jealousy of a weaker
intellect."

Johnny opened his lips for an explosion, then changed his mind
and agreed sourly.

"He's got money, all right, and he knows how to spend it. He and
his valet occupied three cabins on this ship. They say his
quarters at Hope are palatial."

"My dear grampus, the mere love of luxury doesn't argue that a
person is dishonest."

"Would you let a hired man help you on with your underclothes?"
demanded the mariner.

"There's nothing criminal about it."

"Humph! Mrs. Gerard is different. She's all class! You don't mind
her having a maid and speaking French when she runs short of
English. Her daughter is like her."

"I haven't seen Miss Gerard."

"If you'd stir about the ship instead of wearing out my Morris
chair you'd have that pleasure. She was on deck all morning."
Captain Brennan fell silent and poked with a stubby forefinger at
the ice in his glass.

"Well, out with it!" said O'Neil after a moment.

"I'd like to know the inside story of Curtis Gordon and this
girl's mother."

"Why bother your head about something that doesn't concern you?"
The speaker rose and began to pace the cabin floor, then, in an
altered tone, inquired, "Tell me, are you going to land me and my
horses at Kyak Bay?"

"That depends on the weather. It's a rotten harbor; you'll have
to swim them ashore."

"Suppose it should be rough?"

"Then we'll go on, and drop you there coming back. I don't want
to be caught on that shore with a southerly wind, and that's the
way it usually blows."

"I can't wait," O'Neil declared. "A week's delay might ruin me.
Rather than go on I'd swim ashore myself, without the horses."

"I don't make the weather at Kyak Bay. Satan himself does that.
Twenty miles offshore it may be calm, and inside it may be
blowing a gale. That's due to the glaciers. Those ice-fields
inland and the warm air from the Japanese Current offshore kick
up some funny atmospheric pranks. It's the worst spot on the
coast and we'll lose a ship there some day. Why, the place isn't
properly charted, let alone buoyed."

"That's nothing unusual for this coast."

"True for you. This is all a graveyard of ships and there's been
many a good master's license lost because of half-baked laws from
Washington. Think of a coast like this with almost no lights, no
beacons nor buoys; and yet we're supposed to make time. It's fine
in clear weather, but in the dark we go by guess and by God. I've
stood the run longer than most of the skippers, but--"

Even as Brennan spoke the Nebraska seemed to halt, to jerk
backward under his feet. O'Neil, who was standing, flung out an
arm to steady himself; the empty ginger-ale bottle fell from the
sideboard with a thump. Loose articles hanging against the side
walls swung to and fro; the heavy draperies over Captain Johnny's
bed swayed.

Brennan leaped from his chair; his ruddy face was mottled, his
eyes were wide and horror-stricken.

"Damnation!" he gasped. The cabin door crashed open ahead of him
and he was on the bridge, with O'Neil at his heels. They saw the
first officer clinging limply to the rail; from the pilot-house
window came an excited burst of Norwegian, then out of the door
rushed a quartermaster.

Brennan cursed, and met the fellow with a blow which drove him
sprawling back.

"Get in there, Swan," he bellowed, "and take your wheel."

"The tide swung her in!" exclaimed the mate. "The tide--My God!"

"Sweet Queen Anne!" said Brennan, more quietly. "You've ripped
her belly out."

"It--was the tide," chattered the officer.

The steady, muffled beating of the machinery ceased, the ship
seemed suddenly to lose her life, but it was plain that she was
not aground, for she kept moving through the gloom. From down
forward came excited voices as the crew poured up out of the
forecastle.

Brennan leaped to the telegraph and signaled the engine-room. He
was calm now, and his voice was sharp and steady.

"Go below, Mr. James, and find the extent of the damage," he
directed, and a moment later the hull began to throb once more to
the thrust of the propeller. Inside the wheelhouse Swan had
recovered from his panic and repeated the master's orders
mechanically.

The second and third officers arrived upon the bridge now,
dressing as they came, and they were followed by the chief
engineer. To them Johnny spoke, his words crackling like the
sparks from a wireless. In an incredibly short time he had the
situation in hand and turned to O'Neil, who had been a silent
witness of the scene.

"Glory be!" exclaimed the captain. "Most of our good passengers
are asleep; the jar would scarcely wake them."

"Tell me where and how I can help," Murray offered. His first
thought had been of the possible effect of this catastrophe upon
his plans, for time was pressing. As for danger, he had looked
upon it so often and in so many forms that it had little power to
stir him; but a shipwreck, which would halt his northward rush,
was another matter. Whether the ship sank or floated could make
little difference, now that the damage had been done. She was
crippled and would need assistance. His fellow-passengers, he
knew, were safe enough. Fortunately there were not many of them--
a scant two hundred, perhaps--and if worse came to worst there
was room in the life-boats for all. But the Nebraska had no
watertight bulkheads and the plight of his twenty horses between
decks filled him with alarm and pity. There were no life-boats
for those poor dumb animals penned down yonder in the rushing
waters.

Brennan had stepped into the chart-room, but returned in a moment
to say:

"There's no place to beach her this side of Halibut Bay."

"How far is that?"

"Five or six miles."

"You'll--have to beach her?"

"I'm afraid so. She feels queer."

Up from the cabin deck came a handful of men passengers to
inquire what had happened; behind them a woman began calling
shrilly for her husband.

"We touched a rock," the skipper explained, briefly. "Kindly go
below and stop that squawking. There's no danger."

There followed a harrowing wait of several minutes; then James,
the first officer, came to report. He had regained his nerve and
spoke with swift precision.

"She loosened three plates on her port quarter and she's filling
fast."

"How long will she last?" snapped Brennan.

"Not long, sir. Half an hour, perhaps."

The captain rang for full speed, and the decks began to strain as
the engine increased its labor. "Get your passengers out and
stand by the boats," he ordered. "Take it easy and don't alarm
the women. Have them dress warmly, and don't allow any crowding
by the men. Mr. Tomlinson, you hold the steerage gang in check.
Take your revolver with you." He turned to his silent friend, in
whose presence he seemed to feel a cheering sympathy, "I knew it
would come sooner or later, Murray," he said. "But--magnificent
mummies! To touch on a clear night with the sea like glass!" He
sighed dolefully. "It'll be tough on my missus."

O'Neil laid a hand upon his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, and
there will be room in the last boat for you. Understand?" Brennan
hesitated, and the other continued, roughly: "No nonsense, now!
Don't make a damned fool of yourself by sticking to the bridge.
Promise?"

"I promise."

"Now what do you want me to do?"

"Keep those dear passengers quiet. I'll run for Halibut Bay,
where there's a sandy beach. If she won't make it I'll turn her
into the rocks, Tell 'em they won't wet a foot if they keep their
heads."

"Good! I'll be back to see that you behave yourself." The speaker
laughed lightly and descended to the deck, where he found an
incipient panic. Stewards were pounding on stateroom doors, half-
clad men were rushing about aimlessly, pallid faces peered forth
from windows, and there was the sound of running feet, of
slamming doors, of shrill, hysterical voices.

O'Neil saw a waiter thumping lustily upon a door and heard him
shout, hoarsely:

"Everybody out! The ship is sinking!" As he turned away Murray
seized him roughly by the arm and thrusting his face close to the
other's, said harshly:

"If you yell again like that I'll toss you overboard."

"God help us, we're going--"

O'Neil shook the fellow until his teeth rattled; his own
countenance, ordinarily so quiet, was blazing.

"There's no danger. Act like a man and don't start a stampede."

The steward pulled himself together and answered in a calmer
tone:

"Very well, sir. I--I'm sorry, sir."

Murray O'Neil was known to most of the passengers, for his name
had gone up and down the coast, and there were few places from
San Francisco to Nome where his word did not carry weight. As he
went among his fellow-travelers now, smiling, self-contained,
unruffled, his presence had its effect. Women ceased their
shrilling, men stopped their senseless questions and listened to
his directions with some comprehension. In a short time the
passengers were marshaled upon the upper deck where the life-
boats hung between their davits. Each little craft was in charge
of its allotted crew, the electric lights continued to burn
brightly, and the panic gradually wore itself out. Meanwhile the
ship was running a desperate race with the sea, striving with
every ounce of steam in her boilers to find a safe berth for her
mutilated body before the inrush of waters drowned her fires.
That the race was close even the dullest understood, for the
Nebraska was settling forward, and plowed into the night head
down, like a thing maddened with pain. She was becoming
unmanageable, too, and O'Neil thought with pity of that little
iron-hearted skipper on the bridge who was fighting her so
furiously.

There was little confusion, little talking upon the upper deck
now; only a child whimpered or a woman sobbed hysterically. But
down forward among the steerage passengers the case was
different. These were mainly Montenegrins, Polacks, or Slavs
bound for the construction camps to the westward, and they surged
from side to side like cattle, requiring Tomlinson's best efforts
to keep them from rushing aft.

O'Neil had employed thousands of such men; in fact, many of these
very fellows had cashed his time-checks and knew him by sight. He
went forward among them, and his appearance proved instantly
reassuring. He found his two hostlers, and with their aid he soon
reduced the mob to comparative order.

But in spite of his confident bearing he felt a great uneasiness.
The Nebraska seemed upon the point of diving; he judged she must
be settling very fast, and wondered that the forward tilt did not
lift her propeller out of the water. Fortunately, however, the
surface of the sound was like a polished floor and there were no
swells to submerge her.

Over-side to starboard he could see the dim black outlines of
mountains slipping past, but where lay Halibut Bay or what
distance remained to be covered he could but vaguely guess.

In these circumstances the wait became almost unbearable. The
race seemed hours long, the mites stretched into leagues, and
with every moment of suspense the ship sank lower. The end came
unexpectedly. There was a sudden startled outcry as the Nebraska
struck for a second time that night. She rose slightly, rolled
and bumped, grated briefly, then came to rest.

Captain Brennan shouted from the bridge:

"Fill your life-boats, Mr. James, and lower away carefully."

A cheer rose from the huddled passengers.

The boiler-room was still dry, it seemed, for the incandescent
lights burned without a flicker, even after the grimy oilers and
stokers had come pouring up on deck.

O'Neil climbed to the bridge. "Is this Halibut Bay?" he asked
Captain Johnny.

"It is. But we're piled up on the reef outside. She may hold
fast--I hope so, for there's deep water astern, and if she slips
off she'll go down."

"I'd like to save my horses," said the younger man, wistfully.
Through all the strain of the past half-hour or more his
uppermost thought had been for them. But Brennan had no sympathy
for such sentiments.

"Hell's bells!" he exclaimed. "Don't talk of horses while we've
got women and children aboard." He hastened away to assist in
transferring his passengers.

Instead of following, O'Neil turned and went below. He found that
the water was knee-deep on the port side of the deck where his
animals were quartered, which showed that the ship had listed
heavily. He judged that she must be much deeper by the head then
he had imagined, and that her nose was crushed in among the
rocks. Until she settled at the stern, therefore, the case was
not quite hopeless.

His appearance, the sound of his voice, were the signals for a
chorus of eager whinnies and a great stamping of hoofs. Heads
were thrust toward him from the stalls, alert ears were pricked
forward, satin muzzles rubbed against him as he calmed their
terror. This blind trust made the man's throat tighten achingly.
He loved animals as he loved children, and above all he cared for
horses. He understood them, he spoke their language as nearly as
any human can be said to do so. Quivering muscles relaxed beneath
his soothing palm; he called them by name and they answered with
gentle twitching lips against his cheek. Some of them even began
to eat and switch their tails contentedly.

He cursed aloud and made his way down the sloping deck to the
square iron door, or port, through which he had loaded them. But
he found that it was jammed, or held fast by the pressure
outside, and after a few moments' work in water above his knees
he climbed to the starboard side. Here the entrance was
obstructed by a huge pile of baled hay and grain in sacks. It
would be no easy task to clear it away, and he fell to work with
desperate energy, for the ship was slowly changing her level. Her
stern, which had been riding high, was filling; the sea stole in
upon him silently. It crept up toward him until the horses,
stabled on the lower side, were belly-deep in it. Their distress
communicated itself to the others. O'Neil knew that his position
might prove perilous if the hulk should slip backward off the
reef, yet he continued to toil, hurling heavy sacks behind him,
bundling awkward bales out of the way, until his hands were
bleeding and his muscles ached. He was perspiring furiously; the
commotion around him was horrible. Then abruptly the lights went
out, leaving him in utter blackness; the last fading yellow gleam
was photographed briefly upon his retina.

Tears mingled with the sweat that drained down his cheeks as he
felt his way slowly out of the place, splashing, stumbling,
groping uncertainly. A horse screamed in a loud, horribly human
note, and he shuddered. He was sobbing curses as he emerged into
the cool open air on the forward deck.

His eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and he could see
something of his surroundings. He noted numerous lights out on
the placid bosom of the bay, evidently lanterns on the life-
boats, and he heard distant voices. He swept the moisture from
his face; then with a start he realized his situation. He
listened intently; his eyes roved back along the boat-deck; there
was no doubt about it--the ship was deserted. Stepping to the
rail, he observed how low the Nebraska lay and also that her bow
was higher than her stern. From somewhere beneath his feet came a
muffled grinding and a movement which told him that the ship was
seeking a more comfortable berth. He recalled stories of
explosions and of the boiling eddies which sometimes accompany
sinking hulls. Turning, he scrambled up to the cabin-deck and ran
swiftly toward his stateroom.




II

HOW A GIRL APPEARED OUT OF THE NIGHT


O'Neil felt for the little bracket-lamp on the wall of his
stateroom and lit it. By its light he dragged a life-preserver
from the rack overhead and slipped the tapes about his shoulders,
reflecting that Alaskan waters are disagreeably cold. Then he
opened his traveling-bags and dumped their contents upon the
white counterpane of his berth, selecting out of the confusion
certain documents and trinkets. The latter he thrust into his
pockets as he found them, the former he wrapped in handkerchiefs
before stowing them away. The ship had listed now so that it was
difficult to maintain a footing; the lamp hung at a grotesque
angle and certain articles had become dislodged from their
resting-places. From outside came the gentle lapping of waters, a
gurgling and hissing as of air escaping through the decks. He
could feel the ship strain. He acknowledged that it was not
pleasant thus to be left alone on a sinking hulk, particularly on
an ink-black night--

All at once he whirled and faced the door with an exclamation of
astonishment, for a voice had addressed him.

There,--clinging to the casing, stood a woman--a girl--evidently
drawn out of the darkness by the light which streamed down across
the sloping deck from his stateroom. Plainly she had but just
awakened, for she was clothed in a silken nightrobe which failed
to conceal the outlines of her body, the swelling contour of her
bosom, the ripened fullness of her limbs. She had flung a quilted
dressing-gown of some sort over her shoulders and with one bare
arm and hand strove to hold it in place. He saw that her pink
feet were thrust into soft, heeless slippers--that her hair,
black in this light, cascaded down to her waist, and that her
eyes, which were very dark and very large, were fixed upon him
with a stare like that of a sleep-walker.

"It is so dark--so strange--so still!" she murmured. "What has
happened?"

"God! Didn't they waken you?" he cried in sharp surprise.

"Is the ship-sinking?" Her odd bewilderment of voice and gaze
puzzled him.

He nodded. "We struck a rock. The passengers have been taken off.
We're the only ones left. In Heaven's name where have you been?"

"I was asleep."

He shook his head in astonishment. "How you failed to hear that
hubbub--"

"I heard something, but I was ill. My head--I took something to
ease the pain."

"Ah! Medicine! It hasn't worn off yet, I see! You shouldn't have
taken it. Drugs are nothing but poison to young people. Now at my
age there might be some excuse for resorting to them, but you--"
He was talking to cover the panic of his thoughts, for his own
predicament had been serious enough, and her presence rendered it
doubly embarrassing. What in the world to do with her he scarcely
knew. His lips were smiling, but his eyes were grave as they
roved over the cabin and out into the blackness of the night.

"Are we going to drown?" she asked, dully.

"Nonsense!" He laughed in apparent amusement, showing his large,
strong teeth.

She came closer, glancing behind her and shrinking from the oily
waters which could be seen over the rail and which had stolen up
nearly to the sill of the door. She steadied herself by laying
hold of him uncertainly. Involuntarily he turned his eyes away,
for he felt shame at profaning her with his gaze. She was very
soft and white, a fragile thing utterly unfit to cope with the
night air and the freezing waters of Halibut Bay.

"I'm wretchedly afraid!" she whispered through white lips.

"None of that!" he said, brusquely. "I'll see that nothing
happens to you." He slipped out of his life-preserver and
adjusted it over her shoulders, first drawing her arms through
the sleeves of her dressing-gown and knotting the cord snugly
around her waist. "Just as a matter of precaution!" he assured
her. "We may get wet. Can you swim?"

She shook her head.

"Never mind; I can." He found another life-belt, fitted it to his
own form, and led her out upon the deck. The scuppers were awash
now and she gasped as the sea licked her bare feet. "Cold, isn't
it?" he remarked. "But there's no time to dress, and it's just as
well, perhaps, for heavy clothes would only hamper you."

She strove to avoid the icy waters and finally paused, moaning:
"I can't! I can't go on!"

Slipping his arm about her, he bore her to the door of the main
cabin and entered. He could feel her warm, soft body quivering
against his own. She had clasped his neck so tightly that he
could scarcely breathe, but, lowering her until her feet were on
the dry carpet, he gently loosed her arms.

"Now, my dear child," he told her, "you must do exactly as I tell
you. Come! Calm yourself or I won't take you any farther." He
held her off by her shoulders. "I may have to swim with you; you
mustn't cling to me so!"

He heard her gasp and felt her draw away abruptly. Then he led
her by the hand out upon the starboard deck, and together they
made their way forward to the neighborhood of the bridge.

The lights he had seen upon coming from the forward hold were
still in view and he hailed them at the top of his voice. But
other voices were calling through the night, some of them
comparatively close at hand, others answering faintly from far
in-shore. The boats first launched were evidently landing, and
those in charge of them were shouting directions to the ones
behind. Some women had started singing and the chorus floated out
to the man and the girl:

Pull for the shore, sailor, Pull for the shore.

It helped to drown their cries for assistance.

O'Neil judged that the ship was at least a quarter of a mile from
the beach, and his heart sank, for he doubted that either he or
his companion could last long in these waters. It occurred to him
that Brennan might be close by, waiting for the Nebraska to sink
--it would be unlike the little captain to forsake his trust
until the last possible moment--but he reasoned that the cargo of
lives in the skipper's boat would induce him to stand well off to
avoid accident. He called lustily time after time, but no answer
came.

Meanwhile the girl stood quietly beside him.

"Can't we make a raft?" she suggested, timidly, when he ceased to
shout. "I've read of such things."

"There's no time," he told her. "Are you very cold?"

She nodded. "Please forgive me for acting so badly just now. It
was all so sudden and--so awful! I think I can behave better. Oh!
What was that?" She clutched him nervously, for from the forward
end of the ship had come a muffled scream, like that of a woman.

"It's my poor horses," said the man, and she looked at him
curiously, prompted by the catch in his throat.

There followed a wait which seemed long, but was in reality of
but a few minutes, for the ship was sliding backward and the sea
was creeping upward faster and faster. At last they heard a
shuddering sigh as she parted from the rocks and the air rushed
up through the deck openings with greater force. The Nebraska
swung sluggishly with the tide; then, when her upper structure
had settled flush with the sea, Murray O'Neil took the woman in
his arms and leaped clear of the rail.

The first gasping moment of immersion was fairly paralyzing;
after that the reaction came, and the two began to struggle away
from the sinking ship. But the effect of the reaction soon wore
off. The water was cruelly cold and their bodies ached in every
nerve and fiber. O'Neil did his best to encourage his companion.
He talked to her through his chattering teeth, and once she had
recovered from the mental shock of the first fearful plunge she
responded pluckily. He knew that his own heart was normal and
strong, but he feared that the girl's might not be equal to the
strain. Had he been alone, he felt sure that he could have gained
the shore, but with her upon his hands he was able to make but
little headway. The expanse of waters seemed immense; it fairly
crushed hope out of him. The lights upon the shore were as
distant as fixed stars. This was a country of heavy tides, he
reflected, and he began to fear that the current was sweeping
them out. He turned to look for the ship, but could see no traces
of her, and since it was inconceivable that the Nebraska could
have sunk so quietly, her disappearance confirmed his fears. More
than once he fancied he heard an answer to his cries for help--
the rattle of rowlocks or the splash of oars--but his ears proved
unreliable.

After a time the girl began to moan with pain and terror, but as
numbness gradually robbed her of sensation she became quiet. A
little later her grip upon his clothing relaxed and he saw that
she was collapsing. He drew her to him and held her so that her
face lay upturned and her hair floated about his shoulders. In
this position she could not drown, at least while his strength
lasted. But he was rapidly losing control of himself; his teeth
were clicking loosely, his muscles shook and twitched It required
a great effort to shout, and he thought that his voice did not
carry so far as at first. Therefore he fell silent, paddling with
his free arm and kicking, to keep his blood stirring.

Several times he gave up and floated quietly, but courage was
ingrained in him; deep down beneath his consciousness was a
vitality, an inherited stubborn resistance to death, of which he
knew nothing. It was that unidentified quality of mind which
supports one man through a great sickness or a long period of
privation, while another of more robust physique succumbs. It was
the same quality which brings one man out from desert wastes, or
the white silence of the polar ice, while the bodies of his
fellows remain to mark the trail. This innate power of supreme
resistance is found in chosen individuals throughout the animal
kingdom, and it was due to it alone that Murray O'Neil continued
to fight the tide long after he had ceased to exert conscious
control.

At length there came through the man's dazed sensibilities a
sound different from those he had been hearing: it was a human
voice, mingled with the measured thud of oars in their sockets.
It roused him like an electric current and gave him strength to
cry out hoarsely. Some one answered him; then out of the darkness
to seaward emerged a deeper blot, which loomed up hugely yet
proved to be no more than a life-boat banked full of people. It
came to a stop within an oar's-length of him. From the babble of
voices he distinguished one that was familiar, and cried the name
of Johnny Brennan. His brain had cleared now, a great dreamlike
sense of thanksgiving warmed him, and he felt equal to any
effort. He was vaguely amazed to find that his limbs refused to
obey him.

His own name was being pronounced in shocked tones; the splash
from an oar filled his face and strangled him, but he managed to
lay hold of the blade, and was drawn in until outstretched hands
seized him.

An oarsman was saying: "Be careful, there! We can't take him in
without swamping."

But Brennan's voice shouted: "Make room or I'll bash in your
bloody skull."

Another protest arose, and O'Neil saw that the craft was indeed
loaded to the gunwales.

"Take the girl--quick," he implored. "I'll hang on. You can--tow
me."

The limp form was removed from his side and dragged over the
thwarts while a murmur of excited voices went up.

"Can you hold out for a minute, Murray?" asked Brennan.

"Yes--I think so."

"I'd give you my place, but you're too big to be taken in without
danger."

"Go ahead," chattered the man in the water. "Look after the girl
before it's--too late."

The captain's stout hand was in his collar now and he heard him
crying:

"Pull, you muscle-bound heathens! Everybody sit still! Now away
with her, men. Keep up your heart, Murray, my boy; remember it
takes more than water to kill a good Irishman. It's only a foot
or two farther, and they've started a fire. Serves you right, you
big idiot, for going overboard, with all those boats. Man dear,
but you're pulling the arm out of me; it's stretched out like a
garden hose! Hey! Cover up that girl, and you, lady, rub her feet
and hands. Good! Move over please--so the men can bail."

The next O'Neil knew he was feeling very miserable and very cold,
notwithstanding the fact that he was wrapped in dry clothing and
lay so close to a roaring spruce fire that its heat blistered
him.

Brennan was bending over him with eyes wet. He was swearing, too,
in a weak, faltering way, calling upon all the saints to witness
that the prostrate man was the embodiment of every virtue, and
that his death would be a national calamity. Others were gathered
about, men and women, and among them O'Neil saw the doctor from
Sitka whom he had met on shipboard.

As soon as he was able to speak he inquired for the safety of the
girl he had helped to rescue. Johnny promptly reassured him.

"Man, dear, she's doing fine. A jigger of brandy brought her to,
gasping like a blessed mermaid."

"Was anybody lost?"

"Praise God, not a soul! But it's lucky I stood by to watch the
old tub go down, or we'd be mourning two. You'll be well by
morning, for there's a cannery in the next inlet and I've sent a
boat's crew for help. And now, my boy, lay yourself down again
and take a sleep, won't you? It'll be doing you a lot of good."

But O'Neil shook his head and struggled to a sitting posture.

"Thanks, Johnny," said he, "but I couldn't. I can hear those
horses screaming, and besides--I must make new plans."




III

THE IRISH PRINCE


As dawn broke the cannery tender from the station near by nosed
her way up to the gravelly shore where the castaways were
gathered and blew a cheering toot-toot on her whistle. She was a
flat-bottomed, "wet-sterned" craft, and the passengers of the
Nebraska trooped to her deck over a gang-plank. As Captain
Brennan had predicted, not one of them had wet a foot, with the
exception of the two who had been left aboard through their own
carelessness.

By daylight Halibut Bay appeared an idyllic spot, quite innocent
of the terrors with which the night had endowed it. A pebbled
half-moon of beach was set in among rugged bluffs; the verdant
forest crowded down to it from behind. Tiny crystal wavelets
lapped along the shingle, swaying the brilliant sea mosses which
clung to the larger rocks. Altogether the scene gave a strong
impression of peace and security, yet just in the offing was one
jarring contrast--the masts and funnel of the Nebraska slanting
up out of the blue serenity, where she lay upon the sloping
bottom in the edge of deep water.

The reaction following a sleepless night of anxiety had replaced
the first feeling of thankfulness at deliverance, and it was not
a happy cargo of humanity which the rescuing boat bore with her
as the sun peeped over the hills. Many of the passengers were but
half dressed, all were exhausted and hungry, each one had lost
something in the catastrophe. The men were silent, the women
hysterical, the children fretful.

Murray O'Neil had recovered sufficiently to go among them with
the same warm smile which had made him friends from the first. In
the depths of his cool gray eyes was a sparkle which showed his
unquenchable Celtic spirit, and before long smiles answered his
smiles, jokes rose to meet his pleasantries.

It was his turn now to comfort Captain Johnny Brennan, who had
yielded to the blackest despair, once his responsibility was
over.

"She was a fine ship, Murray," the master lamented, staring with
tragic eyes at the Nebraska's spars.

"She was a tin washtub, and rusted like a sieve," jeered O'Neil.

"But think of me losing her on a still night!"

"I'm not sure yet that it wasn't a jellyfish that swam through
her."

"Humph! I suppose her cargo will be a total loss. Two hundred
thousand dollars--"

"Insured for three hundred, no doubt. I'll warrant the company
will thank you."

"It's kind of you to cheer me up," said Brennan, a little less
gloomily, "especially after the way I abandoned you to drown, but
the missus won't allow me in the house at all when she hears I
left you in pickle. Thank God the girl didn't die, anyway! I've
got that to be thankful for. Curtis Gordon would have broken me--
"

"Gordon?"

"Sure! Man dear, don't you know who you went bathing with? She's
the daughter of that widow Gerard, and the most prominent
passenger aboard, outside of your blessed self. Ain't that luck!
If I was a Jap I'd split myself open with a bread-knife."

"But, fortunately, you're a sensible 'harp' of old Ireland. I'll
see that the papers get the right story, 'o buck up."

"Do you think for a minute that Mrs. Brennan will understand why
I didn't hop out of the lifeboat and give you my place? Not at
all. I'm ruined nautically and domestically. In the course of the
next ten years I may live it down, but meanwhile I'll sleep in
the woodshed and speak when I'm spoken to."

Murray knew that Miss Gerard had been badly shaken by her ordeal,
hence he made no attempt to see her even after the steamer had
reached the fishing-village and the rescued passengers had been
taken in by the residents. Instead, he went directly to the one
store in the place and bought its entire stock, which he turned
over to the sufferers. It was well he did so, for the village was
small and, although the townspeople were hospitable, both food
and clothing were scarce.

A south-bound steamer was due the next afternoon, it was learned,
and plans were made for her to pick up the castaways and return
them to Seattle. At the same time O'Neil discovered that a
freighter for the "westward" was expected some time that night,
and as she did not call at this port he arranged for a launch to
take him out to the channel where he could intercept her. The
loss of his horses had been a serious blow. It was all the more
imperative now that he should go on, since he would have to hire
men to do horses' work.

During the afternoon Miss Gerard sent for him and he went to the
house of the cannery superintendent, where she had been received.
The superintendent's wife had clothed her, and she seemed to have
recovered her poise of body and mind. O'Neil was surprised to
find her quite a different person from the frightened and
disheveled girl he had seen in the yellow lamplight of his
stateroom on the night before. She was as pale now as then, but
her expression of terror and bewilderment had given place to one
of reposeful confidence. Her lips were red and ripe and of a
somewhat haughty turn. She was attractive, certainly, despite the
disadvantage of the borrowed garments, and though she struck him
as being possibly a little proud and cold, there was no lack of
warmth in her greeting.

For her part she beheld a man of perhaps forty, of commanding
height and heavy build. He was gray about the temples; his eyes
were gray, too, and rather small, but they were extremely
animated and kindly, and a myriad of little lines were penciled
about their corners. These were evidently marks of expression,
not of age, and although the rugged face itself was not handsome,
it had a degree of character that compelled her interest. His
clothes were good, and in spite of their recent hard usage they
still lent him the appearance of a man habitually well dressed.

She was vaguely disappointed, having pictured him as being in the
first flush of vigorous youth, but the feeling soon disappeared
under the charm of his manner. The ideal figure she had imagined
began to seem silly and school-girlish, unworthy of the man
himself. She was pleased, too, by his faint though manifest
embarrassment at her thanks, for she had feared a lack of tact.

Above all things she abhorred obligation of any sort, and she was
inclined to resent masculine protection. This man's service
filled her with real gratitude, yet she rebelled at the position
in which it placed her. She preferred granting favors to
receiving them.

But in fact he dismissed the whole subject so brusquely that he
almost offended her, and when she realized how incomplete had
been her acknowledgment, she said, with an air of pique:

"You might have given me a chance to thank you without dragging
you here against your will."

"I'm sorry if I seemed neglectful."

She fell silent for a moment before asking:

"Do you detest me for my cowardice? I couldn't blame you for
never wanting to see me again."

"You were very brave. You were splendid," he declared. "I simply
didn't wish to intrude."

"I was terribly frightened," she confided, "but I felt that I
could rely upon you. That's what every one does, isn't it? You
see, you have a reputation. They told me how you refused to be
taken into the boat for fear of capsizing it. That was fine."

"Oh, there was nothing brave about that. I wanted to get in badly
enough, but there wasn't, room. Jove! It was cold, wasn't it?"
His ready smile played whimsically about his lips, and the girl
felt herself curiously drawn to him. Since he chose to make light
of himself, she determined to allow nothing of the sort.

"They have told me how you bought out this whole funny little
place," she said, "and turned it over to us. Is it because you
have such a royal way of dispensing favors that they call you
'The Irish Prince'?"

"That's only a silly nickname."

"I don't think so. You give people food and clothes with a
careless wave of the hand; you give me my life with a shrug and a
smile; you offer to give up your own to a boatful of strangers
without a moment's hesitation. I--I think you are a remarkable
person."

"You'll turn my head with such flattery if you aren't careful,"
he said with a slight flush. "Please talk of something sensible
now, for an antidote--your plans, for instance."

"My plans are never sensible, and what few I have are as empty as
my pockets. To tell the truth, I have neither plans nor pockets,"
she laughed, "since this is a borrowed gown."

"Pockets in gowns are entirely matters of hearsay, anyhow; I
doubt if they exist. You are going back to Seattle?"

"Oh, I suppose so. It seems to be my fate, but I'm not a bit
resigned. I'm one of those unfortunate people who can't bear to
be disappointed."

"You can return on the next ship, at the company's expense."

"No. Mother would never allow it. In fact, when she learns that
I'm out here she'll probably send me back to New York as fast as
I can go."

"Doesn't she know where you are?"

"Indeed no! She thinks I'm safely and tamely at home. Uncle
Curtis wouldn't object to my visit, I fancy; at any rate, I've
been counting on his good offices with mother, but it's too late
now."

"I'm like you," he said; "I can't brook disappointment. I'm going
on."

In answer to her questioning look he explained his plan of
intercepting the freight-steamer that night, whereupon her face
brightened with sudden hope.

"Can't I go, too?" she implored, eagerly. She was no longer the
haughty young lady he had met upon entering the room, but a very
wistful child.

"I'm afraid that's hardly---"

"Oh! If only you knew how much it means! If only you knew how
badly I want to! I'm not afraid of discomforts."

"It's not that---"

"Please! Please! Be a real prince and grant me this boon. Won't
you? My heart is set upon it."

It was hard to resist her imploring eyes--eyes which showed they
had never been denied. It was hard for O'Neil to refuse anything
to a woman.

"If your uncle is willing," he began, hesitatingly.

"He isn't my really uncle--I just call him that."

"Well, if Mr. Gordon wouldn't object, perhaps I can manage it,
provided, of course, you promise to explain to your mother."

Miss Gerard's frank delight showed that she was indeed no more
than a child. Her changed demeanor awakened a doubt in the man's
mind.

"It will mean that you'll have to sit up all night in an open
launch," he cautioned her.

"I'll sit up for a week."

"With the creepy water all about, and big black mountains
frowning at you!"

"Oh, fiddle!" she exclaimed. "You'll be there if I get
frightened." Rising impulsively she laid her hand on his arm and
thanked him with an odd mingling of frankness and shyness, as if
there could be no further doubt of his acquiescence. He saw that
her eyes were the color of shaded woodland springs and that her
hair was not black, but of a deep, rich brown where the sun
played upon it, the hue of very old mahogany, with the same
blood-red flame running through it. He allowed himself to admire
her in silence, until suddenly she drew back with a startled
exclamation.

"What is it?"

"I forgot--I have no clothes." Her words came with a doleful
cadence.

"The universal complaint of your sex," he said, smiling. "Allow
me to talk with your hostess. I'm sure she will let you walk out
with your borrowed finery, just like Cinderella. You'll need a
nice thick coat, too."

"But this is her very, very best dress."

"She shall receive, on the next ship, a big box all lined with
tissue-paper, with the imprint of the most fashionable dressmaker
in Seattle. I'll arrange all that by cable."

"You don't know how she loves it," the girl said, doubtfully.

"Come! Call her in. If I'm to be a prince you mustn't doubt my
power."

Nor did the event prove him over-confident. Before he had fairly
made known his request the good lady of the house was ready to
surrender not only her best Sunday gown, but her fluttering heart
as well. Murray O'Neil had a way of making people do what he
wanted, and women invariably yielded to him.




IV

HOW A JOURNEY ENDED AT HOPE


To Natalie Gerard the trip down the bay and into the sound that
night was a wonderful adventure. She remembered it afterward far
more vividly than the shipwreck, which became blurred in
retrospect, so that she soon began to think of it as of some
half-forgotten nightmare. To begin with, the personality of
Murray O'Neil intrigued her more and more. The man was so strong,
so sympathetic, and he had such a resistless way of doing things.
The stories she had heard of him were romantic, and the
superintendent's wife had not allowed them to suffer in the
telling. Natalie felt elated that such a remarkable person should
exert himself on her behalf. And the journey itself impressed her
imagination deeply.

Although it was nine o'clock when they boarded the launch, it was
still light. The evening was yellow with the peculiar diffused
radiance of high latitudes, lending a certain somberness to their
surroundings.

The rushing tide, the ragged rock-teeth which showed through it,
the trackless, unending forests that clothed the hills in every
direction, awed her a little, yet gave her an unaccustomed
feeling of freedom and contentment. The long wait out between the
lonely islands, where the tiny cockle-shell rolled strangely,
although the sea seemed as level as a floor, held a subtle
excitement. Darkness crept down out of the unpeopled gorges and
swallowed them up, thrilling her with a sense of mystery.

When midnight came she found that she was ravenously hungry, and
she was agreeably surprised when O'Neil produced an elaborate
lunch. There were even thermos bottles filled with steaming hot
coffee, more delicious, she thought, than anything she had ever
before tasted. He called the meal their after-theater party,
pretending that they had just come from a Broadway melodrama of
shipwreck and peril. The subject led them naturally to talk of
New York, and she found he was more familiar with the city than
she.

"I usually spend my winters there," he explained.

"Then you have an office in the city?"

"Oh yes. I've maintained a place of business there for years."

"Where is it? On Wall Street?"

"No!" he smiled. "On upper Fifth Avenue. It's situated in the
extreme southwest corner of the men's cafe at the Holland House.
It consists of a round mahogany table and a leather settee."

"Really!"

"That's where I'm to be found at least four months out of every
twelve."

"They told me you built railroads."

"I do--when I'm lucky enough to underbid my competitors. But that
isn't always, and railroads aren't built every day."

"Mr. Gordon is building one."

"So I'm told." O'Neil marveled at the trick of fortune which had
entangled this girl and her mother in the web of that brilliant
and unscrupulous adventurer.

"Perhaps it will be a great success like your famous North Pass &
Yukon Railway."

"Let us hope so." He was tempted to inquire what use Gordon had
made of that widely advertised enterprise in floating his own
undertaking, but instead he asked:

"Your mother has invested heavily, has she not?"

"Not in the railroad. Her fortune, and mine too, is all in the
coal mines."

O'Neil smothered an exclamation.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Nothing, only--are you sure?"

"Oh, quite sure! The mines are rich, aren't they?"

"There are no mines," he informed her, "thanks to our misguided
lawmakers at Washington. There are vast deposits of fine coal
which would--make mines if we were allowed to work them, but--we
are not allowed."

"'We'? Are you a--a coal person, like us?"

"Yes. I was one of the first men in the Kyak fields, and I
invested heavily. I know Mr. Gordon's group of claims well. I
have spent more than a hundred thousand dollars trying to perfect
my titles and I'm no nearer patent now than I was to begin with--
not so near, in fact. I fancy Gordon has spent as much and is in
the same fix. It is a coal matter which brings me to Alaska now."

"I hardly understand."

"Of course not, and you probably won't after I explain. You see
the Government gave us--gave everybody who owns coal locations in
Alaska--three years in which to do certain things; then it
extended that time another three years. But recently a new
Secretary of the Interior has come into office and he has just
rescinded that later ruling, without warning, which gives us
barely time to comply with the law as it first stood. For my
part, I'll have to hustle or lose everything I have put in. You
see? That's why I hated to see those horses drown, for I intended
to use them in reaching the coal-fields. Now I'll have to hire
men to carry their loads. No doubt Mr. Gordon has arranged to
protect your holdings, but there are hundreds of claimants who
will be ruined."

"I supposed the Government protected its subjects," said the
girl, vaguely.

"One of the illusions taught in the elementary schools," laughed
O'Neil. "We Alaskans have found that it does exactly the
opposite! We have found it a harsh and unreasonable landlord. But
I'm afraid I'm boring you." He wrapped her more snugly in her
coverings, for a chill had descended with the darkness, then
strove to enliven her with stories garnered from his rich
experience--stories which gave her fascinating glimpses of great
undertakings and made her feel personally acquainted with people
of unfamiliar type, whose words and deeds, mirthful or pathetic,
were always refreshingly original. Of certain individuals he
spoke repeatedly until their names became familiar to his hearer.
He called them his "boys" and his voice was tender as he told of
their doings.

"These men are your staff?" she ventured.

"Yes. Every one who succeeds in his work must have loyal hands to
help him."

"Where are they now?"

"Oh! Scattered from Canada to Mexico, each one doing his own
particular work. There's Mellen, for instance; he's in Chihuahua
building a cantilever bridge. He's the best steel man in the
country. McKay, my superintendent, is running a railroad job in
California. 'Happy Tom' Slater--"

"The funny man with the blues?"

"Exactly! He was at work on a hydraulic project near Dawson the
last I heard of him. Dr. Gray is practising in Seattle, and
Parker, the chief engineer, has a position of great
responsibility in Boston. He is the brains of our outfit, you
understand; it was really he who made the North Pass & Yukon
possible. The others are scattered out in the same way, but
they'd all come if I called them." The first note of pride she
had detected crept into his voice when he said: "My 'boys' are
never idle. They don't have to be, after working with me."

"And what is your part of the work?" asked the girl.

"I? Oh, I'm like Marcelline, the clown at the Hippodrome--always
pretending to help, but forever keeping underfoot. When it
becomes necessary I raise the money to keep the performance
going."

"Do you really mean that all those men would give up their
positions and come to you if you sent for them?"

"By the first train, or afoot, if there were no other way. They'd
follow me to the Philippines or Timbuctoo, regardless of their
homes and their families."

"That is splendid! You must feel very proud of inspiring such
loyalty," said Natalie. "But why are you idle now? Surely there
are railroads to be built somewhere."

"Yes, I was asked to figure on a contract in Manchuria the other
day. I could have had it easily, and it would have meant my
everlasting fortune, but--"

"But what?"

"I found it isn't a white man's country. It's sickly and unsafe.
Some of my 'boys' would die before we finished it, and the game
isn't worth that price. No, I'll wait. Something better will turn
up. It always does."

As Natalie looked upon that kindly, square-hewn face with its
tracery of lines about the eyes, its fine, strong jaw, and its
indefinable expression of power, she began to understand more
fully why those with whom she had talked had spoken of Murray
O'Neil with an almost worshipful respect. She felt very
insignificant and purposeless as she huddled there beside him,
and her complacence at his attentions deepened into a vivid sense
of satisfaction. Thus far he had spoken entirely of men; she
wondered if he ever thought of women, and thrilled a bit at the
intimacy that had sprung up between them so quickly and
naturally.

It confirmed her feeling of prideful confidence in the man that
the north-bound freighter should punctually show her lights
around the islands and that she should pause in her majestic
sweep at the signal of this pigmy craft. The ship loomed huge and
black and terrifying as the launch at length drew in beneath it;
its sides towered like massive, unscalable ramparts. There was a
delay; there seemed to be some querulousness on the part of the
officer in command at being thus halted, some doubt about
allowing strangers to come aboard. But the girl smiled to herself
as the voices flung themselves back and forth through the night.
Once they learned who it was that called from the sea their
attitude would quickly change. Sure enough, in a little while
orders were shouted from the bridge; she heard men running from
somewhere, and a rope ladder came swinging down. O'Neil was
lifting her from her warm nest of rugs now and telling her to
fear nothing. The launch crept closer, coughing and shuddering as
if in terror at this close contact. There was a brief instant of
breathlessness as the girl found herself swung out over the
waters; then a short climb with O'Neil's protecting hand at her
waist and she stood panting, radiant, upon steel decks which
began to throb and tremble to the churning engines.

One further task remained for her protector's magic powers. It
appeared that there were no quarters on the ship for women, but
after a subdued colloquy between Murray and the captain she was
led to the cleanest and coziest of staterooms high up near the
bridge. Over the door she glimpsed a metal plate with the words
"First Officer" lettered upon it. O'Neil was bidding her good
night and wishing her untroubled rest, then almost before she had
accustomed herself to her new surroundings an immaculate, though
sleepy, Japanese steward stood before her with a tray. He was
extremely cheerful for one so lately awakened, being still aglow
with pleased surprise over the banknote which lay neatly folded
in his waistcoat pocket.

Natalie sat cross-legged on her berth and munched with the
appetite of a healthy young animal at the fruit and biscuits and
lovely heavy cake which the steward had brought. She was very
glad now that she had disobeyed her mother. It was high time,
indeed, to assert herself, for she was old enough to know
something of the world, and her judgment of men was mature enough
to insure perfect safety--that much had been proved. She felt
that her adventure had been a great success practically and
romantically. She wanted to lie awake and think it over in
detail, but she soon grew sleepy. Just before she dozed off she
wondered drowsily if "The Irish Prince" had found quarters for
himself, then reflected that undoubtedly the captain had been
happy to tumble out of bed for him. Or perhaps he felt no fatigue
and would watch the night through. Even now he might be pacing
the deck outside her door. At any rate, he was not far off. She
closed her eyes, feeling deliciously secure and comfortable.

In one way the southern coast of Alaska may be said to be perhaps
a million years younger than any land on this continent, for it
is still in the glacial period. The vast alluvial plains and
valleys of the interior are rimmed in to the southward and shut
off from the Pacific by a well-nigh impassable mountain barrier,
the top of which is capped with perpetual snow. Its gorges, for
the most part, run rivers of ice instead of water. Europe has
nothing like these glaciers which overflow the Alaskan valleys
and submerge the hills, for many of them contain more ice than
the whole of Switzerland. This range is the Andes of the north,
and it curves westward in a magnificent sweep, hugging the shore
for a thousand leagues. Against it the sea beats stormily; its
frozen crest is played upon by constant rains and fogs and
blizzards. But over beyond lies a land of sunshine, of long, dry,
golden summer days.

Into this chaos of cliff and peak and slanting canyon, midway to
the westward, is let King Phillip Sound, a sheet of water dotted
with islands and framed by forests. It reaches inland with long,
crooked tentacles which end like talons, in living ice. Hidden
some forty miles up one of these, upon the moraine of a receding
glacier, sits Cortez, a thriving village and long the point of
entry to the interior, the commencement of the overland trail to
the golden valleys of the Yukon and the Tanana. The Government
wagon trail winds in from here, tracing its sinuous course over
one pass after another until it emerges into the undulating
prairies of the "inside country."

Looking at the map, one would imagine that an easier gateway to
the heart of Alaska would be afforded by the valley of the Salmon
River, which enters the ocean some few miles to the eastward of
King Phillip Sound, but there are formidable difficulties. The
stream bursts the last rampart of the Coast Range asunder by
means of a canyon down which it rages in majestic fury and up
which no craft can navigate. Then it spreads itself out through a
dozen shallow mouths across a forty-mile delta of silt and sand
and glacial wash. As if Nature feared her arctic strong-box might
still be invaded by this route, she has placed additional
safeguards to the approach in the form of giant glaciers, through
the very bowels of which the Salmon River is forced to burrow.

In the early days of the Klondike rush men had attempted to
ascend the valley, but they had succeeded only at the cost of
such peril and disaster that others were warned away. The region
had become the source of many weird stories, and while the ice-
fields could be seen from the Kyak coal-fields, and on still days
their cannonading could be heard far out at sea, there were few
who had ventured to cross the forty-mile morass which lay below
them and thus attempt to verify or to disprove the rumors,

It was owing to these topographical conditions that Cortez had
been established as the point of entry to the interior; it was
because of them that she had grown and flourished, with her
sawmills and her ginmills, her docks, and her dives. But at the
time when this story opens Alaska had developed to a point where
an overland outlet by winter and a circuitous inlet, by way of
Bering Sea and the crooked Yukon, in summer were no longer
sufficient, There was need of a permanent route by means of which
men and freight might come and go through all the year. The
famous North Pass & Yukon Railway, far to the eastward, afforded
transportation to Dawson City and the Canadian territory, and had
proven itself such a financial success that builders began to
look for a harbor, more to the westward, from which they could
tap the great heart of Alaska. Thus it was that Cortez awoke one
morning to find herself selected as the terminus of a new line.
Other railway propositions followed, flimsy promotion schemes for
the most part, but among them two that had more than paper and
"hot air" behind them. One of these was backed by the Copper
Trust which had made heavy mining investments two hundred miles
inland, the other by Curtis Gordon, a promoter, who claimed New
York as his birthplace and the world as his residence.

Gordon had been one of the first locaters in the Kyak coal-
fields, and he had also purchased a copper prospect a few miles
down the bay from Cortez, where he had started a town which he
called Hope. There were some who shook their heads and smiled
knowingly when they spoke of that prospect, but no one denied
that it was fast assuming the outward semblance of a mine under
Gordon's direction. He had erected a fine substantial wharf,
together with buildings, bunk-houses, cottages, and a spacious
residence for himself; and daily the piles of debris beneath the
tunnel entries to his workings grew. He paid high wages, he spent
money lavishly, and he had a magnificent and compelling way with
him that dazzled and delighted the good people of Cortez. When he
began work on a railroad which was designed to reach far into the
interior his action was taken as proof positive of his financial
standing, and his critics were put down as pessimists who had
some personal grudge against him.

It was up to the raw, new village of Hope, with its odor of
fresh-cut fir and undried paint, that the freight-steamer with
Natalie Gerard and "The Irish Prince" aboard, came gingerly one
evening.

O'Neil surveyed the town with some curiosity as he approached,
for Gordon's sensational doings had interested him greatly. He
was accustomed to the rapid metamorphoses of a growing land; it
was his business, in fact, to win the wilderness over to order,
and therefore he was not astonished at the changes wrought here
during his absence. But he was agreeably surprised at the
businesslike arrangement of the place, and the evidence that a
strong and practised hand had guided its development.

Even before the ship had tied up he had identified the tall,
impressive man on the dock as the genius and founder of Hope, and
the dark-haired, well-formed woman beside him as Natalie's
mother. It was not until they were close at hand that the
daughter made her presence known; then, unable to restrain
herself longer, she shrieked her greeting down over the rail.
Mrs. Gerard started, then stared upward as if at an apparition;
she stretched out a groping hand to Gordon, who stood as if
frozen in his tracks. They seemed to be exchanging hurried words,
and the man appeared to be reassuring his companion. It looked
very odd to O'Neil; but any suspicion that Natalie was unwelcome
disappeared when she reached the dock. Her mother's dark eyes
were bright with unshed tears of gladness, her face was
transfigured, she showed the strong, repressed emotion of an
undemonstrative nature as they embraced. Natalie clung to her,
laughing, crying, bombarding her with questions, begging
forgiveness, and babbling of her adventures. Their resemblance
was striking, and in point of beauty there seemed little to
choose between them. They might have been nearly of an age,
except that the mother lacked the girl's restless vivacity.

O'Neil remained in the background, like an uncomfortable
bridegroom, conscious meanwhile of the searching and hostile
regard of Curtis Gordon. But at last his protegee managed to gasp
out in a more or less coherent manner the main facts of the
shipwreck and her rescue, whereupon Gordon's attitude abruptly
altered.

"My God!" he ejaculated. "You were not on the Nebraska?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Natalie. "The life-boats went off and left
me all alone--in the dark--with the ship sinking! Mr. O'Neil
saved me. He took me up and jumped just as the ship sank, and we
were all night in the freezing water. We nearly died, didn't we?
He fainted, and so did I, mummie dear--it was so cold. He held me
up until we were rescued, though, and then there wasn't room in
the life-boat for both of us. But he made them take me in, just
the same, while he stayed in the water. He was unconscious when
he reached the shore. Oh, it was splendid!"

O'Neil's identity being established, and the nature of his
service becoming apparent, Curtis Gordon took his hand in a
crushing grip and thanked him in a way that might have warmed the
heart of a stone gargoyle. The man was transformed, now that he
understood; he became a geyser of eloquence. He poured forth his
appreciation in rounded sentences; his splendid musical voice
softened and swelled and broke with a magnificent and touching
emotion. Through it all the Irish contractor remained
uncomfortably silent, for he could not help thinking that this
fulsome outburst was aroused rather by the man who had built the
North Pass

A crowd was collecting round them, but Gordon cleared it away
with an imperious gesture.

"Come!" he said. "This is no place to talk. Mr. O'Neil's splendid
gallantry renders our mere thanks inane. He must allow us to
express our gratitude in a more fitting manner."

"Please don't," exclaimed O'Neil, hastily.

"You are our guest; the hospitality of our house is yours. Hope
would be honored to welcome you, sir, at any time, but under
these circumstances--"

"I'm going right on to Cortez."

"The ship will remain here for several hours, discharging
freight, and we insist that you allow us this pleasure meanwhile.
You shall spend the night here, then perhaps you will feel
inclined to prolong your stay. All that Cortez has we have in
double proportion--I say it with pride. Cortez is no longer the
metropolis of the region. Hope--Well, I may say that Cortez is,
of all Alaskan cities, the most fortunate, since it has realized
its Hope." He laughed musically. "This town has come to stay; we
intend to annex Cortez eventually. If you feel that you must go
on, I shall deem it a pleasure to send you later in my motor-
boat. She makes the run in fifteen minutes. But you must first
honor our house and our board; you must permit us to pledge your
health in a glass. We insist!"

"Please!" said Mrs. Gerard.

"Do come, your Highness," Natalie urged, from the shelter of the
elder woman's arms.

"You're more than kind," said O'Neil, and together the four
turned their faces to the shore.




V

WHEREIN WE SEE CURTIS GORDON AND OTHERS


Curtis Gordon's respect for his guest increased as they walked up
the dock, for, before they had taken many steps, out from the
crowd which had gathered to watch the ship's arrival stepped one
of his foremen. This fellow shook hands warmly with O'Neil,
whereupon others followed, one by one--miners, day laborers,
"rough-necks" of many nationalities. They doffed their hats-
something they never did for Gordon--and stretched out grimy
hands, their faces lighting up with smiles. O'Neil accepted their
greetings with genuine pleasure and called them by name.

"We just heard you was shipwrecked," said Gordon's foreman,
anxiously. "You wasn't hurt, was you?"

"Not in the least."

"God be praised! There's a lot of the old gang at work here."

"So I see."

"Here's Shorty, that you may remember from the North Pass." The
speaker dragged from the crowd a red-faced, perspiring ruffian
who had hung back with the bashfulness of a small boy. "He's the
fellow you dug out of the slide at twenty-eight."

"Connors!" cried O'Neil, warmly. "I'm glad to see you. And how
are the two arms of you?"

"Better 'n ever they was, the both av them!" Mr. Connors blushed,
doubled his fists and flexed his bulging muscles. "An' why
shouldn't they be, when you set 'em both with your own hands,
Misther O'Neil? 'Twas as good a job as Doc Gray ever done in the
hospittle. I hope you're doin' well, sir." He pulled his
forelock, placed one foot behind the other, and tapped it on the
planking, grinning expansively.

"Very well indeed, thank you."

O'Neil's progress was slow, for half the crowd insisted upon
shaking his hand and exchanging a few words with him. Clumsy
Swedes bobbed their heads, dark-browed foreign laborers whose
nationality it was hard to distinguish showed their teeth and
chattered words of greeting.

"Bless my soul!" Gordon exclaimed, finally.

"You know more of them than I do."

"Yes! I seldom have to fire a man."

"Then you are favored of the gods. Labor is my great problem. It
is the supreme drawback of this country. These people drift and
blow on every breeze, like the sands of the Sahara. With more and
better help I could work wonders here."

Unexpected as these salutations had been, O'Neil's greatest
surprise came a moment later as he passed the first of the
company buildings. There he heard his name pronounced in a voice
which halted him, and in an open doorway he beheld a huge, loose-
hung man of tremendous girth, with a war-bag in his hand and a
wide black hat thrust back from a shiny forehead.

"Why, Tom!" he exclaimed. "Tom Slater!"

Gordon groaned and went on with the women, saying: "Come up to
the house when you escape, Mr. O'Neil. I shall have dinner
served."

Mr. Slater came forward slowly, dragging his clothes-bag with
him. The two shook hands.

"What in the world are you doing here, Tom?"

"Nothing!" said Slater. He had a melancholy cast of feature,
utterly out of keeping with his rotund form. In his eye was the
somber glow of a soul at war with the flesh.

"Nothing?"

"I had a good job, putting in a power plant for his nibs"--he
indicated the retreating Gordon with a disrespectful jerk of the
thumb--"but I quit."

"Not enough pay?"

"Best wages I ever got. He pays well."

"Poor grub?"

"Grub's fine."

"What made you quit?"

"I haven't exactly quit, but I'm going to. When I saw you coming
up the dock I said: 'There's the chief! Now he'll want me.' So I
began to pack." The speaker dangled his partly filled war-bag as
evidence. In an even sourer tone he murmured:

"Ain't that just me? I ain't had a day's luck since Lincoln was
shot. The minute I get a good job along you come and spoil it."

"I don't want you," laughed O'Neil.

But Slater was not convinced. He shook his head.

"Oh yes, you do. You've got something on or you wouldn't be here.
I've been drawing pay from you now for over five minutes."

O'Neil made a gesture of impatience.

"No! No! In the first place, I have nothing for you to do; in the
second place, I probably couldn't afford the wages Gordon is
paying you."

"That's the hell of it!" gloomily agreed "Happy Tom." "Where are
your grips? I'll begin by carrying them."

"I haven't any. I've been shipwrecked. Seriously, Tom, I have no
place for you."

The repetition of this statement made not the smallest impression
upon the hearer.

"You'll have one soon enough," he replied. Then with a touch of
spirit, "Do you think I'd work for this four-flusher if you were
in the country?"

"Hush!" O'Neil cast a glance over his shoulder. "By the way, how
do you happen to be here? I thought you were in Dawson."

"I finished that job. I was working back toward ma and the
children. I haven't seen them for two years."

"You think Gordon is a false alarm?"

"Happy Tom" spat with unerring accuracy at a crack, then said:

"He's talking railroads! Railroads! Why, I've got a boy back in
the state of Maine, fourteen years old--"

"Willie?"

"Yes. My son Willie could skin Curtis Gordon at railroad-
building--and Willie is the sickly one of the outfit. But I'll
hand it to Gordon for one thing; he's a money-getter and a money-
spender. He knows where the loose stone in the hearth is laid,
and he knows just which lilac bush the family savings are buried
under. Those penurious Pilgrim Fathers in my part of the country
come up and drop their bankbooks through the slot in his door
every morning. He's the first easy money I ever had; I'd get rich
off of him, but"--Slater sighed--"of course you had to come along
and wrench me away from the till."

"Don't quit on my account," urged his former chief. "I'm up here
on coal matters. I can't take time to explain now, but I'll see
you later."

"Suit yourself, only don't keep me loafing on full time. I'm an
expensive man. I'll be packed and waiting for you."

O'Neil went on his way, somewhat amused, yet undeniably pleased
at finding his boss packer here instead of far inland, for
Slater's presence might, after all, fit well enough into his
plans.

"The Irish Prince" had gained something of a reputation for
extravagance, but he acknowledged himself completely outshone by
the luxury with which Curtis Gordon had surrounded himself at
Hope. The promoter had spoken of his modest living-quarters--in
reality they consisted of a handsome twenty-room house, furnished
with the elegance of a Newport cottage. The rugs were thick and
richly colored; the furniture was of cathedral oak and mahogany.
In the library were deep leather chairs and bookcases, filled
mainly with the works of French and German authors of decadent
type. The man's taste in art was revealed by certain pictures,
undeniably clever, but a little too daring. He was undoubtedly a
sybarite, yet he evidently possessed rare energy and executive
force. It was an unusual combination.

The dinner was notable mainly for its lavish disregard of
expense. There were strawberries from Seattle, fresh cream and
butter from Gordon's imported cows, cheese prepared expressly for
him in France, and a champagne the date of which he took pains to
make known.

On the whole he played the part of host agreeably enough and his
constant flow of talk was really entertaining. His anecdotes
embraced three continents; his wit, though Teutonic, was genial
and mirth-provoking. When Mrs. Gerard took time from her
worshipful regard of her daughter to enter the conversation, she
spoke with easy charm and spontaneity. As for Natalie, she was
intoxicated with delight; she chattered, she laughed, she
interrupted with the joyful exuberance of youth.

Under such circumstances the meal should have proved enjoyable,
yet the guest of honor had never been more ill at ease. Precisely
what accounted for the feeling he could not quite determine.
Somewhere back in his mind was a suspicion that things were not
as they should be, here in this house of books and pictures and
incongruities. He told himself that he should not be so narrow-
minded as to resent Gloria Gerard's presence here, particularly
since she herself had told him that her friendship for Gordon
dated back many years. Nevertheless, the impression remained to
disturb him.

"You wonder, perhaps, why I have been so extravagant with my
living-quarters," said Gordon, as they walked into the library,
"but it is not alone for myself. You see I have people associated
with me who are accustomed to every comfort and luxury and I
built this house for them. Mrs. Gerard has been kind enough to
grace the establishment with her presence, and I expect others of
my stock-holders to do likewise. You see, I work in the light,
Mr. O'Neil; I insist upon the broadest publicity in all my
operations, and to that end I strive to bring my clients into
contact with the undertaking itself. For instance, I am bringing
a party of my stockholders all the way from New York, at my own
expense, just to show them how their interests are being
administered. I have chartered a special train and a ship for
them, and of course they must be properly entertained while
here."

"Quite a scheme," said O'Neil.

"I wanted to show them this marvelous country, God's wonderland
of opportunity. They will return impressed by the solidity and
permanence of their investment."

Certainly the man knew how to play his game. No more effective
means of advertising, no more profitable stock-jobbing scheme
could be devised than a free trip of that sort and a tour of
Alaska under the watchful guidance of Curtis Gordon. If any
member of the party returned unimpressed it would not be the
fault of the promoter; if any one of them did not voluntarily go
out among his personal friends as a missionary it would be
because Gordon's magnetism had lost its power. O'Neil felt a
touch of unwilling admiration.

"I judge, from what you say, that the mine gives encouragement,"
he ventured, eying his host curiously through a cloud of tobacco
smoke.

"'Encouragement' is not the word. Before many years 'Hope
Consolidated' will be listed on the exchanges of the world along
with 'Amalgamated' and the other great producers. We have here,
Mr. O'Neil, a tremendous mountain of ore, located at tide water,
on one of the world's finest harbors. The climate is superb; we
have coal near at hand for our own smelter. The mine only
requires systematic development under competent hands."

"I was in Cortez when Lars Anderson made his first discovery
here, and I had an option on all this property. I believe the
price was twelve hundred dollars; at any rate, it was I who drove
those tunnels you found when you bought him out."

Gordon's eyes wavered briefly, then he laughed.

"My dear sir, you have my sincere sympathy. Your poison, my meat
--as it were, eh? You became discouraged too soon. Another
hundred feet of work and you would have been justified in paying
twelve hundred thousand dollars. This 'Eldorado' which the Copper
Trust has bought has a greater surface showing than 'Hope,' I
grant; but--it lies two hundred miles inland, and there is the
all-important question of transportation to be solved. The ore
will have to be hauled, or smelted on the ground, while we have
the Kyak coal-fields at our door. The Heidlemanns are building a
railroad to it which will parallel mine in places, but the very
nature of their enterprise foredooms it to failure."

"Indeed? How so?"

"My route is the better. By a rigid economy of expenditure, by a
careful supervision of detail, I can effect a tremendous saving
over their initial cost. I hope to convince them of the fact, and
thus induce them to withdraw from the field or take over my road
at--a reasonable figure. Negotiations are under way."

At this talk of economy from Curtis Gordon O'Neil refrained from
smiling with difficulty. He felt certain that the man's entire
operations were as unsound as his statement that he could bring
the Trust to terms. Yet Gordon seemed thoroughly in earnest.
Either he expected to fool his present hearer, or else he had
become hypnotized by the spell of his own magnificent twaddle--
O'Neil could not tell which.

"Who laid out your right-of-way?" he asked with some interest.

"A very able young engineer, Dan Appleton. An excellent man, but
--unreliable in certain things. I had to let him go, this very
afternoon, in fact, for insubordination. But I discharged him
more for the sake of discipline than anything else. He'll be
anxious to return in a few days. Now tell me"--Gordon fixed his
visitor with a bland stare which failed to mask his gnawing
curiosity--"what brings you to King Phillip Sound? Are we to be
rivals in the railroad field?"

"No. There are enough projects of that sort in the neighborhood
for the present."

"Five, all told, but only one destined to succeed."

"I'm bound for the Kyak coal-fields to perfect and amend my
surveys under the new ruling."

"Ah! I've heard about that ruling."

"Heard about it?" exclaimed O'Neil. "Good Lord! Haven't you
complied with it?"

"Not yet."

"You surely intend to do so?"

"Oh yes--I suppose so."

"If you don't you'll lose--"

"I'm not sure we can ever win."

"Nonsense!"

"I'm not sure that it's wise to put more good money into those
coal claims," said Gordon. "This ruling will doubtless be
reversed as the others have been. One never knows what the Land
Office policy will be two days at a time."

"You know your own business," O'Neil remarked after a pause, "but
unless you have inside information, or a bigger pull in
Washington than the rest of us, I'd advise you to get busy. I'll
be on my way to Kyak in the morning with a gang of men." Gordon's
attitude puzzled him, for he could not bring himself to believe
that such indifference was genuine.

"We have been treated unfairly by the Government."

"Granted!"

"We have been fooled, cheated, hounded as if we were a crowd of
undesirable aliens, and I'm heartily sick of the injustice. I
prefer to work along lines of least resistance. I feel tempted to
let Uncle Sam have my coal claims, since he has lied to me and
gone back on his promise, and devote myself to other enterprises
which offer a certainty of greater profits. But"--Gordon smiled
deprecatingly--"I dare say I shall hold on, as you are doing,
until that fossilized bureau at Washington imposes some new
condition which will ruin us all."

Remembering Natalie's statement that her own and her mother's
fortunes were tied up in the mines, O'Neil felt inclined to go
over Gordon's head and tell the older woman plainly the danger of
delay in complying with the law, but he thought better of the
impulse. Her confidence in this man was supreme and it seemed
incredible that Gordon should jeopardize her holdings and his
own. More likely his attitude was just a part of his pose,
designed to show the bigness of his views and to shed a greater
luster upon his railroad project.

It was difficult to escape from the hospitality of Hope, and
O'Neil succeeded in doing so only after an argument with Natalie
and her mother. They let him go at last only upon his promise to
return on his way back from the coal-fields, and they insisted
upon accompanying him down to the dock, whither Gordon had
preceded them in order to have his motor-boat in readiness.

As they neared the landing they overheard the latter in spirited
debate with "Happy Tom" Slater.

"But my dear fellow," he was saying, "I can't lose you and
Appleton on the same day."

"You can't? Why, you've done it!" the fat man retorted, gruffly.

"I refuse to be left in the lurch this way. You must give more
notice."

Slater shrugged, and without a word tossed his bulging war bag
into the motor-boat which lay moored beneath him. His employer's
face was purple with rage as he turned to Murray and the ladies,
but he calmed himself sufficiently to say:

"This man is in charge of important work for me, yet he tells me
you have hired him away."

"Tom!" exclaimed O'Neil.

"I never said that," protested Slater. "I only told you I was
working for Murray."

"Well?"

"I hired myself. He didn't have anything to say about it. I do
all the hiring, firing, and boosting in my department."

"I appeal to you, O'Neil. I'm short-handed," Gordon cried.

"I tell you he don't have a word to say about it," Slater
declared with heat.

Natalie gave a little tinkling laugh. She recognized in this man
the melancholy hero of more than one tale "The Irish Prince" had
told her. Murray did his best, but knowing "Happy Tom's" calm
obstinacy of old, he had no real hope of persuading him.

"You see how it is," he said, finally. "He's been with me for
years and he refuses to work for any one else while I'm around.
If I don't take him with me he'll follow."

Mr. Slater nodded vigorously, then imparted these tidings:

"It's getting late, and my feet hurt." He bowed to the women,
then lowered himself ponderously yet carefully over the edge of
the dock and into the leather cushions of the launch. Once safely
aboard, he took a package of wintergreen chewing-gum from his
pocket and began to chew, staring out across the sound with that
placid, speculative enjoyment which reposes in the eyes of a cow
at sunset.

Curtis Gordon's face was red and angry as he shook hands stiffly
with his guest and voiced the formal hope that they would meet
again.

"I'm glad to be gone," Slater observed as the speed-boat rushed
across the bay. "I'm a family man, and--I've got principles.
Gordon's got neither."

"It was outrageous for you to walk out so suddenly. It
embarrassed me."

"Oh, he'd let me go without notice if he felt like it. He fired
Dan Appleton this afternoon just for telling the truth about the
mine. That's what I'd have got if I'd stayed on much longer. I
was filling up with words and my skin was getting tight. I'd have
busted, sure, inside of a week."

"Isn't the mine any good?"

"It ain't a mine at all. It's nothing but an excavation filled
with damn fools and owned by idiots; still, I s'pose it serves
Gordon's purpose." After a pause he continued: "They tell me that
snakes eat their own young! Gordon ought to call that mine the
Anaconda, for it'll swallow its own dividends and all the money
those Eastern people can raise."

"I'm sorry for Mrs. Gerard."

Slater emitted a sound like the moist exhalation of a porpoise as
it rises to the surface.

"What do you mean by that snort?" asked Murray.

"It's funny how much some people are like animals. Now the
ostrich thinks that when his head is hid his whole running-gear
is out of sight. Gordon's an ostrich. As for you--you remind me
of a mud turtle. A turtle don't show nothing but his head, and
when it's necessary he can yank that under cover. Gordon don't
seem to realize that he sticks up above the underbrush--either
that or else he don't care who sees him. He and that woman--"

"Never mind her," exclaimed O'Neil, quickly. "I'm sure you're
mistaken."

Mr. Slater grunted once more, then chewed his gum silently,
staring mournfully into the twilight. After a moment he inquired:

"Why don't you show these people how to build a railroad,
Murray?"

"No, thank you! I know the country back of here. It's not
feasible."

"The Copper Trust is doing it."

"All the more reason why I shouldn't. There are five projects
under way now, and there won't be more than enough traffic for
one."

Slater nodded. "Every man who has two dollars, a clean shirt, and
a friend at Washington has got a railroad scheme up his sleeve."

"It will cost thirty million dollars to build across those three
divides and into the copper country. When the road is done it
will be one of heavy grades, and--"

"No wonder you didn't get the contract from the Heidlemanns--if
your estimate was thirty million."

"I didn't put in a figure."

Tom looked surprised. "Why didn't you? You know them."

"I was like the little boy who didn't go to the party--I wasn't
asked." The speaker's expression showed that his pride had been
hurt and discouraged further questioning. "We'll hire our men and
our boats to-night," he announced. "I've arranged for that
freighter to drop us off at Omar on her way out. We'll have to
row from there to Kyak. I expected to land my horses at the coast
and pack in from Kyak Bay, but that shipwreck changed my plans.
Poor brutes! After my experience I'll never swim horses in this
water again."

An eleven-o'clock twilight enveloped Cortez when the two men
landed, but the town was awake. The recent railway and mining
activity in the neighborhood had brought a considerable influx of
people to King Phillip Sound, and the strains of music from
dance-hall doors, the click of checks and roulette balls from
the saloons, gave evidence of an unusual prosperity.

O'Neil had no difficulty in securing men. Once he was recognized,
the scenes at Hope were re-enacted, and there was a general
scramble to enlist upon his pay-roll. Within an hour, therefore,
his arrangements were made, and he and Tom repaired to Callahan's
Hotel for a few hours' sleep.

A stud game was going on in the barroom when they entered, and
O'Neil paused to watch it while Slater spoke to one of the
players, a clean-cut, blond youth of whimsical countenance. When
the two friends finally faced the bar for their "nightcap" Tom
explained:

"That's Appleton, the fellow Gordon fired to-day. I told him I'd
left the old man flat."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Sure. Nice boy--good engineer, too."

"Umph! That game is crooked."

"No?" "Happy Tom" displayed a flash of interest.

"Yes, Cortez is fast becoming a metropolis, I see. The man in the
derby hat is performing a little feat that once cost me four
thousand dollars to learn."

"I'd better split Dan away," said Tom, hastily.

"Wait! Education is a good thing, even if it is expensive at
times. I fancy your friend is bright enough to take care of
himself. Let's wait a bit."

"Ain't that just my blamed luck?" lamented Slater. "Now if they
were playing faro I could make a killing. I'd 'copper' Appleton's
bets and 'open' the ones he coppered!"

O'Neil smiled, for "Happy Tom's" caution in money matters was
notorious. "You know you don't believe in gambling," he said.

"It's not a belief, it's a disease," declared the fat man. "I was
born to be a gambler, but the business is too uncertain. Now that
I'm getting so old and feeble I can't work any more, I'd take it
up, only I broke three fingers and when I try to deal I drop the
cards. What are we going to do?"

"Just wait," said O'Neil.




VI

THE DREAMER


Unobserved the two friends watched the poker game, which for a
time proceeded quietly. But suddenly they saw Appleton lean over
the table and address the man with the derby hat; then, thrusting
back his chair, he rose, declaring, in a louder tone:

"I tell you I saw it. I thought I was mistaken at first." His
face was white, and he disregarded the efforts of his right-hand
neighbor to quiet him.

"Don't squeal," smiled the dealer. "I'll leave it to the boys if
I did anything wrong."

"You pulled that king from the bottom. It may not be wrong, but
it's damned peculiar."

"Forget it!" one of the others exclaimed. "Denny wouldn't double-
cross you."

"Hardly!" agreed Mr. Denny, evenly. "You're 'in' a hundred and
eighty dollars, but if you're sore you can have it back."

Appleton flung his cards into the middle of the table and turned
away disgustedly. "It's a hard thing to prove, and I'm not
absolutely sure I saw straight, or--I'd take it back, fast
enough."

Denny shrugged and gathered in the discarded hand. "You've been
drinking too much, that's all. Your eyesight is scattered."

Appleton's face flushed as he beheld the gaze of the company upon
him and heard the laughter which greeted this remark. He turned
to leave when O'Neil, who had continued to watch the proceedings
with interest, crossed to the group and touched Denny on the
shoulder, saying, quietly:

"Give him his money."

"Eh?" The smile faded from the fellow's face; he looked up with
startled inquiry. "What?"

"Give him his money."

In the momentary hush which followed, "Happy Tom" Slater, who had
frequently seen his employer in action and understood storm
signals, sighed deeply and reached for the nearest chair. With a
wrench of his powerful hands he loosened a leg. Although Mr.
Slater abhorred trouble, he was accustomed to meet it
philosophically. A lifetime spent in construction camps had
taught him that, of all weapons, the one best suited to his use
was a pick-handle; second to that he had come to value the
hardwood leg of a chair. But in the present case his precaution
proved needless, for the dispute was over before he had fairly
prepared himself.

Without waiting for O'Neil to put his accusation into words Denny
had risen swiftly, and in doing so he had either purposely or by
accident made a movement which produced a prompt and instinctive
reaction. Murray's fist met him as he rose, met him so squarely
and with such force that he lost all interest in what followed.
The other card-players silently gathered Mr. Denny in their arms
and stretched him upon a disused roulette table; the bartender
appeared with a wet towel and began to bathe his temples.

Appleton, dazed by the suddenness of it all, found a stack of
gold pieces in his hand and heard O'Neil saying in an every-day
tone:

"Come to my room, please. I'd like to talk to you." Something
commanding in the speaker's face made the engineer follow against
his will. He longed to loiter here until Denny had regained his
senses--but O'Neil had him by the arm and a moment later he was
being led down the hall away from the lobby and the barroom. As
Slater, who had followed, closed the door behind them, Dan burst
forth:

"By Jove! Why didn't you tell me? I knew he was crooked--but I
couldn't believe--"

"Sit down!" said O'Neil. "He won't pull himself together for a
while, and I want to get to bed. Are you looking for a job?"

The engineer's eyes opened wide.

"Yes."

"Do you know the Kyak country?"

"Pretty well."

"I need a surveyor. Your wages will be the same that Gordon paid
and they begin now, if it's agreeable."

"It certainly is!"

"Good! We'll leave at six o'clock, sharp. Bring your bedding and
instruments."

"Thanks! I--This is a bit of a surprise. Who are you?"

"I'm O'Neil." "Oh!" Mr. Appleton's expression changed quickly.
"You're Murray--" He stammered an instant. "It was very good of
you to take my part, after I'd been fool enough to--"

"Well--I didn't want to see you make a total idiot of yourself."

The young man flushed slightly, then in a quieter voice, he
asked:

"How did you know I was out of work?"

"Mr. Gordon told me. He recommended you highly."

"He did?"

"He said you were unreliable, disloyal, and dishonest. Coming
from him I took that as high praise."

There was a moment's pause, then Appleton laughed boyishly.

"That's funny! I'm very glad to know you, Mr. O'Neil."

"You don't, and you won't for a long time. Tom tells me you
didn't think well of Gordon's enterprise and so he fired you."

"That's right! I suppose I ought to have kept my mouth shut, but
it has a way of flying open when it shouldn't. He is either a
fool or a crook, and his mine is nothing but a prospect. I
couldn't resist telling him so."

"And his railroad?"

Appleton hesitated. "Oh, it's as good a route as the Trust's. I
worked on the two surveys. Personally I think both outfits are
crazy to try to build in from here. I had to tell Gordon that,
too. You see I'm a volunteer talker. I should have been born with
a stutter--it would have saved me a lot of trouble."

O'Neil smiled. "You may talk all you please in my employ, so long
as you do your work. Now get some sleep, for we have a hard trip.
And by the way"--the youth paused with a hand on the doorknob--
"don't go looking for Denny."

Appleton's face hardened stubbornly.

"I can't promise that, sir."

"Oh yes you can! You must! Remember, you're working for me, and
you're under orders. I can't have the expedition held up on your
account."

The engineer's voice was heavy with disappointment, but a vague
admiration was growing in his eyes as he agreed:

"Very well, sir. I suppose my time is yours. Good night."

When he had gone "Happy Tom" inquired:

"Now, why in blazes did you hire him? We don't need a high-priced
surveyor on this job."

"Of course not, but don't you see? He'd have been arrested, sure.
Besides--he's Irish, and I like him."

"Humph! Then I s'pose he's got a job for life," said Tom,
morosely. "You make friends and enemies quicker than anybody I
ever saw. You've got Curtis Gordon on your neck now."

"On account of this boy? Nonsense!"

"Not altogether. Denny is Gordon's right bower. I think he calls
him his secretary; anyhow, he does Gordon's dirty work and
they're thicker than fleas. First you come along and steal me,
underhanded, then you grab his pet engineer before he has a
chance to hire him back again. Just to top off the evening you
publicly brand his confidential understrapper as a card cheat and
thump him on the medulla oblongata--"

"Are you sure it wasn't the duodenum?"

"Well, you hit him in a vital spot, and Gordon won't forget it."

Late on the following morning O'Neil's expedition was landed at
the deserted fishing-station of Omar, thirty miles down the sound
from Cortez. From this point its route lay down the bay to open
water and thence eastward along the coast in front of the Salmon
River delta some forty miles to Kyak. This latter stretch would
have been well-nigh impossible for open boats but for the fact
that the numerous mud bars and islands thrown out by the river
afforded a sheltered course. These inside channels, though
shallow, were of sufficient depth to allow small craft to
navigate and had long been used as a route to the coal-fields.

Appleton, smiling and cheerful, was the first member of the party
to appear at the dock that morning, and when the landing had been
effected at Omar he showed his knowledge of the country by
suggesting a short cut which would save the long row down to the
mouth of the sound and around into the delta. Immediately back of
the old cannery, which occupied a gap in the mountain rim, lay a
narrow lake, and this, he declared, held an outlet which led into
the Salmon River flats. By hauling the boats over into this body
of water--a task made easy by the presence of a tiny tramway with
one dilapidated push-car which had been a part of the cannery
equipment--it would be possible to save much time and labor.

"I've heard there was a way through," O'Neil confessed, "but
nobody seemed to know just where it was."

"I know," the young man assured him. "We can gain a day at least,
and I judge every day is valuable."

"So valuable that we can't afford to lose one by making a
mistake," said his employer, meaningly.

"Leave it to me. I never forget a country once I've been through
it."

Accordingly the boats were loaded upon the hand-car and
transferred one at a time. In the interval O'Neil examined his
surroundings casually. He was surprised to find the dock and
buildings in excellent condition, notwithstanding the fact that
the station had lain idle for several years. A solitary
Norwegian, with but a slight suspicion of English, was watching
the premises and managed to make known his impression that poor
fishing had led the owners to abandon operations at this point.
He, too, had heard that Omar Lake had an outlet into the delta,
but he was not sure of its existence; he was sure of nothing, in
fact except that it was very lonesome here, and that he had run
out of tobacco five days before.

But Dan Appleton was not mistaken. A two hours' row across the
mirror-like surface of Omar Lake brought the party out through a
hidden gap in the mountains and afforded them a view across the
level delta. To their left the range they had just penetrated
retreated toward the canon where the Salmon River burst its way
out from the interior, and beyond that point it continued in a
coastward swing to Kyak, their destination. Between lay a flat,
trackless tundra, cut by sloughs and glacial streams, with here
and there long tongues of timber reaching down from the high
ground and dwindling away toward the seaward marshes. It was a
desolate region, the breeding-place of sea fowl, the hunting-
ground for the great brown bear.

O'Neil had never before been so near the canon as this, and the
wild stories he had heard of it recurred to him with interest. He
surveyed the place curiously as the boats glided along, but could
see nothing more than a jumble of small hills and buttes, and
beyond them the dead-gray backs of the twin glaciers coming down
from the slopes to east and west. Beyond the foot-hills and the
glaciers themselves the main range was gashed by a deep valley,
through which he judged the river must come, and beyond that he
knew was a country of agricultural promise, extending clear to
the fabulous copper belt whither the railroads from Cortez were
headed. Still farther inland lay the Tanana, and then the Yukon,
with their riches untouched.

What a pity, what a mockery, it was that this obvious entrance to
the country had been blocked by nature! Just at his back was
Omar, with its deep and sheltered harbor; the lake he had crossed
gave a passage through the guardian range, and this tundra--
O'Neil estimated that he could lay a mile of track a day over it
--led right up to the glaciers. Once through the Coast Range,
building would be easy, for the upper Salmon was navigable, and
its banks presented no difficulties to track-laying.

He turned abruptly to Appleton, who was pulling an oar.

"What do you know about that canyon?" he asked.

"Not much. Nobody knows much, for those fellows who went through
in the gold rush have all left the country. Gordon's right-of-way
comes in above, and so does the Trust's. From there on I know
every foot of the ground."

"I suppose if either of them gets through to the Salmon the rest
will be easy."

"Dead easy!"

"It would be shorter and very much cheaper to build from Omar,
through this way."

"Of course, but neither outfit knew anything about the outlet to
Omar Lake until I told them--and they knew there was the canon to
be reckoned with."

"Well?"

Appleton shook his head. "Look at it! Does it look like a place
to build a railroad?"

"I can't tell anything about it, from here."

"I suppose a road could be built if the glaciers were on the same
side of the river, but--they're not. They face each other, and
they're alive, too. Listen!" The oarsmen ceased rowing at Dan's
signal, and out of the northward silence came a low rumble like
the sound of distant cannonading. "We must be at least twenty
miles away, in an air line. The ice stands up alongside the
river, hundreds of feet high, and it breaks off in chunks as big
as a New York office-building."

"You've been up there?"

"No. But everybody says so, and I've seen glacier ice clear out
here in the delta. They're always moving, too--the glaciers
themselves--and they're filled with crevasses, so that it's
dangerous to cross them on foot even if one keeps back from the
river."

"How did those men get their outfits through in '98?" O'Neil
queried.

"I'm blessed if I know--maybe they flew." After a moment Dan
added, "Perhaps they dodged the pieces as they fell."

O'Neil smiled. He opened his lips to speak, then closed them, and
for a long time kept his eyes fixed speculatively in the
direction of the canyon. When he had first spoken of a route from
Omar he had thrown out the suggestion with only a casual
interest. Now, suddenly, the idea took strong possession of his
mind; it fascinated him with its daring, its bigness. He had
begun to dream.

The world owes all great achievements to dreamers, for men who
lack vivid imaginations are incapable of conceiving big
enterprises. No matter how practical the thing accomplished, it
requires this faculty, no less than a poem or a picture. Every
bridge, every skyscraper, every mechanical invention, every great
work which man has wrought in steel and stone and concrete, was
once a dream.

O'Neil had no small measure of the imaginative power that makes
great leaders, great inventors, great builders. He was capable of
tremendous enthusiasm; his temperament forever led him to dare
what others feared to undertake. And here he glimpsed a
tremendous opportunity. The traffic of a budding nation was
waiting to be seized. To him who gained control of Alaskan
transportation would come the domination of her resources. Many
were striving for the prize, but if there should prove to be a
means of threading that Salmon River canon with steel rails, the
man who first found it would have those other railroad
enterprises at his mercy. The Trust would have to sue for terms
or abandon further effort; for this route was shorter, it was
level, it was infinitely cheaper to improve. The stakes in the
game were staggering. The mere thought of them made his heart
leap. The only obstacle, of course, lay in those glaciers, and he
began to wonder if they could not be made to open. Why not? No
one knew positively that they were impregnable, for no one knew
anything certainly about them. Until the contrary had been proven
there was at least a possibility that they were less formidable
than rumor had painted them.

Camp was pitched late that night far out on the flats. During the
preparation of supper Murray sat staring fixedly before him, deaf
to all sounds and insensible to the activities of his companions.
He had lost his customary breeziness and his good nature; he was
curt, saturnine, unsmiling. Appleton undertook to arouse him from
this abstraction, but Slater drew the young man aside hurriedly
with a warning,

"Don't do that, son, or you'll wear splints for the rest of the
trip."

"What's the matter with him, anyhow?" Dan inquired. "He was
boiling over with enthusiasm all day, but now--Why, he's asleep
sitting up! He hasn't moved for twenty minutes."

Tom shook his head, dislodging a swarm of mosquitoes.

"Walk on your toes, my boy! Walk on your toes! I smell something
cooking--and it ain't supper."

When food was served O'Neil made a pretense of eating, but rose
suddenly in the midst of it, with the words:

"I'll stretch my legs a bit." His voice was strangely listless;
in his eyes was the same abstraction which had troubled Appleton
during the afternoon. He left the camp and disappeared up the
bank of the stream.

"Nice place to take a walk!" the engineer observed. "He'll bog
down in half a mile or get lost among the sloughs."

"Not him!" said Slater. Nevertheless, his worried eyes followed
the figure of his chief as long as it was in sight. After a time
he announced: "Something is coming, but what it is or where it's
going to hit us I don't know."

Their meal over, the boatmen made down their beds, rolled up in
their blankets, and were soon asleep. Appleton and Tom sat in the
smoke of a smudge, gossiping idly as the twilight approached.
From the south came the distant voice of the sea, out of the
north rolled the intermittent thunder of those falling bergs,
from every side sounded a harsh chorus of water-fowl. Ducks
whirred past in bullet-like flight, honkers flapped heavily
overhead, a pair of magnificent snow-white swans soared within
easy gunshot of the camp. An hour passed, another, and another;
the arctic night descended. And through it all the mosquitoes
sang their blood song and stabbed the watchers with tongues of
flame.

"Happy Tom" sang his song, too, for it was not often that he
obtained a listener, and it proved to be a song of infinite hard
luck. Mr. Slater, it seemed, was a creature of many ills, the
wretched abiding-place of aches and pains, of colics, cramps, and
rheumatism. He was the target of misfortune and the sport of
fate. His body was the galloping-ground of strange disorders
which baffled diagnosis; his financial affairs were dominated by
an evil genius which betrayed him at every turn. To top it all,
he suffered at the moment a violent attack of indigestion.

"Ain't that just my luck?" he lamented. "Old 'Indy's got me good,
and there ain't a bit of soda in the outfit."

Appleton, who was growing more and more uneasy at the absence of
his leader, replied with some asperity:

"Instead of dramatizing your own discomforts you'd better be
thinking of the boss. I'm going out to look for him."

"Now don't be a dam' fool," Slater advised. "It would be worth a
broken leg to annoy him when he's in one of these fits. You'd
make yourself as popular as a smallpox patient at a picnic. When
he's dreamed his dream he'll be back."

"When will that be?"

"No telling--maybe to-night, maybe to-morrow night."

"And what are we going to do in the mean time?"

"Sit tight." Mr. Slater chewed steadily and sighed. "No soda in
camp, and this gum don't seem to lay hold of me! That's luck!"

Darkness had settled when O'Neil reappeared. He came plunging out
of the brush, drenched, muddy, stained by contact with the
thickets; but his former mood had disappeared and in its place
was a harsh, explosive energy.

"Tom!" he cried. "You and Appleton and I will leave at daylight.
The men will wait here until we get back." His voice was
incisive, its tone forbade question.

The youthful engineer stared at him in dismay, for only his
anxiety had triumphed over his fatigue, and daylight was but four
hours away. O'Neil noted the expression, and said, more gently:

"You're tired, Appleton, I know, but in working for me you'll be
called upon for extraordinary effort now and then. I may not
demand more than an extra hour from you; then again I may demand
a week straight without sleep. I'll never ask it unless it's
necessary and unless I'm ready to do my share."

"Yes, sir."

"The sacrifice is big, but the pay is bigger. Loyalty is all I
require."

"I'm ready now, sir."

"We can't see to travel before dawn. Help Tom load the lightest
boat with rations for five days. If we run short we'll 'Siwash'
it." He kicked off his rubber boots, up-ended them to drain the
water out, then flung himself upon his bed of boughs and was
asleep almost before the two had recovered from their surprise.

"Five days--or longer!" Slater said, gloomily, as he and Dan
began their preparations. "And me with indigestion!"

"What does it mean?" queried Appleton.

"It means I'll probably succumb."

"No, no! What's the meaning of this change of plan? I can't
understand it."

"You don't need to," "Happy Tom" informed him, curtly. There was
a look of solicitude in his face as he added, "I wish I'd made
him take off his wet clothes before he went to sleep."

"Let's wake him up."

But Slater shook his head. "I'd sooner wake a rattlesnake," said
he.

O'Neil roused the members of his expedition while the sky was
reddening faintly, for he had a mind which worked like an alarm-
clock. All except Appleton had worked for him before, and the men
accepted his orders to await his return with no appearance of
surprise.

With the first clear light he and his two companions set out,
rowing up the estuary of the Salmon until the current became too
swift to stem in that manner. Then landing, they rigged a
"bridle" for the skiff, fitted their shoulders to loops in a
ninety-foot tow rope, and began to "track" their craft up against
the stream. It was heartbreaking work. Frequently they were
waist-deep in the cold water. Long "sweepers" with tips awash in
the flood interfered with their efforts. The many branches of the
stream forced them to make repeated crossings, for the delta was
no more than an endless series of islands through which the
current swirled. When dusk overtook them they were wet, weary,
and weak from hunger. With the dawn they were up and at it again,
but their task became constantly more difficult because of the
floating glacier ice, which increased with every mile. They were
obliged to exercise the extremest caution. Hour after hour they
strained against the current, until the ropes bit into their
aching flesh, bringing raw places out on neck and palm. Hour
after hour the ice, went churning past, and through it all came
the intermittent echo of the caving glaciers ahead of them.

Dan Appleton realized very soon whither the journey was leading,
and at thought of actually facing those terrors which loomed so
large in conjecture his pulses began to leap. He had a suspicion
of O'Neil's intent, but dared not voice it. Though the scheme
seemed mad enough, its very audacity fascinated him. It would be
worth while to take part in such an undertaking, even if it ended
in failure. And somehow, against his judgment, he felt that his
leader would find a way.

For the most part, O'Neil was as silent as a man of stone, and
only on those rare occasions when he craved relief from his
thoughts did he encourage Dan to talk. Then he sometimes
listened, but more frequently he did not. Slater had long since
become a dumb draught animal, senseless to discomfort except in
the hour of relaxation when he monotonously catalogued his ills.

"Are you a married man?" O'Neil inquired once of Dan.

"Not yet, sir."

"Family?"

"Sure! A great big, fine one, consisting of a sister. But she's
more than a family--she's a religion." Receiving encouragement
from his employer's look of interest, he continued: "We were
wiped out by the San Francisco earthquake, and stood in the bread
line for a while. We managed to save four thousand dollars from
the wreck, which we divided equally. Then we started out to make
our fortunes. It was her idea."

"You came to Cortez?"

"Yes. Money was so easy for me that I lost all respect for it.
The town rang with my mirth for a while. I was an awful fool."

"Education!"

"Now it's my ambition to get settled and have her with me. I
haven't had a good laugh, a hearty meal, or a Christian impulse
since I left her."

"What did she do with her half of the fortune?"

"Invested it wisely and went to work. I bought little round
celluloid disks with mine; she bought land of some sort with
hers. She's a newspaper woman, and the best in the world--or at
least the best in Seattle. She wrote that big snow-slide story
for The Review last fall. She tells 'em how to raise eight babies
on seven dollars a week, or how to make a full set of library
furniture out of three beer kegs, a packing-case, and an
epileptic icebox. She runs the 'Domestic Economy' column; and
she's the sweetest, the cleverest, the most stunning--"

Appleton's enthusiastic tribute ceased suddenly, for he saw that
O'Neil was once more deaf and that his eyes were fixed dreamily
upon the canon far ahead.

As the current quickened the progress of the little party became
slower and more exhausting. Their destination seemed to retreat
before them; the river wound back and forth in a maddening series
of detours. Some of the float ice was large now, and these pieces
rushed down upon them like charging horses, keeping them
constantly on the alert to prevent disaster. It seemed impossible
that such a flat country could afford so much fall. "Happy Tom"
at length suggested that they tie up and pack the remaining miles
overland, but O'Neil would not hear to this.

They had slept so little, their labors had been so heavy, that
they were dumb and dull with fatigue when they finally reached
the first bluffs and worked their boat through a low gorge where
all the waters of the Salmon thrashed and icebergs galloped past
like a pallid host in flight. Here they paused and stared with
wondering eyes at what lay before; a chill, damp breath swept
over them, and a mighty awe laid hold of their hearts.

"Come on!" said O'Neil. "Other men have gone through; we'll do
the same,"

On the evening of the sixth day a splintered, battered poling-
boat with its seams open swung in to the bank where O'Neil's men
were encamped, and its three occupants staggered out. They were
gaunt and stiff and heavy-eyed. Even Tom Slater's full cheeks
hung loose and flabby. But the leader was alert and buoyant; his
face was calm, his eyes were smiling humorously.

"You'll take the men on to the coal-fields and finish the work,"
he told his boss packer later that night. "Appleton and I will
start back to Cortez in the morning. When you have finished go to
Juneau and see to the recording."

"Ain't that my luck?" murmured the dyspeptic. "Me for Kyak where
there ain't a store, and my gum all wet."

"Chew it, paper and all," advised Appleton, cheerfully.

"Oh, the good has all gone out of it now," Slater explained.

"Meet me in Seattle on the fifteenth of next month," his employer
directed.

"I'll be there if old 'Indy' spares me. But dyspepsia, with
nothing to eat except beans and pork bosom, will probably lay me
in my grave long before the fifteenth. However, I'll do my best.
Now, do you want to know what I think of this proposition of
yours?" He eyed his superior somberly.

"Sure; I want all the encouragement I can get, and your views are
always inspiriting."

"Well, I think it's nothing more nor less than hydrophobia. These
mosquitoes have given you the rabies and you need medical
attention. You need it bad."

"Still, you'll help me, won't you?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, "I'll help you. But it's a pity to see a man
go mad."




VII

THE DREAM


The clerk of the leading hotel in Seattle whirled his register
about as a man deposited a weather-beaten war-bag on the marble
floor and leaned over the counter to inquire:

"Is Murray O'Neil here?"

This question had been asked repeatedly within the last two
hours, but heretofore by people totally different in appearance
from the one who spoke now. The man behind the desk measured the
stranger with a suspicious eye before answering. He saw a ragged,
loose-hung, fat person of melancholy countenance, who was booted
to the knee and chewing gum.

"Mr. O'Neil keeps a room here by the year," he replied,
guardedly.

"Show me up!" said the new-comer as if advancing a challenge.

A smart reply was on the lips of the clerk, but something in the
other's manner discouraged flippancy.

"You are a friend of Mr. O'Neil's?" he asked, politely.

"Friend? Um-m, no! I'm just him when he ain't around." In a loud
tone he inquired of the girl at the news-stand, "Have you got any
wintergreen

"Mr. O'Neil is not here."

The fat man stared at his informant accusingly, "Ain't this the
fifteenth?" he asked.

"It is."

"Then he's here, all right!"

"Mr. O'Neil is not in," the clerk repeated, gazing fixedly over
Mr. Slater's left shoulder.

"Well, I guess his room will do for me. I ain't particular."

"His room is occupied at present. If you care to wait you will
find--"

Precisely what it was that he was to find Tom never learned, for
at that moment the breath was driven out of his lungs by a
tremendous whack, and he turned to behold Dr. Stanley Gray
towering over him, an expansive smile upon his face.

"Look out!" Slater coughed, and seized his Adam's apple. "You
made me swallow my cud." The two shook hands warmly.

"We've been expecting you, Tom," said the Doctor. "We're all here
except Parker, and he wired he'd arrive to-morrow,"

"Where's Murray?"

"He's around somewhere."

Slater turned a resentful, smoldering gaze upon the hotel clerk,
and looked about him for a chair with a detachable leg, but the
object of his regard disappeared abruptly behind the key-rack.

"This rat-brained party said he hadn't come."

"He arrived this morning, but we've barely seen him."

"I left Appleton in Juneau. He'll be down on the next boat."

"Appleton? Who's he?" Dr. Gray inquired.

"Oh, he's a new member of the order--initiated last month. He's
learning to be a sleep-hater, like the rest of us. He's recording
the right-of-way."

"What's in the air? None of us know. We didn't even know Murray's
whereabouts--thought he was in Kyak, until he sounded the tocsin
from New York. The other boys have quit their jobs and I've sold
my practice."

"It's a railroad!"

Dr. Gray grinned. "Well! That's the tone I use when I break the
news that it's a girl instead of a boy."

"It's a railroad," Slater repeated, "up the Salmon River!"

"Good Lord! What about those glaciers?"

"Oh, it ain't so much the glaciers and the floating icebergs and
the raging chasms and the quaking tundra--Murray thinks he can
overcome them--it's the mosquitoes and the Copper Trust that are
going to figure in this enterprise. One of 'em will be the death
of me, and the other will bust Murray s if he don't look out.
Say, my neck is covered with bumps till it feels like a dog-
collar of seed pearls."

"Do you think we'll have a fight?" asked the doctor, hopefully.

"A fight! It'll be the worst massacre since the Little Big Horn.
We're surrounded already, and no help in sight."

O'Neil found his "boys" awaiting him when he returned to his
room. There was Mellen, lean, gaunt and serious-minded, with the
dust of Chihuahua still upon his shoes; there were McKay, the
superintendent, who had arrived from California that morning;
Sheldon, the commissary man; Elkins; "Doc" Gray; and "Happy Tom"
Slater. Parker, the chief engineer, alone was absent.

"I sent Appleton in from Cortez," he told them, "to come down the
river and make the preliminary survey into Omar. He cables me
that he has filed his locations and everything is O. K. On my way
East I stopped here long enough to buy the Omar cannery, docks,
buildings, and town site. It's all mine, and it will save us
ninety days' work in getting started."

"What do you make of that tundra between Omar and the canon?"
queried McKay, who had crossed the Salmon River delta and knew
its character. "It's like calf's-foot jelly--a man bogs down to
his waist in it."

"We'll fill and trestle," said O'Neil.

"We couldn't move a pile-driver twenty feet."

"It's frozen solid in winter."

McKay nodded. "We'll have to drive steam points ahead of every
pile, I suppose, and we'll need Eskimos to work in that cold, but
I guess we can manage somehow."

"That country is like an apple pie," said Tom Slater--"it's
better cold than hot. There's a hundred inches of rainfall at
Omar in summer. We'll all have web feet when we get out."

Sheldon, the light-hearted commissary man, spoke up. "If it's as
wet as all that, well need Finns--instead of Eskimos." He was
promptly hooted into silence.

"I understand those glaciers come down to the edge of the river,"
the superintendent ventured.

"They do!" O'Neil acknowledged, "and they're the liveliest ones I
ever saw. Tom can answer for that. One of them is fully four
hundred feet high at the face and four miles across. They're
constantly breaking, too."

"Lumps bigger than this hotel," supplemented Slater. "It's quite
a sight--equal to anything in the state of Maine."

O'Neil laughed with the others at this display of sectional
pride, and then explained: "The problem of passing them sounds
difficult, but in reality it isn't. If those other engineers had
looked over the ground as I did, instead of relying entirely upon
hearsay, we wouldn't be meeting here to-day. Of course I realized
that we couldn't build a road over a moving river of ice, nor in
front of one, for that matter, but I discovered that Nature had
made us one concession. She placed her glaciers on opposite sides
of the valley, to be sure, but she placed the one that comes in
from the east bank slightly higher upstream than the one that
comes in from the west. They don't really face each other,
although from the sea they appear to do so. You see the answer?"
His hearers nodded vigorously. "If we cross the river, low down,
by a trestle, and run up the east bank past Jackson glacier until
we are stopped by Garfield--the upper one--then throw a bridge
directly across, and back to the side we started from, we miss
them both and have the river always between them and us. Above
the upper crossing there will be a lot of heavy rock work to do,
but nothing unusual, and, once through the gorge, we come out
into the valley, where the other roads run in from Cortez. They
cross three divides, while we run through on a one-per-cent
grade. That will give us a downhill pull on all heavy freight."
"Sounds as simple as a pair of suspenders, doesn't it?" inquired
Slater. "But wait till you see it. The gorge below Niagara is
stagnant water compared with the cataract above those glaciers.
It takes two looks to see the top of the mountains. And those
glaciers themselves--Well! Language just gums up and sticks when
it comes to describing them."

Mellen, the bridge-builder, spoke for the first time, and the
others listened.

"As I understand it we will cross the river between the glaciers
and immediately below the upper one."

"Exactly!"

He shook his head. "We can't build piers to withstand those heavy
bergs which you tell me are always breaking off."

"I'll explain how we can," said O'Neil. "You've hit the bull's-
eye--the tender spot in the whole enterprise. While the river is
narrow and rapid in front of Jackson--the lower glacier--opposite
Garfield there is a kind of lake, formed, I suppose, when the
glacier receded from its original position. Now then, here lies
the joker, the secret of the whole proposition. This lake is
deep, but there is a shallow bar across its outlet which serves
to hold back all but the small bergs. This gives us a chance to
cross in safety. At first I was puzzled to discover why only the
ice from the lower glacier came down-river; then, when I realized
the truth, I knew I had the key to Alaska in my hands. We'll
cross just below this bar. Understand? Of course it all depends
upon Parker's verdict, but I'm so sure his will agree with mine
that I've made my preparations, bought Omar and gathered you
fellows together. We're going to spring the biggest coup in
railroad history."

"Where's the money coming from?" Slater inquired, bluntly.

"I'm putting in my own fortune." "How much is that? I'm dead to
all sense of modesty, you see."

"About a million dollars," said O'Neil.

"Humph! That won't get us started."

"I've raised another million in New York." The chief was smiling
and did not seem to resent this inquisitiveness in the least.

"Nothing but a shoe-string!"

"My dear 'Happy,'" laughed the builder, "I don't intend to
complete the road."

"Then--why in blazes are you starting it?" demanded Slater in a
bewilderment which the others evidently shared. "It's one thing
to build a railroad on a contractor's commission, but it's
another thing to build it and pay your own way as you go along.
Half a railroad ain't any good."

"Once my right-of-way is filed it will put those projects from
Cortez out of business. No one but an imbecile would think of
building in from there with the Omar route made possible. Before
we come to that Salmon River bridge the Copper Trust will have to
buy us out!"

"That's language!" said "Happy Tom" in sudden admiration. "Those
are words I understand. I withdraw my objections and give my
consent to the deal."

"You are staking your whole fortune on your judgment, as I
understand it," McKay ventured.

"Every dollar of it," Murray answered.

"Say, chief, that's gambling some!" young Sheldon remarked with a
wondering look.

They were deep in their discussion when the telephone broke in
noisily. Sheldon, being nearest to the instrument, answered it.
"There's a newspaper reporter downstairs to interview you," he
announced, after an instant.

"I don't grant interviews," O'Neil said, sharply. He could not
guess by what evil chance the news of his plans had leaked out.

"Nothing doing!" Sheldon spoke into the transmitter. He turned
again to his employer. "Operator says the party doesn't mind
waiting."

O'Neil frowned impatiently.

"Throw him out!" Sheldon directed, brusquely, then suddenly
dropped the receiver as if it had burnt his fingers. "Hell! It's
a woman, Murray! She's on the wire. She thanks you sweetly and
says she'll wait."

"A woman! A newspaper woman!" O'Neil rose and seized the
instrument roughly. His voice was freezing as he said: "Hello! I
refuse to be interviewed. Yes! There's no use_--" His tone
suddenly altered. "Miss Appleton! I beg your pardon. I'll be
right down." Turning to his subordinates, he announced with a wry
smile: "This seems to terminate our interview. She's Dan
Appleton's sister, and therefore--" He shrugged resignedly. "Now
run along. I'll see you in the morning."

His "boys" made their way down to the street, talking guardedly
as they went. All were optimistic save Slater, whose face
remained shrouded in its customary gloom.

"Cheer up, 'Happy'!" Dr. Gray exhorted him. "It's the biggest
thing we ever tackled."

"Wait! Just wait till you've seen the place," Tom said.

"Don't you think it can be done?"

"Nope!"

"Come, come!"

"It's impossible! Of course WE'LL do it, but it's impossible,
just the same. It will mean a scrap, too, like none of us ever
saw, and I was raised in a logging-camp where fighting is the
general recreation. If I was young, like the rest of you, I
wouldn't mind; but I'm old--and my digestion's gone. I can't
hardly take care of myself any more, Doc. I'm too feeble to fight
or--" He signaled a passing car; it failed to stop and he rushed
after it, dodging vehicles with the agility of a rabbit and
swinging his heavy war-bag as if it weighed no more than a good
resolution.

O'Neil entered the ladies' parlor with a feeling of extreme
annoyance, expecting to meet an inquisitive, bold young woman
bent upon exploiting his plans and his personality in the usual
inane journalistic fashion. He was surprised and offended that
Dan Appleton, in whom he had reposed the utmost faith, should
have betrayed his secret. Publicity was a thing he detested at
all times, and at present he particularly dreaded its effect. But
he was agreeably surprised in the girl who came toward him
briskly with hand outstretched.

Miss Appleton was her brother's double; she had his frank blue
eyes, his straw-gold hair, his humorous smile and wide-awake
look. She was not by any means beautiful!--her features were too
irregular, her nose too tip-tilted, her mouth too generous for
that--but she seemed crisp, clean-cut, and wholesome What first
struck O'Neil was her effect of boyishness. From the crown of her
plain straw "sailor" to the soles of her sensible walking-boots
there was no suggestion of feminine frippery. She wore a plain
shirtwaist and a tailored skirt, and her hair was arranged
simply. The wave in its pale gold was the only concession to mere
prettiness. Yet she gave no impression of deliberate masculinity.
She struck one as merely not interested in clothes, instinctively
expressing in her dress her own boyish directness and her
businesslike absorption in her work.

"You're furious, of course; anybody would be," she began, then
laughed so frankly that his eyes softened and the wrinkles at
their corners deepened.

"I fear I was rude before I learned you were Dan's sister," he
apologized. "But you see I'm a bit afraid of newspaper people."

"I knew you'd struggle--although Dan described you as a perfectly
angelic person."

"Indeed!"

"But I'm a real reporter, so I won't detain you long. I don't
care where you were born or where you went to school, or what
patent breakfast-food you eat. Tell me, are you going to build
another railroad?"

"I hope so. I'm always building roads when my bids are low enough
to secure the contracts; that's my business."

"Are you going to build one in Alaska?"

"Possibly! There seems to be an opportunity there--but Dan has
probably told you as much about that as I am at liberty to tell.
He's been over the ground."

She pursed her lips at him. "You know very well, or you ought to
know, that Dan wouldn't tell me a thing while he's working for
you. He hasn't said a word, but--Is that why you came in frowning
like a thunder-cloud? Did you think he set me on your trail?"

"I think I do know that he wouldn't do anything really
indiscreet." Murray regarded her with growing favor. There was
something about this boyish girl which awakened the same
spontaneous liking he had felt upon his first meeting with her
brother. He surprised her by confessing boldly:

"I AM building a railroad--to the interior of Alaska. I've been
east and raised the money, my men are here; we'll begin
operations at once."

"That's what Mr. Gordon told me about his scheme, but he hasn't
done much, so far."

"My line will put his out of business, also that of the Trust,
and the various wildcat promoters."

"Where does your road start from?"

"The town of Omar, on King Phillip Sound, near Hope and Cortez.
It will run up the Salmon River and past the glaciers which those
other men refused to tackle."

"If I weep, it is for joy," said the girl. "I don't like Curtis
Gordon. I call him Simon Legree."

"Why?"

"Well, he impresses me as a real old-time villain--with the
riding-boots and the whip and all that. 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' is my
favorite play, it's so funny. This is a big story you've given
me, Mr. O'Neil."

"I realize that."

"It has the biggest news value of anything Alaskan which has
'broken' for some time. I think you are a very nice person to
interview, after all."

"Wait! I don't want you to use a word of what I've told you."

Miss Appleton's clearly penciled brows rose inquiringly. "Then
why didn't you keep still?"

"You asked me. I told you because you are Dan Appleton's sister.
Nevertheless, I don't want it made public."

"Let's sit down," said the girl with a laugh. "To tell you the
truth, I didn't come here to interview you for my paper. I'm
afraid I've tried your patience awfully." A faint flush tinged
her clear complexion. "I just came, really, to get some news of
Dan."

"He's perfectly well and happy, and you'll see him in a few
days." Miss Appleton nodded. "So he wrote, but I couldn't wait!
Now won't you tell me all about him--not anything about his looks
and his health, but little unimportant things that will mean
something. You see, I'm his mother and his sister and his
sweetheart."

O'Neil did as he was directed and before long found himself
reciting the details of that trying trip up the Salmon River. He
told her how he had sent the young engineer out to run the
preliminary survey for the new railroad, and added: "He is in a
fair way to realize his ambition of having you with him all the
time. I'm sure that will please you."

"And it is my ambition to make enough money to have him with me,"
she announced. With an air of some importance she continued:
"I'll tell you a secret: I'm writing for the magazines--stories!"
She sat back awaiting his enthusiasm. When she saw that it was
not forthcoming she exclaimed: "My! How you do rave over the
idea!"

"I congratulate you, of course, but--"

"Now don't tell me that you tried it once. Of course you did. I
know it's a harmless disease, like the measles, and that
everybody has it when they're young. Above all, don't volunteer
the information that your own life is full of romance and would
make a splendid novel. They all say that."

Murray O'Neil felt the glow of personal interest that results
from the discovery in another of a congenial sense of humor.

"I didn't suppose you had to write," he said. "Dan told me you
had invested your fortune and were on Easy Street."

"That was poetic license. I fictionized slightly in my report to
him because I knew he was doing so well."

"Then your investment didn't turn out fortunately?"

Miss Appleton hesitated. "You seem to be a kindly, trusting
person. I'm tempted to destroy your faith in human nature."

"Please don't."

"Yes, I shall. My experience may help you to avoid the pitfalls
of high finance. Well, then, it was a very sad little fortune, to
begin with, like a boy in grammar-school--just big enough to be
of no assistance. But even a boy's-size fortune looked big to me.
I wanted to invest it in something sure--no national-bank stock,
subject to the danger of an absconding cashier, mind you; no
government bonds with the possibility of war to depreciate them;
but something stable and agricultural, with the inexhaustible
resources of nature back of it. This isn't my own language. I
cribbed it from the apple-man."

"Apple-man?"

"Yes. He had brown eyes, and a silky mustache, and a big
irrigation plan over east of the mountains. You gave him your
money and he gave you a perfectly good receipt. Then he planted
little apple trees. He nursed them tenderly for five years, after
which he turned them over to you with his blessing, and you lived
happily for evermore. At least that was the idea. You couldn't
fail to grow rich, for the water always bubbled through his
little ditch and it never froze nor rained to spoil things, I
used to love apples. And then there was my name, which seemed a
good omen. But lately I've considered changing 'Appleton' to
'Berry' or 'Plummer' or some other kind of fruit."

"I infer that the scheme failed." O'Neil's eyes were half closed
with amusement.

"Yes. It was a good scheme, too, except for the fact that the
irrigation ditch ran uphill, and that there wasn't any water
where it started from, and that apples never had been made to
grow in that locality because of something in the soil, and that
Brown-eyed Betty's title to the land wouldn't hold water any
more than the ditch. Otherwise I'm sure he'd have made a success
and I'd have spent my declining years in a rocking-chair under
the falling apple blossoms, eating Pippins and Jonathans and
Northern Spies. I can't bear to touch them now. Life at my
boarding-house is one long battle against apple pies, apple
puddings, apple tapioca. Ugh! I hate the very word."

"I can understand your aversion," laughed O'Neil. "I wonder if
you would let me order dinner for both of us, provided I taboo
fruit. Perhaps I'll think of something more to tell you about
Dan. I'm sure he wouldn't object--"

"Oh, my card is all the chaperon I need; it takes me everywhere
and renders me superior to the smaller conventionalities." She
handed him one, and he read:

ELIZA V. APPLETON

THE REVIEW

"May I ask what the 'V' stands for?" He held up the card between
his thumb and finger.

Miss Appleton blushed, for all the world like a boy, then
answered, stiffly:

"It stands for Violet. But that isn't my fault, and I'm doing my
best to live it down."




VIII

IN WHICH WE COME TO OMAR


"Miss Appleton," said the editor of The Review, "would you like
to take a vacation?"

"Is that your delicate way of telling me I'm discharged?"
inquired Eliza.

"You know very well we wouldn't fire you. But you haven't had a
vacation for three years, and you need a rest."

"I thought I was looking extremely well, for me."

"We're going to send you on an assignment--to Alaska--if you'll
go."

"I'm thinking of quitting newspaper-work for good. The magazines
pay better, and I'm writing a book."

"I know. Perhaps this will just fit in with your plans, for it
has to do with your pet topic of conservation. Those forestry
stories of yours and the article on the Water Power Combination
made a hit, didn't they?"

"I judge so. Anyhow the magazine people want more."

"Good! Here's your chance to do something big for yourself and
for us. Those Alaskan coal claimants have been making a great
effort in Washington to rush their patents through, and there
seems to be some possibility of their succeeding unless the
public wakes up. We want to show up the whole fraudulent affair,
show how the entries were illegal, and how the agents of the
Trust are trying to put over the greatest steal of the century.
It's the Heidlemanns that are back of it--and a few fellows like
Murray O'Neil."

"O'Neil!"

"You know him, don't you?"

"Yes. I interviewed him a year ago last spring, when he started
his railroad."

"He's fighting for one of the biggest and richest groups of
claims. He's backed by some Eastern people. It's the
psychological moment to expose both the railroad and the coal
situation, for the thieves are fighting among themselves--Gordon,
O'Neil, and the Heidlemanns."

"Mr. O'Neil is no thief," said the girl, shortly.

"Of course not. He's merely trying to snatch control of an
empire, and to grab ten million dollars' worth of coal, for
nothing. That's not theft, it's financial genius! Fortunately,
however, the public is rousing itself--coming to regard its
natural resources as its own and not the property of the first
financier who lays hold of them. Call it what you will, but give
us the true story of the Kyak coal and, above all, the story of
the railroad battle. Things are growing bitter up there already,
and they're bound to get rapidly worse. Give us the news and
we'll play it up big through our Eastern syndicate. You can
handle the magazine articles in a more dignified way, if you
choose. A few good vigorous, fearless, newspaper stories, written
by some one on the ground, will give Congress such a jolt that no
coal patents will be issued this season and no Government aid
will be given to the railroads. You get the idea?"

"Certainly! But it will take time to do all that."

"Spend a year at it if necessary. The Review is fighting for a
principle; it will back you to any extent. Isn't it worth a year,
two years, of hard labor, to awaken the American people to the
knowledge that they are being robbed of their birthright? I have
several men whom I could send, but I chose you because your work
along this line has given you a standing. This is your chance,
Eliza--to make a big reputation and to perform a real service to
the country. It's a chance that may never come your way again.
Will you go?"

"Of course I'll go."

"I knew you would. You're all business, and that's what makes a
hit in this office. You're up against a tough proposition, but I
can trust you to make good on it. You can't fail if you play one
interest against the other, for they're all fighting like
Kilkenny cats. The Heidlemanns are a bunch of bandits; Gordon is
a brilliant, unscrupulous promoter; O'Neil is a cold, shrewd
schemer with more brains and daring than any of the others--he
showed that when he walked in there and seized the Salmon River
canon. He broke up all their plans and set the Copper Trust by
the ears, but I understand they've got him bottled up at last.
Here's your transportation--on Saturday's steamer." The editor
shook Miss Appleton's hand warmly as she rose. "Good luck, Eliza!
Remember, we won't balk, no matter how lively your stuff is. The
hotter the better--and that's what the magazines want, too. If I
were you, I'd gum-shoe it. They're a rotten crowd and they might
send you back if they got wise."

"I think not," said Eliza, quietly.

The town of Omar lay drenched in mist as the steamer bearing the
representative of The Review drew in at the dock. The whole
region was sodden and rain-soaked, verdant with a lush growth. No
summer sun shone here, to bake sprouting leaves or sear tender
grasses. Beneath the sheltering firs a blanket of moss extended
over hill and vale, knee-deep and treacherous to the foot. The
mountain crests were white, and down every gully streamed water
from the melting snows. The country itself lay on end, as if
crumpled by some giant hand, and presented a tropical blend of
colors. There was the gray of fog and low-swept clouds, the
dense, dark green of the spruces, underlaid with the richer,
lighter shades where the summer vegetation rioted. And running
through it all were the shimmering, silent reaches of the sound.

Omar itself was a mushroom city, sprung up by magic, as if the
dampness at its roots had caused it to rise overnight. A sawmill
shrieked complainingly; a noisy switch-engine shunted rows of
flat cars back and forth, tooting lustily; the rattle of steam-
winches and the cries of stevedores from a discharging freighter
echoed against the hillsides. Close huddled at the water-front
lay the old cannery buildings, greatly expanded and multiplied
now and glistening with fresh paint. Back of them again lay the
town, its stumpy, half-graded streets terminating in the forest
like the warty feelers of a stranded octopus. Everywhere was
hurry and confusion, and over all was the ever-present shroud of
mist which thickened into showers or parted reluctantly to let
the sun peep through.

Dan Appleton, his clothing dewy from the fog, his cheeks bronzed
by exposure, was over the rail before the ship had made fast, and
had Eliza in his arms, crushing her with the hug of a bear.

"Come up to the house, Sis, quick!" he cried, when the first
frenzy of greeting was over--"your house and mine!" His eyes were
dancing, his face was alight with eagerness.

"But, Danny," she laughed, squeezing his arm tenderly, "you live
with Mr. O'Neil and all those other men in a horrible, crawling
bunk-house."

"Oh, do I? I'll have you know that our bunk-houses don't crawl.
And besides--But wait! It's a s'prise."

"A s'prise?" she queried, eagerly. "For me?"

He nodded.

"Tell me what it is, quick! You know I never could wait for
s'prises."

"Well, it's a brand-new ultra-stylish residence for just you and
me. When the chief heard you were coming he had a cottage built."

"Danny! It was only five days ago that I cabled you!"

"That's really ten days for us, for you see we never sleep. It is
finished and waiting, and your room is in white, and the paint
will be dry to-morrow. He's a wonder!"

Remembering the nature of her mission, Eliza demurred. "I'm
afraid I can't live there, Dan. You know"--she hesitated--"I may
have to write some rather dreadful things about him."

"What?" Dan's face fell. "You are going to attack the chief! I
had no idea of that!" He looked genuinely distressed and a little
stern.

She laid a pleading hand upon his arm. "Forgive me, Dan," she
said. "I knew how you would feel, and, to tell the truth, I don't
like that part of it one bit. But it was my big chance--the sort
of thing I have been waiting years for. I couldn't bear to miss
it." There was a suspicion of tears in her eyes. "I didn't think
it all out. I just came. Things get awfully mixed, don't they? Of
course I wouldn't attack him unfairly, but I do believe in
conservation--and what could I do but come here to you?"

Dan smiled to reassure her. "Perhaps you won't feel like
excoriating him when you learn more about things. I know you
wouldn't be unfair. You'd flunk the job first. Wait till you talk
to him. But you can't refuse his kindness, for a time at least.
There's nowhere else for you to stay, and Murray would pick you
up and put you into the cottage, muck-rake and all, if I didn't.
He had to go out on the work this morning or he'd have been here
to welcome you. He sent apologies and said a lot of nice things,
which I've forgotten."

"Well"--Eliza still looked troubled--"all right. But wait," she
cried, with a swift change of mood. "I've made a little friend,
the dearest, the most useless creature! We shared the same
stateroom and we're sisters. She actually says I'm pretty, so of
course I'm her slave for life." She hurried away in the midst of
Dan's loyal protestations that she WAS pretty--more beautiful
than the stars, more pleasing to the eye than the orchids of
Brazil. A moment later she reappeared to present Natalie Gerard.

Dan greeted the new arrival with a cordiality in which there was
a trace of shyness unusual with him. "We've made quite a change
since you were up here, Miss Gerard," he remarked. "The ships
stop first at Omar now, you see. I trust it won't inconvenience
you."

"Not in the least," said Natalie. "I shall arrive at Hope quite
soon enough." "Omar Khayyam is out in the wilderness somewhere,"
Eliza informed her girl friend, "with his book of verses and his
jug of wine, I suppose."

"Mr. O'Neil?"

"Yes. But he'll be back soon, and meanwhile you are to come up
and see our paradise."

"It--looks terribly wet," Natalie ventured. "Perhaps we'd better
wait until the rain stops."

"Please don't," Dan laughed. "It won't stop until autumn and then
it will only change to snow. We don't have much sunshine--"

"You must! You're tanned like an Indian," his sister exclaimed.

"That's rust! O'Neil wanted to get a record of the bright weather
in Omar, so he put a man on the job to time it, but the
experiment failed!"

"How so?"

"We didn't have a stop-watch in town. Now come! Nobody ever
catches cold here--there isn't time."

He led the two girls ashore and up through the town to a moss-
green bungalow, its newness attested by the yellow sawdust and
fresh shavings which lay about. Amid their exclamations of
delight he showed them the neatly furnished interior, and among
other wonders a bedroom daintily done in white, with white
curtains at the mullioned windows and a suite of wicker
furniture.

"Where he dug all that up I don't know," Dan said, pointing to
the bed and dresser and chairs. "He must have had it hidden out
somewhere."

Eliza surveyed this chamber with wondering eyes. "It makes me
feel quite ashamed," she said, "though, of course, he did it for
Dan. When he discovers my abominable mission he'll probably set
me out in the rain and break all my lead-pencils. But--isn't he
magnificent?"

"He quite overwhelms one," Natalie agreed. "Back in New York,
he's been sending me American Beauties every week for more than a
year. It's his princely way." She colored slightly, despite the
easy frankness of her manner.

"Oh, he's always doing something like that," Dan informed them,
whereupon his sister exclaimed:

"You see, Natalie! The man is a viper. If he let his beard grow
I'm sure we'd see it was blue."

"You shall have an opportunity of judging," came O'Neil's voice
from behind them, and he entered with hands outstretched, smiling
at their surprise. When he had expressed his pleasure at
Natalie's presence and had bidden both her and Eliza welcome to
Omar, he explained:

"I've just covered eighteen miles on a railroad tricycle and my
back is broken. The engines were busy, but I came, anyhow, hoping
to arrive before the steamer. Now what is this I hear about my
beard?"

It was Eliza's turn to blush, and she outdid Natalie.

"They were raving about your gallantry," said Dan with all a
brother's ruthlessness, "until I told them it was merely a habit
of mind with you; then Sis called you a Bluebeard."

O'Neil smiled, stroking his stubbly chin. "You see it's only
gray."

"I--don't see," said Eliza, still flushing furiously.

"You would if I continued to let it grow."

"Hm-m! I think, myself, it's a sort of bluish gray," said Dan.

"You are still working miracles," Natalie told O'Neil, an hour
later, while he was showing his visitors the few sights of Omar--
"miracles of kindness, as usual."

Dan and his sister were following at a distance, arm in arm and
chattering like magpies.

"No, no! That cottage is nothing. Miss Appleton had to have some
place to stop."

"This all seems like magic." Natalie paused and looked over the
busy little town. "And to think you have done it in a year."

"It was not I who did it; the credit belongs to those 'boys' of
whom I told you. They are all here, by the way--Parker, McKay,
Mellen, Sheldon, 'Doc' Gray--he has the hospital, you know."

"And Mr. Slater?"

"Oh, we couldn't exist without 'Happy Tom'! No, the only miracle
about all this is the loyalty that has made it possible. It is
that which has broken all records in railroad-building; that's
what has pushed our tracks forward until we're nearly up to one
of Nature's real miracles. You shall see those glaciers, one of
these days. Sometimes I wonder if even the devotion of those men
will carry us through the final test. But--you shall meet them
all, to-night--my whole family."

"I can't. The ship leaves this afternoon."

"I've arranged to send you to Hope in my motor-boat, just as Mr.
Gordon sent me on my way a year ago. You will stay with the
Appletons to-night and help at the house-warming, then Dan will
take you on in the morning. Women are such rare guests at Omar
that we refuse to part with them. You agree?"

"How can I refuse? Your word seems to be law here. I'll send word
to mother by the ship that I am detained by royal decree."

She spoke with a gaiety that seemed a little forced, and at
mention of her departure a subtle change had come over her face.
O'Neil realized that she had matured markedly since his last
meeting with her; there was no longer quite the same effect of
naive girlishness.

"This was a very unhappy year for your loyal subject, Mr.
O'Neil."

"I'm sorry," he declared with such genuine kindliness that she
was moved to confide in him.

"Mother and I are ruined."

"Will you tell me about it?"

"It's merely--those wretched coal claims. I have a friend in the
Land Office at Washington, and, remembering what you said, I
asked him to look them up. I knew no other way to go about it. He
tells me that something was done, or was not done, by us, and
that we have lost all we put in."

"I urged Gordon to obey that ruling, last spring." Natalie saw
that his face was dark with indignation, and the knowledge that
he really cared set her heart to pounding gratefully. She was
half tempted to tell about that other, that greater trouble which
had stolen in upon her peace of mind and robbed her of her
girlhood, but she shrank from baring her wounds--above all, a
wound so vital and so personal as this.

"Does your mother know?" he queried.

"No, I preferred to tell her in Mr. Gordon's presence." Murray
noticed that she no longer called the man uncle. "But now that
the time has come, I'm frightened."

"Never allow yourself to be afraid. Fear is something false; it
doesn't exist."

"It seems to me he was--unfaithful to his trust. Am I right?"

"That is something you must judge for yourself," he told her,
gravely. "You see, I don't know anything about the reasons which
prompted him to sacrifice your rights. He may have had very good
reasons. I dare say he had. In building this railroad I have felt
but one regret; that is the indirect effect it may have upon you
and your mother. Your affairs are linked closely with Gordon's
and the success of my enterprise will mean the failure of his."

"You mustn't feel that way. I'm sure it won't affect us at all,
for we have nothing more to lose. Sometimes I think his judgment
is faulty, erratic, wonderful man though he is. Mother trusts him
blindly, of course, and so do I, yet I hardly know what to do. It
is impossible that he did worse than make a mistake."

Her dark eyes were bent upon Murray and they were eloquent with
the question which she could not bring herself to ask. He longed
to tell her frankly that Curtis Gordon was a charlatan, or even
worse, and that his fairest schemes were doomed to failure by the
very nature of his methods, but instead he said:

"I'm deeply distressed. I hope things are not as bad as you think
and that Mr. Gordon will be able to straighten them out for you.
If ever I can be of service you must be sure to call upon me."

Her thanks were conventional, but in her heart was a deep, warm
gratitude, for she knew that he meant what he said and would not
fail her.

Dan Appleton, eying Natalie and his chief from a distance,
exclaimed, admiringly:

"She's a perfect peach, Sis. She registered a home run with me
the first time at bat."

"She IS nice."

"You know a fellow gets mighty lonely in a place like this. She'd
make a dandy sister-in-law for you, wouldn't she?"

"Forget it!" said Eliza, sharply. "That's rank insubordination.
Omar Khayyam snatched her from the briny and tried to die for
her. He has bought her two acres of the most expensive roses and
he remembers the date of her birthday. Just you keep your hands
off."

"How does she feel about him?"

"Oh, she heroizes him, of course. I don't know just how deep the
feeling goes, but I got the impression that it was pretty
serious. Two women can't borrow hair-pins and mix powder puffs
for a week and remain strangers."

"Then, as for Daniel Appleton, C.E., GOOD NIGHT!" exclaimed her
brother, ruefully. "If I were a woman I'd marry him myself,
provided I could get ahead of the rush; but, being a male of the
species, I suppose I shall creep out into the jungle and sulk."

"Right-o! Don't enter this race, for I'm afraid you'd be a bad
loser! Personally I can't see anything in him to rave about. What
scares me pink is the knowledge that I must tell him the wretched
business that brings me here. If he strikes me, Danny, remember
I'm still your sister."

When the big gong gave the signal for luncheon Appleton conducted
Natalie and Eliza to the company messroom, where the field and
office force dined together, and presented them to his fellow-
lieutenants. At supper-time those who had been out on the line
during the day were likewise introduced, and after a merry meal
the whole party escorted the two girls back to the green
bungalow.

"Why, here's a piano!" Eliza exclaimed upon entering the parlor.

"I borrowed it for the evening from the Elite Saloon," O'Neil
volunteered. "It's a dissipated old instrument, and some of its
teeth have been knocked out--in drunken brawls, I'm afraid--but
the owner vouched for its behavior on this occasion."

"It knows only one tune--'I Won't Go Home until Morning,'" Dan
declared.

McKay, however, promptly disproved this assertion by seating
himself at the keyboard and rattling off some popular melodies.
With music and laughter the long twilight fled, for O'Neil's
"boys" flung themselves into the task of entertaining his guests
with whole-souled enthusiasm.

So successful were their efforts that even "Happy Tom" appeared
to derive a mild enjoyment from them, which was a testimonial
indeed. His pleasure was made evident by no word of praise, nor
faintest smile, but rather by the lightened gloom in which he
chewed his gum and by the fact that he complained of nothing. In
truth, he was not only entertained by the general gaiety, but he
was supremely interested in Miss Appleton, who resembled no
creature he had ever seen. He had met many girls like Natalie,
and feared them, but Eliza, with her straightforward airs and her
masculine mannerisms, was different. She affected him in a way at
once pleasant and disagreeable. He felt no diffidence in speaking
to her, for instance--a phenomenon which was in itself a ground
for suspicion. Then, too, her clothes--he could not take his eyes
off her clothes--were almost like Dan's. That seemed to show
common sense, but was probably only the sign of an eccentric,
domineering nature. On the other hand, the few words she
addressed to him were gracious, and her eyes had a merry twinkle
which warmed his heart. She must be all right, he reluctantly
concluded, being Dan's sister and O'Neil's friend. But deep down
in his mind he cherished a doubt.

At her first opportunity Eliza undertook to make that confession
the thought of which had troubled her all the afternoon. Drawing
O'Neil aside, she began with some trepidation, "Have you any idea
why I'm here?"

"I supposed either you or Dan had achieved your pet ambition."

"Far from it. I have a fell purpose, and when you learn what it
is I expect you to move the piano out--that's what always happens
in the play when the heroine is dispossessed. Well, then, I've
been sent by The Review to bare all the disgraceful secrets of
your life!"

"I'm delighted to learn you'll be here so long. You can't
possibly finish that task before next spring." His manner, though
quizzical, was genuinely hearty.

"Don't laugh!" said the girl. "There's nothing funny about it. I
came north as a spy."

"Then you're a Northern Spy!"

"Apples!" she cried. "You remembered, didn't you? I never
supposed men like you could be flippant. Well, here goes for the
worst." She outlined her conversation with the editor of her
paper.

"So you think I'm trying to steal Alaska," he said when she had
concluded.

"That seems to be the general idea."

"It's a pretty big job."

"Whoever controls transportation will have the country by the
throat."

"Yet somebody must build railroads, since the Government won't.
Did it ever occur to you that there is a great risk involved in a
thing of this sort, and that capital must see a profit before it
enters a new field? I wonder if you know how badly this country
needs an outlet and how much greater the benefit in dollars and
cents will be to the men in the interior than to those who
finance the road. But I perceive that you are a conservationist."

"Rabid!" Eliza bridled a little at the hint of amused superiority
in his voice. "I'm a suffragist, too! I dare say that adds to
your disgust."

"Nonsense!" he protested. "I have no quarrel with conservation
nor with 'votes for women.' Neither have I anything to conceal.
I'm only afraid that, like most writers, you will be content with
half-information. Incomplete facts are responsible for most
misunderstandings. If you are in earnest and will promise to take
the time necessary to get at all the facts, I'll make an
agreement with you."

"I promise! Time and a typewriter are my only assets. I don't
intend to be hurried."

Dan approached, drawn by the uncomfortable knowledge of his
sister's predicament, and broke in:

"Oh, Sis has time to burn! She's going to write a book on the
salmon canneries while she's here. It's bound to be one of the
'six best smellers'!"

O'Neil waved him away with the threat of sending him out among
the mosquitoes.

"I'll agree to show you everything we're doing."

"Even to the coal-fields?"

"Even to them. You shall know everything, then you can write what
you please."

"And when I've exposed you to the world as a commercial
pickpocket, as a looter of the public domain--after Congress has
appropriated your fabulous coal claims--will you nail up the door
of this little cottage, and fire Dan?"

"No."

"Will you still be nice to me?"

"My dear child, you are my guest. Come and go when and where you
will. Omar is yours so long as you stay, and when you depart in
triumph, leaving me a broken, discredited wretch, I shall stand
on the dock and wave you a bon voyage. Now it's bedtime for my
'boys,' since we rise at five o'clock."

"Heavens! Five! Why the sun isn't up at that time!"

"The sun shines very little here; that's why we want you to stay
at Omar. I wish we might also keep Miss Natalie."

When the callers had gone Eliza told Natalie and Dan:

"He took it so nicely that I feel more ashamed than ever. One
would think he didn't care at all. Do you suppose he does?"

"There's no denying that you appeared at an unfortunate time,"
said her brother.

"Why?"

"Well--I'm not sure we'll ever succeed with this project. Parker
says the glacier bridge can be built, but the longer he studies
it the graver he gets. It's making an old man of him."

"What does Mr. O'Neil say?"

"Oh, he's sanguine, as usual. He never gives up. But he has other
things to worry him--money! It's money, money, all the time. He
wasn't terribly rich, to begin with, and he has used up all his
own fortune, besides what the other people put in. You see, he
never expected to carry the project so far; he believed the Trust
would buy him out."

"Well?"

"It hasn't and it evidently doesn't intend to. When it learned of
his plan, its engineers beat it out to the glaciers and looked
them over. Then they gave up their idea of building in from
Cortez, but instead of making terms with us, they moved their
whole outfit down to Kyak Bay, right alongside of the coal-
fields, and now it has become a race to the glaciers, with Gordon
fighting us on the side just to make matters lively. The Trust
has the shorter route, but we have the start."

"Why didn't Mr. O'Neil take Kyak as a terminus, instead of Omar?"

"He says it's not feasible. Kyak is an open harbor, and he says
no breakwater can be built there to withstand the storms. He
still clings to that belief, although the Trust is actually
building one. If they succeed we're cooked. Meanwhile he's
rushing work and straining every nerve to raise more money. Now
you come along with a proposal to advertise the whole affair to
the public as a gigantic graft and set Congress against him. I
think he treated you mighty well, under the circumstances."

"I won't act against my convictions," Eliza declared, firmly,
"even if it means calamity to everybody."

Natalie spoke for the first time, her voice tuned to a pitch of
feeling that contrasted oddly with their conversational tones.

"If you hurt my Irish Prince," she said, "I shall hate you as
long as I live."




IX

WHEREIN GORDON SHOWS HIS TEETH


Affairs at Hope were nearly, if not quite, as prosperous as those
at Omar, for Curtis Gordon's advertising had yielded large and
quick returns. His experiment, during the previous summer, of
bringing his richest stockholders north, had been a great
success. They had come, ostensibly at his expense, and once on
the ground had allowed themselves to be fairly hypnotized. They
had gone where he led, had seen what he pointed out, had believed
what he told them. Their imaginations were fired with the
grandeur of an undertaking which would develop the vast resources
of the north country for the benefit of the struggling pioneers
of the interior and humanity in general. Incidentally they were
assured over and over again in a great variety of ways that the
profits would be tremendous. Gordon showed them Hope and its
half-completed mine buildings, he showed them the mountain
behind. It was a large mountain. They noticed there were trees on
the sides of it and snow on its top. They marveled. He said its
heart was solid copper ore, and they gasped. Had he told them in
the same impressive manner that the hill contained a vein three
inches thick they would have exhibited the same astonishment.
They entered the dripping tunnels and peered with grave approval
at the drills, the rock-cars and the Montenegrin miners. They
rambled over the dumps, to the detriment of shoe-leather and
shins, filling their suit-cases with samples of perfectly good
country rock. They confessed to each other, with admirable
conservatism, that the proposition looked very promising, very
promising indeed, and they listened with appreciation to Gordon's
glowing accounts of his railroad enterprise, the physical
evidence of which consisted of a mile or two of track which
shrank along the steep shore-front and disappeared into a gulch
as if ashamed of itself. He had a wonderful plan to consolidate
the mining and railroad companies and talked of a giant holding
corporation which would share in the profits of each. The details
were intricate, but he seemed to see them all with perfect
clearness, and his victims agreed.

He entertained them on a scale that was almost embarrassing, and
when they returned to their homes they outdid one another in
their praise of the financial genius who was leading them to the
promised land of profits and preferred stock. As a matter of
course they one and all advised their friends to buy, vouching
for the fabulous richness of Hope Consolidated, and since their
statements were backed by a personal examination of the property,
subscriptions came pouring in.

All in all, the excursion had proven so profitable that Gordon
had arranged for another, designed to accommodate new investors
and promising "prospects." Preparations for their welcome were
under way when Natalie arrived.

The girl and her mother talked late that evening, and Gordon saw
on the following morning that Gloria, at least, had passed a
trying night; but he gave himself no uneasiness. Emotional storms
were not unusual; he always disregarded them as far as possible,
and usually they passed off quietly. During breakfast he informed
them:

"I received a letter from Miss Golden in yesterday's mail. She is
to be one of the new party."

"Did you invite her to return this summer?" Mrs. Gerard inquired.

"Yes!"

"I remember her well," said Natalie--"too well, in fact. I
thought her very bold."

"She is one of our largest investors, and she writes she would
enjoy spending a fortnight here after the others go back."

"Will you allow it?"

"Allow it! My dear Gloria, I can't possibly refuse. In fact it
would be the height of inhospitality not to urge her to do so.
She is welcome to stay as long as she chooses, for these quarters
are as much hers as ours. I hope you will be nice to her."

Mrs. Gerard made no answer, but later in the morning sought
Gordon in his private office.

"I preferred not to discuss the Golden woman before Natalie," she
explained, coldly, "but--you don't really intend to have her
here, do you?"

"Most assuredly!"

"Then I shall have to tell her she is not welcome."

"You will do nothing of the sort, my dear: you will assume the
duties of hostess, for which no one is more charmingly
qualified."

Mrs. Gerard's lips were white with anger as she retorted:

"I shall not allow that woman under the same roof with Natalie."

"As usual, you choose the most inconvenient occasion for
insisting upon your personal dislikes."

"My dislike has nothing to do with the matter. I overlooked her
behavior with you last year--as I have overlooked a good many
things in the past--but this is asking too much."

Gordon's coldness matched her own as he said:

"I repeat, this is no time for jealousy--"

"Jealousy! It's an insult to Natalie."

"Miss Golden is one of our largest stockholders."

"That's not true! I had Denny look up the matter."

"So!" Gordon flared up angrily. "Denny has been showing you the
books, eh! He had no more right to do that than you had to pry
into my affairs. While Miss Golden's investment may not be so
large as some others', she has influential friends. She did
yeoman service in the cause, and I can't allow your foolish
fancies to interfere with my plans."

"Fancies!" cried the woman, furiously. "You behaved like a
school-boy with her. It was disgraceful. I refuse to let her
associate with my daughter."

"Aren't we drawing rather fine distinctions?" Gordon's lip
curled. "In the first place, Natalie has no business here. Since
she came, uninvited, for the second time, she must put up with
what she finds. I warned you last summer that she might suspect--"

"She did. She does. She discovered the truth a year ago." Mrs.
Gerard's usually impassive face was distorted and she voiced her
confession with difficulty.

"The devil!" ejaculated Gordon.

The woman nodded. "She accused me last night. I tried to--lie,
but--God! How I have lived through these hours I'll never know."

"Hm-m!" Gordon reflected, briefly. "Perhaps, after all, it's just
as well that she knows; she would have found it out sooner or
later, and there's some satisfaction in knowing that the worst is
over."

Never before had his callous cynicism been so frankly displayed.
It chilled her and made the plea she was about to voice seem
doubly difficult.

"I wish I looked upon the matter as you do," she said, slowly.
"But other people haven't the same social ideas as we. I'm--
crushed, and she--Poor child! I don't know how she had the
courage to face it. Now that she has heard the truth from my own
lips I'm afraid it will kill her."

Gordon laughed. "Nonsense! Natalie is a sensible girl.
Disillusionment is always painful, but never fatal. Sooner or
later the young must confront the bald facts of life, and I
venture to say she will soon forget her school-girl morality. Let
me explain my views of--"

"Never!" cried the woman, aghast. "If you do I shall--" She
checked herself and buried her face in her hands. "I feel no
regrets for myself--for I drifted with my eyes open--but this--
this is different. Don't you understand? I am a mother. Or are
you dead to all decent feeling?"

"My dear, I'm the most tender-hearted of men. Of course I shall
say nothing, if you prefer, for I am subservient to your commands
in all things. But calm yourself. What is done cannot be undone."

In more even tones Mrs. Gerard said, "You seem to think the
matter is ended, but it isn't. Natalie will never allow us to
continue this way, and it isn't just to her that we should. We
can't go on, Curtis."

"You mean I must marry you?"

She nodded.

He rose and paced the room before answering. "I always supposed
you understood my views on that subject. Believe me, they are
unalterable, and in no way the result of a pose."

"Nevertheless, for my sake and Natalie's you will do it. I can't
lose the one thing I love best in the world."

"It would seem that Natalie has filled your head with silly
notions," he exclaimed, impatiently.

"She has awakened me. I have her life to consider as well as my
own."

"We are all individuals, supreme in ourselves, responsible only
to ourselves. We must all live our own lives; she cannot live
yours, nor you hers."

"I am familiar with your arguments," Mrs. Gerard said, wearily,
"but I have thought this all out and there is no other way."

He frowned in his most impressive manner and his chest swelled
ominously.

"I will not be coerced. You know I can't be bullied into a thing.
I deny that you have any right to demand--"

"I'm not demanding anything. I merely ask this--this favor, the
first one I have ever asked. You see, my pride is crumbling.
Don't answer now; let's wait until we are both calmer. The
subject came up--at least she approached it, by asking about the
coal claims. She is worried about them."

"Indeed?"

"She was told by a friend in the Land Office that our rights had
been forfeited. I assured her--"

"I refused to heed the absurd rulings of the Department, if that
is what she refers to."

"Then we--have lost?" Mrs. Gerard's pallor increased.

"Technically, yes! In reality I shall show that our titles were
good and that our patents should issue."

"But"--the woman's bloodless fingers were tightly interlaced--
"all I have, all Natalie has, is in those claims."

"Yes! And it would require another fortune the size of both to
comply with the senseless vagaries of the Interior Department and
to protect your interests. I grew weary of forever sending good
hard-earned dollars after bad ones, merely because of the
shifting whim of some theorist five thousand miles away."

"Then I am afraid--" Mrs. Gerard's voice trailed out miserably.
"It is all we have, and you told me--"

Gordon broke in irritably: "My dear Gloria, spare me this painful
faultfinding. If I can win for you, I shall do so, and then you
will agree that I acted wisely. If I lose--it will merely be the
luck of the average investor. We played for big returns, and of
course the risks were great."

"But Mr. O'Neil told her his claims--"

Gordon's blazing eyes warned her. "O'Neil, eh? So, he is the
'friend in the Land Office'! No doubt he also gave Natalie the
suggestion that led to her scene with you. Tell her to occupy
herself less with affairs which do not concern her and more with
her own conduct. Her actions with that upstart have been
outrageous."

"What about your own actions with the Golden woman?" cried Mrs.
Gerard, reverting with feminine insistence to the subject of
their first difference. "What are you going to do about her?"

"Nothing."

"Remember, I refuse to share the same roof with her. You wouldn't
ask it of your wife."

Now this second reference to a disagreeable subject was
unfortunate. Gordon was given to the widest vagaries of temper,
and this interview had exasperated him beyond measure, for he was
strained by other worries. He exploded harshly:

"Please remember that you are not my wife! My ideas on matrimony
will never change. You ought to know by this time that I am
granite."

"I can't give up Natalie. I would give up much, for we women
don't change, but--"

"A fallacy!" He laughed disagreeably. "Pardon me, Gloria, if I
tell you that you do change; that you have changed; that time has
left its imprint upon even you--a cruel fact, but true." He took
a savage pleasure in her trembling, for she had roused all the
devils in him and they were many.

"You are growing tired!"

"Not at all. But you have just voiced the strongest possible
argument against marriage. We grow old! Age brings its
alterations! I have ever been a slave to youth and beauty and the
years bring to me only an increasing appreciation, a more
critical judgment, of the beautiful. If I chose to marry--well,
frankly, the mature charms of a woman of my own age would have
slight attraction for me."

"Then--I will go," said Mrs. Gerard, faintly.

"Not by any wish of mine," he assured her. "You are quite welcome
to stay. Things will run along in the usual way--more smoothly,
perhaps, now that we have attained a complete understanding. You
have no place to go, nor means with which to insure a living for
yourself and Natalie. I would hate to see you sacrifice yourself
and her to a Puritanical whim, for I owe you much happiness and
I'm sure I should miss you greatly. Some one must rule, and since
nature has given me the right I shall exercise it. We will have
no more rebellion."

Mrs. Gerard left the room dazed and sick with despair.

"We must go! We must go!" she kept repeating, but her tragic look
alarmed Natalie far more than her words.

"Yes, yes!" The girl took her in her arms and tried to still the
ceaseless trembling which shook the mother's frame, while her own
tears fell unheeded.

"We must go! Now!"

"Yes, dearest! But where?"

"You--love me still?" asked Gloria. "I suppose you need me, too,
don't you? I hadn't thought of that."

"Every hour!" The round young arms pressed her closer. "You won't
think of--of leaving me."

Mrs. Gerard shook her head slowly. "No! I suppose that must be
part of the price. But--Penniless! Friendless! Where can we go?"

"Mr. O'Neil--my Irish Prince," faltered the daughter through her
tears. "Perhaps he would take us in."

"Omar Khayyam," said Eliza Appleton, entering O'Neil's office
briskly, "you are the general trouble man, so prepare to listen
to mine."

"Won't the kitchen flue draw, or has a hinge come off the
bungalow door?" Murray smiled. He was harassed by endless
worries, a dozen pressing matters called for his instant
attention; yet he showed no trace of annoyance. "If so, I'll be
right up and fix it."

"The kitchen chimney has a draught that threatens to draw Dan's
salary out with the smoke every time I cook a meal, and the house
is dandy. This is a real man's-size tribulation, so of course I
run to you. Simon Legree is at his tricks again."

"Legree!"

The girl nodded her blond head vigorously.

"Yes! He's stolen Mrs. St. Claire's slaves, and she and Little
Eva are out in the cold."

"What the deuce are you talking about?"

"Gordon, of course, and the two Gerards, Natalie and Gloria--
'Town Hall, To-night. Come one, Come all!'"

"Oh!" O'Neil's eyes brightened.

"There have been terrible goings-on over at Hope. I went up
yesterday, in my official capacity, to reconnoiter the enemy's
position and to give him a preliminary skirmish, but the great
man was sulking in his tent and sent word by a menial for me to
begone or look out for the bloodhounds. Isn't he the haughty
thing? I don't like to 'begone'--I refuse to git when I'm told,
so, of course, I paid my respects to Natalie and her mother. But
what do you think I found? Mrs. St. Claire desolated, Eva
dissolved in tears and her hair down."

"Will you talk sense?"

"Just try a little nonsense, and see. Well, the great eruption
has taken place and the loss of life was terrible. Among those
buried in the cinders are the dusky-eyed heroine and her friend
mother. It seems Eva had a hand in the overseer's exposure--"

"Yes, yes! It's about those coal claims. I knew it was coming."

"She told her mother of the horrid treachery, and mother lugged
the complaint to Gordon and placed it in his lap. Result,
confession and defiance from him. Even the family jewels are
gone."

"Is Gordon broke?"

"He's weltering in money, but the coal claims are lost, and he
wants to know what they're going to do about it. The women are
ruined. He magnanimously offers them his bounty, but of course
they refuse to accept it."

"Hasn't he made any provision for them?"

"Coffee and cakes, three times a day. That's all! He won't even
provide transportation, and the troupe can't walk home. They
refuse to stay there, but they can't get away. I've cabled The
Review, overdrawing my salary scandalously, and Dan is eager to
help, but the worst of it is neither of those women knows how to
make a living. Natalie wants to work, but the extent of her
knowledge is the knack of frosting a layer cake, and her mother
never even sewed on a button in all her life. It would make a
lovely Sunday story, and it wouldn't help Curtis Gordon with his
stockholders."

"You won't write it, of course!"

"Oh, I suppose not, but it's maddening not to be able to do
something. Since there's a law against manslaughter, the pencil
is my only weapon. I'd like to jab it clear through that
ruffian." Eliza's animated face was very stern, her generous
mouth was set firmly.

"You can leave out the personal element," he told her. "There's
still a big story there, if you realize that it runs back to
Washington and involves your favorite policy of conservation.
Those claims belonged to Natalie and her mother. I happen to know
that their locations were legal and that there was never any
question of fraud in the titles, hence they were entitled to
patents years ago. Gordon did wrong, of course, in refusing to
obey the orders of the Secretary of the Interior even though he
knew those orders to be senseless and contradictory, but the
women are the ones to suffer. The Government froze them out. This
is only one instance of what delay and indecision at headquarters
has done. I'll show you others before we are through. As for
those two--You say they want to do something?"

"It's not a question of wanting; they've GOT to do something--or
starve. They would scrub kitchens if they knew how."

"Why didn't they come to me?"

"Do you need a cook and a dishwasher?"

Murray frowned. "Our new hotel is nearly finished; perhaps Mrs.
Gerard would accept a position as--as hostess."

"HOSTESS! In a railroad-camp hotel! Who ever heard of such a
thing?" Eliza eyed him incredulously.

O'Neil's flush did not go unnoticed as he said, quietly:

"It IS unusual, but we'll try it. She might learn to manage the
business, with a competent assistant. The salary will be ample
for her and Natalie to live on."

Eliza laid a hand timidly upon his arm and said in an altered
tone:

"Omar Khayyam, you're a fine old Persian gentleman! I know what
it will mean to those two poor women, and I know what it will
mean to you, for of course the salary will come out of your
pocket."

He smiled down at her. "It's the best I can offer, and I'm sure
you won't tell them."

"Of course not. I know how it feels to lose a fortune, too, for
I've been through the mill--Don't laugh! You have a load on your
shoulders heavier than Mr. Sinbad's, and it's mighty nice of you
to let me add to the burden. I--I hope it won't break your poor
back. Now I'm going up to your bungalow and lock myself into your
white bedroom, and--"

"Have a good cry!" he said, noting the suspicious moisture in her
eyes.

"Certainly not!" Eliza exclaimed, indignantly. "I'm not the least
bit sentimental."




X

IN WHICH THE DOCTOR SHOWS HIS WIT


O'Neil's talk with Mrs. Gerard upon her arrival from Hope was
short and businesslike. Neither by word nor look did he show that
he knew or suspected anything of the real reason of her break
with Gordon. Toward both her and Natalie he preserved his
customary heartiness, and their first constraint soon
disappeared. Mrs. Gerard had been plunged in one of those black
moods in which it seems that no possible event can bring even a
semblance of happiness, but it was remarkable how soon this state
of mind began to give way before O'Neil's matter-of-fact
cheerfulness. He refused to listen to their thanks and made them
believe that they were conferring a real favor upon him by
accepting the responsibility of the new hotel. Pending the
completion of that structure he was hard pressed to find a
lodging-place for them until Eliza and her brother insisted that
they share the bungalow with them--a thing O'Neil had not felt at
liberty to ask under the circumstances. Nor was the tact of the
brother and sister less than his; they received the two
unfortunates as honored guests.

Gradually the visitors began to feel that they were welcome, that
they were needed, that they had an important task to fulfil, and
the sense that they were really of service drove away depression.
Night after night they lay awake, discussing the wonderful change
in their fortunes and planning their future. Natalie at least had
not the slightest doubt that all their troubles were at an end.

One morning they awoke to learn that O'Neil had gone to the
States, leaving Dr. Gray in charge of affairs at Omar during his
absence. The physician, who was fully in his chief's confidence,
gravely discussed their duties with them, and so discreet was he
that they had no faintest suspicion that he knew their secret. It
was typical of O'Neil and his "boys" that they should show this
chivalry toward two friendless outcasts; it was typical of them,
also, that they one and all constituted themselves protectors of
Natalie and her mother, letting it be known through the town that
the slightest rudeness toward the women would be promptly
punished.

While O'Neil's unexpected departure caused some comment, no one
except his trusted lieutenants dreamed of the grave importance of
his mission. They knew the necessities that hounded him, they
were well aware of the trembling insecurity in which affairs now
stood, but they maintained their cheerful industry, they pressed
the work with unabated energy, and the road crept forward foot by
foot, as steadily and as smoothly as if he himself were on the
ground to direct it.

Many disappointments had arisen since the birth of the Salmon
River & Northwestern; many misfortunes had united to retard the
development of its builder's plans. The first obstacle O'Neil
encountered was that of climate. During the summer, unceasing
rains, mists, and fogs dispirited his workmen and actually cut
their efficiency in half. He had made certain allowances for
this, of course, but no one could have foreseen so great a
percentage of inefficiency as later developed. In winter, the
cold was intense and the snows were of prodigious depth, while
outside the shelter of the Omar hills the winds howled and rioted
over the frozen delta, chilling men and animals and paralyzing
human effort. Under these conditions it was hard to get workmen,
and thrice harder to keep them; so that progress was much slower
than had been anticipated.

Then, too, the physical difficulties of the country were almost
insurmountable. The morass which comprised the Salmon River plain
was in summer a bottomless ooze, over which nothing could be
transported, yet in winter it became sheathed with a steel-hard
armor against which piling splintered. It could be penetrated at
that season only by the assistance of steam thawers, which
involved delay and heavy expense. These were but samples of the
obstacles that had to be met, and every one realized that the
work thus far had been merely preparatory. The great obstruction,
upon the conquest of which the success of the whole undertaking
hinged, still lay before them.

But of all handicaps the most serious by far was the lack of
capital. Murray had foreseen as inevitable the abandonment by the
Trust of its Cortez route, but its change of base to Kyak had
come as a startling surprise and as an almost crushing blow.
Personally, he believed its present plan to be even more
impracticable than its former one, but its refusal to buy him out
had disheartened his financial associates and tightened their
purse-strings into a knot which no argument of his could loose.
He had long since exhausted his own liquid capital, he had
realized upon his every available asset, and his personal credit
was tottering. He was obliged to finance his operations upon new
money--a task which became ever more difficult as the months
passed and the Trust continued its work at Kyak. Yet he knew that
the briefest flagging, even a temporary abandonment of work,
meant swift and utter ruin. His track must go forward, his labor
must be paid, his supplies must not be interrupted. He set his
jaws and fought on stubbornly, certain of his ultimate triumph if
only he could hold out.

A hundred miles to the westward was a melancholy example of
failure in railroad-building, in the form of two rows of rust
upon a weed-grown embankment. It was all that remained of another
enterprise which had succumbed to financial starvation, and the
wasted millions it represented was depressing to consider.

Thus far O'Neil's rivalry with the Trust had been friendly, if
spirited, but his action in coming to the assistance of Mrs.
Gerard and her daughter raised up a new and vigorous enemy whose
methods were not as scrupulous as those of the Heidlemanns.

Gordon was a strangely unbalanced man. He was magnetic, his
geniality was really heart-warming, yet he was perfectly cold-
blooded in his selfishness. He was cool and calculating, but
interference roused him to an almost insane pitch of passion.
Fickle in most things, he was uncompromising in his hatreds.
O'Neil's generosity in affording sanctuary to his defiant
mistress struck him as a personal affront, it fanned his dislike
of his rival into a consuming rage. It was with no thought of
profit that he cast about for a means of crippling O'Neil. He was
quite capable of ruining himself, not to speak of incidental harm
to others, if only he could gratify his spleen.

Denny, his trusted jackal, resisted stoutly any move against "The
Irish Prince," but his employer would not listen to him or
consent to any delay. Therefore, a certain plausible, shifty-eyed
individual by the name of Linn was despatched to Omar on the
first steamer. Landing at his destination, Mr. Linn quietly
effaced himself, disappearing out the right-of-way, where he
began moving from camp to camp, ostensibly in search of
employment.

It was a few days later, perhaps a week after O'Neil's departure,
that Eliza Appleton entered the hospital and informed Dr. Gray:

"I've finished my first story for The Review."

The big physician had a rapid, forceful habit of speech. "Well, I
suppose you uncorked the vitriol bottle," he said, brusquely.

"No! Since you are now the fount of authority here, I thought I'd
tell you that I have reserved my treachery for another time. I
haven't learned enough yet to warrant real fireworks. As a matter
of fact, I've been very kind to Mr. O'Neil in my story."

"Let me thank you for him."

"Now don't be sarcastic! I could have said a lot of nasty things,
if he hadn't been so nice to me. I suppose it is the corrupting
influence of his kindness."

"He really will be grateful," the doctor assured her, seriously.
"Newspaper publicity of the wrong sort might hurt him a great
deal just now. In every big enterprise there comes a critical
time, when everything depends upon one man; strong as the
structure seems, he's really supporting it. You see, the whole
thing rests ultimately on credit and confidence. An ill-
considered word, a little unfriendly shove, and down comes the
whole works. Then some financial power steps in, reorganizes the
wreckage, and gets the result of all the other fellow's efforts,
for nothing."

"Dan tells me the affairs of the S. R. & N. are in just such a
tottering condition."

"Yes. We're up against it, for the time being. Our cards are on
the table, and you have it in your power to do us a lot of harm."

"Don't put it that way!" said Eliza, resentfully. "You and Mr.
O'Neil and even Dan make it hard for me to do my duty. I won't
let you rob me of my liberty. I'll get out and 'Siwash' it in a
tent first."

The physician laughed. "Don't mistake leaf-mold for muck, that's
all we ask. O'Neil is perfectly willing to let you investigate
him."

"Exactly! And I could bite off his head for being so nice about
it. Not that I've discovered anything against him, for I haven't
--I think he's fine--but I object to the principle of the thing."

"He'll never peep, no matter what you do or say."

"It makes me furious to know how superior he is. I never detested
a man's virtues as I do his. Gordon is the sort I like, for he
needs exposing, and expects it. Wait until I get at him and the
Trust."

"The Trust, too, eh?"

"Of course."

"Now what have the Heidlemanns done?"

"It's not what they have done; it's what they're going to do.
They're trying to grab Alaska."

Dr. Gray shook his head impatiently, but before he could make
answer Tom Slater entered and broke into the conversation by
announcing:

"I've spotted him, Doc. His name is Linn, and he's Gordon's hand.
He's at mile 24 and fifty men are quitting from that camp."

"That makes two hundred, so far," said the doctor.

"He's offering a raise of fifty cents a day and transportation to
Hope."

Gray scowled and Eliza inquired quickly:

"What's wrong, Uncle Tom?"

"Don't call me 'Uncle Tom,'" Slater exclaimed, irritably; "I
ain't related to you."

Miss Appleton smiled at him sweetly. "I had a dear friend once--
you remind me of him, he was such a splendid big man," she said.

Tom eyed her suspiciously.

"He chewed gum incessantly, too, and declared that it never hurt
anybody."

"It never did," asserted Slater.

"We pleaded, we argued, we did our best to save him, but--" She
shook her blond head sadly.

"What happened to him?"

"What always happens? He lingered along for a time, stubborn to
the last, then--" Turning abruptly to Dr. Gray, she asked, "Who
is this man Linn, and what is he doing?"

"He's an emissary of Curtis Gordon and he's hiring our men away
from us," snapped the physician.

"Why, Dan tells me Mr. O'Neil pays higher wages than anybody!"

"So he does, but Linn offers a raise. We didn't know what the
trouble was till over a hundred men had quit. The town is full of
them, now, and it's becoming a stampede."

"Can't you meet the raise?"

"That wouldn't do any good."

Tom agreed. "Gordon don't want these fellows. He's doing it to
get even with Murray for those wo--" He bit his words in two at a
glance from Gray. "What happened to the man that chewed gum?" he
demanded abruptly.

"Oh yes! Poor fellow! We warned him time and again, but he was a
sullen brute, he wouldn't heed advice. Why don't you bounce this
man Linn? Why don't you run him out of camp?"

"Fine counsel from a champion of equal rights!" smiled Gray. "You
forget we have laws and Gordon has a press bureau. It would
antagonize the men and cause a lot of trouble in the end. What
O'Neil could do personally, he can't do as the president of the
S. R. & N. It would give us a black eye.

"We've go to do something dam' quick," said Slater, "or else the
work will be tied up. That would 'crab' Murray's deal. I've got a
pick-handle that's itching for Linn's head." The speaker coughed
hollowly and complained: "I've got a bad cold on my chest--feels
like pneumonia, to me. Wouldn't that just be my luck?"

"Do you have pains in your chest?" inquired the girl,
solicitously.

"Terrible! But I'm so full of pains that I get used to 'em".

"It isn't pneumonia."

Slater flared up at this, for he was jealous of his sufferings.

"It's gumbago!" Eliza declared.

Dr. Gray's troubled countenance relaxed into a grin as he said:

"I'll give you something to rub on those leather lungs--harness-
oil, perhaps."

"Is this labor trouble really serious?" asked the girl.

"Serious! It may knock us out completely. Go away now and let me
think. Pardon my rudeness, Miss Appleton, but--"

Slater paused at the door.

"Don't think too long, Doc," he admonished him, "for there's a
ship due in three days, and by that time there won't be a 'rough-
neck' left on the job. It'll take a month to get a new crew from
the States, and then it wouldn't be any good till it was broke
in."

When he was alone the doctor sat down to weigh the news "Happy
Tom" had brought, but the more squarely he considered the matter
the more alarming it appeared. Thus far the S. R. & N. had been
remarkably free from labor troubles. To permit them to creep in
at this stage would be extremely perilous: the briefest cessation
of work might, and probably would, have a serious bearing upon
O'Neil's efforts to raise money. Gray felt the responsibility of
his position with extraordinary force, for his chief's fortunes
had never suffered in his hands and he could not permit them to
do so now. But how to meet this move of Gordon's he did not know;
he could think of no means of keeping these men at Omar. As he
had to Eliza, to meet the raise would be useless, and a new scale
of wages once adopted would be hard to reduce. Successful or
unsuccessful in its effect, it would run into many thousands of
dollars. The physician acknowledged himself dreadfully perplexed;
he racked his brain uselessly, yearning meanwhile for the
autocratic power to compel obedience among his men. He would have
forced them back to their jobs had there been a way, and the fact
that they were duped only added to his anger.

It occurred to him to quarantine the town, a thing he could
easily do as port physician in case of an epidemic, but Omar was
unusually healthy, and beyond a few surgical cases his hospital
was empty.

His meditations were interrupted by Tom Slater, who returned to
say:

"Give me that dope, Doc; I'm coughing like a switch engine." Gray
rose and went to the shelves upon which his drugs were arranged,
while the fat man continued, "That Appleton girl has got me
worried with her foolishness. Maybe I AM sick; anyhow, I feel
rotten. What I need is a good rest and a nurse to wait on me."

The physician's eyes in running along the rows of bottles
encountered one labeled "Oleum Tiglii," and paused there. "You
need a rest, eh?" he inquired, mechanically.

"If I don't get one I'll wing my way to realms eternal. I ain't
been dried off for three months." Gray turned to regard his
caller with a speculative stare, his fingers toyed with the
bottle. "If it wasn't for this man Linn I'd lay off--I'd go to
jail for him. But I can't do anything, with one foot always in
the grave."

The doctor's face lightened with determination.

"Tom, you've been sent from heaven!"

"D'you mean I've been sent for, from heaven?" The invalid's red
cheeks blanched, into his mournful eyes leaped a look of quick
concern. "Say! Am I as sick as all that?"

"This will make you feel better." Gray uncorked the bottle and
said, shortly, "Take off your shirt."

"What for?"

"I'm going to rub your chest and arms."

Slater obeyed, with some reluctance, pausing to inquire,
doubtfully:

"You ain't stripping me down so you can operate?"

"Nonsense!"

"I'm feeling pretty good again."

"It's well to take these things early. They all look alike at the
beginning."

"What things?"

"Grippe, gumbago, smallpox--"

"God'lmighty!" exclaimed Slater with a start. "I haven't got
anything but a light cold."

"Then this liniment ought to be just the thing."

"Humph! It don't smell like liniment," Tom declared, after a
moment, but the doctor had fallen to work on him and he submitted
with resignation.

Perhaps an hour later Dr. Gray appeared at the Appleton bungalow
and surprised Eliza by saying:

"I've come to you for some help. You're the only soul in Omar
that I can trust."

"Have you gone raving mad?" she inquired.

"No. I must put an end to Linn's activity or we'll be ruined.
These workmen must be held in Omar, and you must help me do it."

"They have the right to go where they please."

"Of course, but Gordon will let them out as soon as he has
crippled us. Tell me, would you like to be a trained nurse?"

"No, I would not," declared Eliza, vehemently. "I'm neither
antiseptic nor prophylactic."

"Nevertheless, you're going to be one--Tom needs you."

"Tom? What ails him?"

"Nothing at this moment, but--wait until to-morrow." The
physician's eyes were twinkling, and when he had explained the
cause of his amusement Eliza laughed.

"Of course I'll help," she said. "But it won't hurt the poor
fellow, will it?"

"Not in the least, unless it frightens him to death. Tom's an
awful coward about sickness; that's why I need some one like you
to take care of him. He'll be at the hospital to-morrow at three.
If you'll arrange to be there we'll break the news to him gently.
I daren't tackle it alone."

Tom was a trifle embarrassed at finding Eliza in Dr. Gray's
office when he entered, on the next afternoon. The boss packer
seemed different than usual; he was much subdued. His cough had
disappeared, but in its place he suffered a nervous apprehension;
his cheeks were pale, the gloom in his eyes had changed to a
lurking uneasiness.

"Just dropped in to say I'm all right again," he announced in an
offhand tone.

"That's good!" said Gray. "You don't look well, however."

"I'm feeling fine!" Mr. Slater hunched his shoulders as if the
contact of his shirt was irksome to the flesh.

"You'd better let me rub you. Why are you scratching yourself?"

"I ain't scratching."

"You were!" The doctor was sternly curious; he had assumed his
coldest and most professional air.

"Well, if I scratched, I probably itched. That's why people
scratch, ain't it?"

"Let me look you over." "I can't spare the time, Doc--"

"Wait!" Gray's tone halted the speaker as he turned to leave.
"I'm not going to let you out in this weather until I rub you."

This time there was no mistaking "Happy Tom's" pallor. "I tell
you I feel great," he declared in a shaking voice. "I--haven't
felt so good for years."

"Come, come! Step into the other room and take off your shirt."

"Not on your life."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want no more of your dam' liniment."

"Why?"

"Because I'm--because I don't."

"Then I suppose I'll have to throw and hog-tie you." The
physician rose and laid a heavy hand upon his patient's arm, at
which Tom exclaimed:

"Ouch! Leggo! Gimme the stuff and I'll rub myself."

"Tom!" The very gravity of the speaker's voice was portentous,
alarming. Mr. Slater hesitated, his gaze wavered, he scratched
his chest unconsciously.

Eliza shook her head pityingly; she uttered an inarticulate
murmur of concern.

"You couldn't get my shirt off with a steam-winch. I tell you I'm
feeling grand."

"Why WILL you chew the horrid stuff?" Miss Appleton inquired
sadly.

"I'm just a little broke out, that's all."

"Ah! You're broken out. I feared so," said the doctor.

The grave concern in those two faces was too much for Slater's
sensitive nature; his stubbornness gave way, his self-control
vanished, and he confessed wretchedly:

"I spent an awful night, Doc. I'll bust into flame if this keeps
up. What is it, anyhow?"

"Is there an eruption of the arms and chest?"

"They're all erupted to hell."

Dr. Gray silently parted the shirt over Slater's bosom. "Hm-m!"
said he.

"Tell him what it is," urged Eliza, in whom mirth and pity were
struggling for mastery.

"It has every appearance of-smallpox!"

The victim uttered a choking cry and sat down limply. Sweat
leaped out upon his face, beads appeared upon his round bald
head.

"I knew I was a sick man. I've felt it coming on for three
months, but I fought it off for Murray's sake. Say it's chicken-
pox," he pleaded.

"Never mind; it's seldom serious," Eliza endeavored to comfort
the stricken man.

"You wanted a good rest-"

"I don't. I want to work."

"I'll have to quarantine you, Tom."

Slater was in no condition for further resistance; a complete
collapse of body and mind had followed the intelligence of his
illness. He began to complain of many symptoms, none of which
were in any way connected with his fancied disease. He was racked
with pains, he suffered a terrible nausea, his head swam; he
spoke bravely of his destitute family and prepared to make his
will. When he left the hospital, an hour later, it was on a
stretcher between four straining bearers.

That evening a disturbing rumor crept through the town of Omar.
It penetrated the crowded saloons where the laborers who had quit
work were squandering their pay, and it caused a brief lull in
the ribaldry; but the mere fact that Tom Slater had come down
with smallpox and had been isolated upon a fishing-boat anchored
in the creek seemed, after all, of little consequence. Some of
the idlers strolled down the street to stare at the boat, and
upon their return verified the report. They also announced that
they had seen the yellow-haired newspaper woman aboard, all
dressed in white. It was considered high time by the majority to
leave Omar, for an epidemic was a thing to be avoided, and a
wager was made that the whole force would quit in a body as soon
as the truth became known.

On the second day Dr. Gray undertook to allay the general
uneasiness, but, upon being pressed, reluctantly acknowledged
that his patient showed all the signs of the dread disease. This
hastened the general preparations for departure, and when the
incoming steamer hove in sight every laborer was at the dock with
his kit-bag. It excited some idle comment among them to note that
Dr. Gray had gone down the bay a short distance to meet the ship,
and his efforts to speak it were watched with interest and
amusement. Obviously it would have been much easier for him to
wait until she landed, for she came right on and drew in toward
the wharf. It was not until her bow line was made fast that the
physician succeeded in hailing the captain. Then the deserters
were amazed to hear the following conversation:

"I can't let you land, Captain Johnny," came from Dr. Gray's
launch.

"And why can't you?" demanded Brennan from the bridge of his new
ship. "Have you some prejudice against the Irish?" The stern
hawser was already being run out, and the crowd was edging
closer, waiting for the gangplank.

"There is smallpox here, and as health officer I've quarantined
the port."

There came a burst of Elizabethan profanity from the little
skipper, but it was drowned by the shout from shore as the full
meaning of the situation finally came home. Then the waiting men
made a rush for the ship. She had not touched as yet, however,
and the distance between her and the pier was too great to leap.
Above the confusion came Brennan's voice, through a megaphone,
commanding them to stand back. Some one traitorously cast off the
loop of the bow line, the ship's propellers began to thrash, and
the big steel hull backed away inch by inch, foot by foot, until,
amid curses and cries of rage, she described a majestic circle
and plowed off up the sound toward Hope.

By a narrow margin the physician reached his hospital ahead of
the infuriated mob, and it was well that he did so, for they were
in a lynching mood. But, once within his own premises, he made a
show of determined resistance that daunted them, and they
sullenly retired. That night Omar rang with threats and deep-
breathed curses, and Eliza Appleton, in the garb of a nurse,
tended her patient cheerfully.

To the delegation which waited upon him the next morning, Dr.
Gray explained the nature of his duties as health officer,
informing them coolly that no living soul could leave Omar
without incurring legal penalties. Since he could prevent any
ships from landing, and inasmuch as the United States marshal was
present to enforce the quarantine, he seemed to be master of the
situation.

"How long will we be tied up?" demanded the spokesman of the
party.

"That is hard to say."

"Well, we're going to leave this camp!" the man declared, darkly.

"Indeed? Where are you going?"

"We're going to Hope. You might as well let us go. We won't stand
for this."

The physician eyed him coldly. "You won't? May I ask how you are
going to help yourselves?"

"We're going to leave on the next steamer."

"Oh, no you're not!" the marshal spoke up.

"See here, Doc! There's over two hundred of us and we can't stay
here; we'll go broke."

Gray shrugged his broad shoulders. "Sorry," he said, "but you see
I've no choice in the matter. I never saw a case of smallpox that
looked worse."

"It's a frame-up," growled the spokesman. "Tom hasn't got
smallpox any more than I have. You cooked it to keep us here."
There was an angry second to this, whereupon the doctor
exclaimed:

"You think so, eh? Then just come with me."

"Where?"

"Out to the boat where he is. I'll show you."

"You won't show me no smallpox," asserted one of the committee.

"Then YOU come with me," the physician urged the leader.

"So you can bottle me up, too? No, thank you!"

"Get the town photographer with his flashlight. We'll help him
make a picture; then you can show it to the others. I promise not
to quarantine you."

After some hesitation the men agreed to this; the photographer
was summoned and joined the party on its way to the floating
pest-house.

It was not a pleasant place in which they found Tom Slater, for
the cabin of the fishing-boat was neither light nor airy, but
Eliza had done much to make it agreeable. The sick man was
propped up in his bunk and playing solitaire, but he left off his
occupation to groan as the new-comers came alongside.

When the cause of the visit had been made known, however, he
rebelled.

"I won't pose for no camera fiend," he declared, loudly. "It
ain't decent and I'm too sick. D'you take me for a bearded lady
or a living skeleton?"

"These men think you're stalling," Dr. Gray told him.

"Who? Me?" Slater rolled an angry eye upon the delegation. "I
ain't sick, eh? I s'pose I'm doing this for fun? I wish you had
it, that's all."

The three members of the committee of investigation wisely halted
at the foot of the companionway stairs where the fresh air fanned
them; they were nervous and ill at ease.

Drawing his covers closer, Slater shouted:

"Close that hatch, you bone-heads! I'm blowing away!"

The photographer ventured to remonstrate.

"It's mighty close in here, Doc. Is it safe to breathe the bugs?"

"Perfectly safe," Gray assured him. "At least Miss Appleton
hasn't suffered yet."

As a matter of fact the patient betrayed no symptoms of a wasting
illness, for his cheeks were ruddy, he had eaten three hearty
meals each day, and the enforced rest had done him good, so the
committee saw nothing about him to satisfy their suspicions. But
when Tom weakly called upon them for assistance in rising they
shrank back and one of them exclaimed:

"I wouldn't touch you with a fish-pole."

Eliza came forward, however; she permitted her charge to lean
upon her while she adjusted the pillows at his back; but when Dr.
Gray ordered him to bare his breast and arms Slater refused
positively. He blushed, he stammered, he clutched his nightrobe
with a horny hand which would have required a cold chisel to
loosen, and not until Eliza had gone upon deck would he consent
to expose his bulging chest.

But Miss Appleton had barely left the cabin when she was followed
by the most timid member of the delegation. He plunged up the
stairs, gasping:

"I've saw enough! He's got it, and got it bad."

A moment later came the dull sound of the exploding flashlight,
then a yell, and out of the smoke stumbled his two companions.
The spokesman, it appeared, had also seen enough--too much--for
with another yell he leaped the rail and made for shore.
Fortunately the tide was out and the water low; he left a trail
across the mud flat like that of a frightened hippopotamus.

When the two conspirators were finally alone upon the deck they
rocked in each other's arms, striving to stifle their laughter.
Meanwhile from the interior of the cabin came the feeble moans of
the invalid.

That evening hastily made photographs of the sick man were shown
upon the streets. Nor could the most skeptical deny that he
presented a revolting sight and one warranting Dr. Gray's
precautions. In spite of this evidence, however, threats against
the physician continued to be made freely; but when Eliza
expressed fears for his safety he only smiled grimly, and he
stalked through the streets with such defiance written on his
heavy features that no man dared raise a hand against him.

Day after day the quarantine continued, and at length some of the
men went back to work. As others exhausted their wages they
followed. In a fortnight Omar was once more free of its floating
population and work at the front was going forward as usual.
Meanwhile the patient recovered in marvelous fashion and was loud
in his thanks to the physician who had brought him through so
speedily. Yet Gray stubbornly refused to raise the embargo.

Finally the cause of the whole trouble appeared at the hospital
and begged to be released.

"You put it over me," said Mr. Linn. "I've had enough and I want
to get out."

"I don't know what you're talking about," answered the doctor.
"No one can leave here now."

"I know it wasn't smallpox at all, but it worked just the same,
I'll leave your men alone if you'll let me go out on the next
Seattle steamer."

"But--I thought you came from Hope?" Gray said, blandly.

Mr. Linn shifted his eyes and laughed uneasily. "I did, and I'm
going to keep coming from Hope. You don't think I'd dare to go
back after this, do you?"

"Why not?"

"Gordon would kill me."

"So! Mr. Gordon sent you?"

"You know he did. But--I've got to get out now. I'm broke."

"I didn't think it of Gordon!" The doctor shook his head sadly.
"How underhanded of him!"

Linn exploded desperately: "Don't let's four-flush. You were too
slick for him, and you sewed me up. I've spent the money he gave
me and now I'm flat."

"You look strong. We need men."

Gordon's emissary turned pale. "Say! You wouldn't set me to work?
Why, those men would string me up."

"I think not. I've spoken to the shift boss at mile 30, and he'll
take care you're not hurt so long as you work hard and keep your
mouth shut."

An hour later Mr. Linn, cursing deeply, shouldered his pack and
tramped out the grade, nor could he obtain food or shelter until
he had covered those thirty weary miles. Once at his destination,
he was only too glad to draw a numbered tag and fall to work with
pick and shovel, but at his leisure he estimated that it would
take him until late the following month to earn his fare to the
States.




XI

THE TWO SIDES OF ELIZA VIOLET APPLETON


Dan Appleton entered the bungalow one evening, wet and tired from
his work, to find Eliza pacing the floor in agitation.

"What's the matter, Sis?" he inquired, with quick concern.

His sister pointed to a copy of The Review which that day's mail
had brought.

"Look at that!" she cried. "Read it!"

"Oh! Your story, eh?"

"Read it!"

He read a column, and then glanced up to find her watching him
with angry eyes.

"Gee! That's pretty rough on the chief, Kid. I thought you liked
him," he said, gravely.

"I do! I do! Don't you understand, dummy? I didn't write that!
They've changed my story--distorted it. I'm--FURIOUS!"

Dan whistled softly. "I didn't suppose they'd try anything like
that, but--they did a good job while they were at it. Why, you'd
think O'Neil was a grafter and the S. R. & N. nothing but a land-
grabbing deal."

"How DARED they?" the girl cried. "The actual changes aren't so
many--just enough to alter the effect of the story--but that's
what makes it so devilish. For instance, I described the
obstacles and the handicaps Mr. O'Neil has had to overcome in
order to show the magnitude of his enterprise, but Drake has
altered it so that the physical conditions here seem to be
insuperable and he makes me say that the road is doomed to
failure. That's the way he changed it all through."

"It may topple the chief's plans over; they're very insecure. It
plays right into the hands of his enemies, too, and of course
Gordon's press bureau will make the most of it."

"Heavens! I want sympathy, not abuse!" wailed his sister. "It's
all due to the policy of The Review. Drake thinks everybody up
here is a thief. I dare say they are, but--How can I face Mr.
O'Neil?"

Dan shook the paper in his fist. "Are you going to stand for
this?" he demanded.

"Hardly! I cabled the office this morning, and here's Drake's
answer." She read:

"'Stuff colorless. Don't allow admiration warp judgment.' Can you
beat that?" "He thinks you've surrendered to Murray, like all the
others."

"I hate him!" cried Eliza. "I detest him!"

"Who? O'Neil or Drake?"

"Both. Mr. O'Neil for putting me in the position of a traitor,
and Drake for presuming to rewrite my stuff. I'm going to resign,
and I'm going to leave Omar before Murray O'Neil comes back."

"Don't be a quitter, Sis. If you throw up the job the paper will
send somebody who will lie about us to suit the policy of the
office. Show 'em where they're wrong; show 'em what this country
needs. You have your magazine stories to write."

Eliza shook her head. "Bother the magazines and the whole
business! I'm thinking about Mr. O'Neil. I--I could cry. I
suppose I'll have to stay and explain to him, but--then I'll go
home."

"No! You'll stay right here and go through with this thing. I
need you."

"You? What for?"

"You can perform a great and a signal service for your loving
brother. He's in terrible trouble!"

"What's wrong, Danny?" Eliza's anger gave instant place to
solicitude. "You--you haven't STOLEN anything?"

"Lord, no! What put that into your head?"

"I don't know--except that's the worst thing that could happen to
us. I like to start with the worst."

"I can't sulk in the jungle any more. I'm a rotten loser, Sis."

"Oh! You mean--Natalie? You--like her?"

"For a writer you select the most foolish words! Like, love,
adore, worship--words are no good, anyway. I'm dippy; I'm out of
my head; I've lost my reason. I'm deliriously happy and miserably
unhappy. I--"

"That's enough!" the girl exclaimed. "I can imagine the rest."

"It was a fatal mistake for her to come to Omar, and to this very
house, of all places, where I could see her every day. I might
have recovered from the first jolt if I'd never seen her again,
but--" He waved his hands hopelessly. "I'm beginning to hate
O'Neil."

"You miserable traitor!" gasped Eliza.

"Yep! That's me! I'm dead to loyalty, lost to the claims of
friendship. I've fought myself until I'm black in the face, but--
it's no use. I must have Natalie!"

"She's crazy about O'Neil."

"Seems to be, for a fact, but that doesn't alter my fix. I can't
live this way. You must help me or I'll lose my reason."

"Nonsense! You haven't any or you wouldn't talk like this. What
can I do?"

"It's simple! Be nice to Murray and--and win him away from her."

Eliza stared at him as though she really believed him daft. Then
she said, mockingly:

"Is that all? Just make him love me?"

Dan nodded. "That would be fine, if you could manage it."

"Why--you--you--I--" She gasped uncertainly for terms in which to
voice her indignant surprise. "Idiot!" she finally exclaimed.

"Thanks for such glowing praise," Dan said, forlornly. "I feel a
lot worse than an idiot. An idiot is not necessarily evil; at
heart he may be likable, and pathetic, and merely unfortunate--"

"You simply can't be in earnest!"

"I am, though!" He turned upon her eyes which had grown suddenly
old and weary with longing.

"You poor, foolish boy! In the first place, Mr. O'Neil will hate
me for this story. In the second place, no man would look at me.
I'm ugly--"

"I think you're beautiful."

"With my snub nose, and big mouth, and--"

"You can make him laugh, and when a woman can make a fellow laugh
the rest is easy."

"In the third place I'm mannish and--vulgar, and besides--I don't
care for him."

"Of course you don't, or I wouldn't ask it. You see, we're taking
no risks! You can at least take up his attention and--and when
you see him making for Natalie you can put out your foot and trip
him up."

"It wouldn't be honorable, Danny."

"Possibly! But that doesn't make any difference with me. You may
as well realize that I've got beyond the point where nice
considerations of that sort weigh with me. If you'd ever been in
love you'd understand that such things don't count at all. It's
your chance to save the reason and happiness of an otherwise
perfectly good brother."

"There is nothing I wouldn't do for your happiness--nothing. But
--Oh, it's preposterous!"

Dan relapsed into gloomy silence, and they had a very
uncomfortable meal. Unable to bear his continued lack of spirits,
Eliza again referred to the subject, and tried until late in the
evening to argue him out of his mood. But the longer they talked
the more plainly she saw that his feeling for Natalie was not
fanciful, but sincere and deep. She continued to scout his
suggestion that she could help him by captivating O'Neil, and
stoutly maintained that she had no attraction for men;
nevertheless, when she went to her room she examined herself
critically in her mirror. This done, she gave herself over to her
favorite relaxation.

First she exchanged her walking-skirt, her prim shirtwaist and
jacket, for a rose-pink wrapper which she furtively brought out
of a closet. It was a very elaborate wrapper, all fluffy lace and
ruffles and bows, and it had cost Eliza a sum which she strove
desperately to forget. She donned silk stockings and a pair of
tiny bedroom slippers; then seating herself once more at her
dresser, she let down her hair. She invariably wore it tightly
drawn back--so tightly, in fact, that Dan had more than once
complained that it pulled her eyebrows out of place. On this
occasion, however, she crimped it, she curled it, she brought it
forward about her face in soft riotous puffs and strands, patting
it into becoming shape with dexterous fingers until it formed a
golden frame for her piquant features.

Now this was no unusual performance for her. In the midnight
solitude of her chamber she regularly gave rein to the feminine
side of her nature. By day she was the severe, matter-of-fact,
businesslike Eliza Appleton, deaf to romance, lost to illusion,
and unresponsive to masculine attention; but deep in her heart
were all the instincts and longings of femininity, and at such
times as this they came uppermost. Her bedroom had none of the
Puritanical primness which marked her habit of dress; it was in
no way suggestive of the masculine character which she so proudly
paraded upon the street. On the contrary, it was a bower of
daintiness, and was crowded with all the senseless fripperies of
a school-girl. Carefully hidden away beneath her starched
shirtwaists was much lingerie--bewildering creations to match the
pink wrapper--and this she petted and talked to adoringly when no
one could hear.

Eliza read much when she was unobserved--romances and improbable
tales of fine ladies and gallant squires. There were times, too,
when she wrote, chewing her pencil in the perplexities of vividly
colored love scenes; but she always destroyed these manuscripts
before the curious sun could spy upon her labors. In such
ecstatic flights of fancy the beautiful heroine was a languorous
brunette with hair of raven hue and soulful eyes in which
slumbered the mystery of a tropic night. She had a Grecian nose,
moreover, and her name was Violet.

From all this it may be gathered that Eliza Appleton was by no
means the extraordinary person she seemed. Beneath her false
exterior she was shamelessly normal.

In the days before O'Neil's return she suffered constant
misgivings and qualms of conscience, but the sight of her brother
reveling, expanding, fairly bursting into bloom beneath the
influence of Natalie Gerard led her to think that perhaps she did
have a duty to perform. Dan's cause was hers, and while she had
only the faintest hope of aiding it, she was ready to battle for
his happiness with every weapon at her command. The part she
would have to play was not exactly nice, she reflected, but--the
ties of sisterhood were strong and she would have made any
sacrifice for Dan. She knew that Natalie was fond of him in a
casual, friendly way, and although it was evident that the girl
accorded him none of that hero-worship with which she favored his
chief, Eliza began to think there still might be some hope for
him. Since we are all prone to argue our consciences into
agreement with our desires, she finally brought herself to the
belief that O'Neil was not the man for Natalie. He was too old,
too confirmed in his ways, and too self-centered to make a good
husband for a girl of her age and disposition. Once her illusions
had been rubbed away through daily contact with him, she would
undoubtedly awaken to his human faults, and unhappiness would
result for both. What Natalie needed for her lasting contentment
was a boy her own age whose life would color to match hers. So
argued Eliza with that supreme satisfaction which we feel in
arranging the affairs of others to suit ourselves.

She was greatly embarrassed, nevertheless, when she next met
O'Neil and tried to explain that story in The Review. He listened
courteously and smiled his gentle smile.

"My dear," said he, finally, "I knew there had been some mistake,
so let's forget that it ever happened. Now tell me about the
smallpox epidemic. When I heard what Linn was doing with our men
I was badly worried, for I couldn't see how to checkmate him, but
it seems you and Doc were equal to the occasion. He cabled me a
perfectly proper announcement of Tom's quarantine, and I believed
we had been favored by a miracle."

"It wasn't a miracle at all," Eliza said in a matter-of-fact
tone; "it was croton oil. Nobody has dared tell him the truth. He
still believes he could smell the tuberoses."

O'Neil seemed to derive great amusement from her account of what
followed. He had already heard Dr. Gray's version of the affair,
but Eliza had a refreshing way of saying things.

"I brought you a little present," he said when she had finished.

She took the package he handed her, exclaiming with a slight
flush of embarrassment, "A s'prise! Nobody but Dan ever gave me a
present." Then her eyes darkened with suspicion. "Did you bring
me this because of what I did?"

"Now don't be silly! I knew nothing about your part in the comedy
until Doc told me. You are a most difficult person."

Slowly she unwrapped the parcel, and then with a gasp lifted a
splendidly embroidered kimono from its box.

"Oh-h!" Her eyes were round and astonished. "Oh-h! It's for ME!"

It was a regal garment of heavy silk, superbly ornamented with
golden dragons, each so cunningly worked that it seemed upon the
point of taking wing. "Why, their eyes glitter! And--they'd
breathe fire if I jabbed them. Oh-h!" She stared at the gift in
helpless amazement. "Is it mine, HONESTLY?"

He nodded. "Won't you put it on?"

"Over these things? Never!" Again Miss Appleton blushed, for she
recalled that she had prepared for his coming with extraordinary
care. Her boots were even stouter than usual, her skirt more
plain, her waist more stiff, and her hair more tightly smoothed
back. "It would take a fluffy person to wear this. I'll always
keep it, of course, and--I'll worship it, but I'm not designed
for pretty clothes. I'll let Natalie wear--"

"Natalie has one of her own, done in butterflies, and I brought
one to her mother also."

"And you bought this for me after you had seen that fiendish
story over my signature?"

"Certainly!" He quickly forestalled her attempted thanks by
changing the subject. "Now then, Dan tells me you are anxious to
begin your magazine-work, so I'm going to arrange for you to see
the glaciers and the coal-fields. It will be a hard trip, for the
track isn't through yet, but--"

"Oh, I'll take care of myself; I won't get in anybody's way," she
said, eagerly.

"I intend to see that you don't, by going with you; so make your
preparations and we'll leave as soon as I can get away."

When he had gone the girl said, aloud:

"Eliza Violet, this is your chance. It's underhanded and mean,
but--you're a mean person, and the finger of Providence is
directing you." She snatched up the silken kimono and ran into
her room, locking the door behind her. Hurriedly she put it on,
then posed before the mirror. Next down came her hair amid a
shower of pins. She arranged it loosely about her face, and,
ripping an artificial flower from her "party" hat, placed it over
her ear, then swayed grandly to and fro while the golden dragons
writhed and curved as if in joyous admiration. A dozen times she
slipped out of the garment and, gathering it to her face, kissed
it; a dozen times she donned it, strutting about her little room
like a peacock. Her tip-tilted nose was red and her eyes were wet
when at last she laid it out upon her bed and knelt with her
cheek against it.

"Gee! If only I were pretty!" she sighed, "I almost believe he--
likes me."

Tom Slater laboriously propelled himself up the hill to the
bungalow that evening, and seated himself on the topmost step
near where Eliza was rocking. She had come to occupy a
considerable place in his thoughts of late, for she was quite
beyond his understanding. She affected him as a mental gad-fly,
stinging his mind into an activity quite unusual. At times he
considered her a nice girl, though undoubtedly insane; then there
were other moments when she excited his deepest animosity. Again,
on rare occasions she completely upset all his preconceived
notions by being so friendly and so sympathetic that she made him
homesick for his own daughter. In his idle hours, therefore he
spent much time at the Appleton cottage.

"Where have you been lately, Uncle Tom?" she began.

Slater winced at the appellation, but ignored it.

"I've been out on the delta hustling supplies ahead. Heard the
news?"

"No."

"Curtis Gordon has bought the McDermott outfit in Kyak."

"That tells me nothing. Who is McDermott?"

"He's a shoe-stringer. He had a wildcat plan to build a railroad
from Kyak to the coal-fields, but he never got farther than a row
of alder stakes and a book of press clippings."

"Does that mean that Gordon abandons his Hope route?"

"Yep! He's swung in behind us and the Heidlemanns. Now it's a
three-sided race, with us in the lead. Mellen just brought in the
news half an hour ago; he was on his way down from the glaciers
when he ran into a field party of Gordon's surveyors. Looks like
trouble ahead if they try to crowd through the canon alongside of
us."

"He must believe Kyak Bay will make a safe harbor."

"Don't say it! If he's right, we're fried to a nice brown finish
on both sides and it's time to take us off the stove. I'm praying
for a storm."

"'The prayers of the wicked are an abomination unto the Lord,'"
quoted Eliza.

"Sure! But I keep right on praying just the same. It's a habit
now. The news has set the chief to jumping sideways."

"Which, translated, I suppose means that he is disturbed."

"Or words to that effect! Too bad they changed that newspaper
story of yours."

"Yes."

"It put a crimp in him."

"How--do you mean?"

"He had some California capitalists tuned up to put in three
million dollars, but when they read that our plan was
impracticable their fountain-pens refused to work."

"Oh!" Eliza gasped, faintly.

Slater regarded her curiously, then shook his head. "Funny how a
kid like you can scare a bunch of hard-headed bankers, ain't it?"
he said. "Doc Gray explained that it wasn't your fault, but--it
doesn't take much racket to frighten the big fish."

"What will Mr. O'Neil do?"

"Oh, he'll fight it out, I s'pose. The first thing is to block
Gordon. Say, I brought you a present."

"This is my lucky day," smiled Eliza as Tom fumbled in his
pocket. "I'm sure I shall love it."

"It ain't much, but it was the best in the crate and I shined it
up on my towel." Mr. Slater handed Eliza a fine red apple of
prodigious size, at sight of which the girl turned pale.

"I--don't like apples," she cried, faintly.

"Never mind; they're good for your complexion."

"I'd die before I'd eat one."

"Then I'll eat it for you; my complexion ain't what it was before
I had the smallpox." When he had carried out this intention and
subjected his teeth to a process of vacuum-cleaning, he asked:
"Say, what happened to your friend who chewed gum?"

"Well, he was hardly a friend," Miss Appleton said, "If he had
been a real friend he would have listened to my warning."

"Gum never hurt anybody," Slater averred, argumentatively.

"Not ordinary gum. But you see, he chewed nothing except
wintergreen--"

"That's what I chew."

Eliza's tone was one of shocked amazement. "Not REALLY? Oh, well,
some people would thrive on it, I dare say, but he had
indigestion."

"Me too! That's why I chew it."

The girl eyed him during an uncomfortable pause. Finally she
inquired:

"Do you ever feel a queer, gnawing feeling, like hunger, if you
go without your breakfast?"

"Unh-hunh! Don't you?"

"I wouldn't alarm you for the world, Uncle Tom--"

"I ain't your uncle!"

"You might chew the stuff for years and not feel any bad effects,
but if you wake up some morning feeling tired and listless--"

"I've done that, too." Slater's gloomy eyes were fixed upon her
with a look of vague apprehension. "Is it a symptom?"

"Certainly! Pepsin-poisoning, it's called. This fellow I told you
about was a charming man, and since we had all tried so hard to
save him, we felt terribly at the end."

"Then he died?"

"Um-m! Yes and no. Remind me to tell you the story sometime--Here
comes Dan, in a great hurry."

Young Appleton came panting up the hill.

"Good-by, Sis," he said. "I'm off for the front in ten minutes."

"Anybody hurt?" Slater asked quickly.

"Not yet, but somebody's liable to be. Gordon is trying to steal
the canon, and Murray has ordered me out with a car of dynamite
to hold it."

"Dynamite! Why, Dan!" his sister exclaimed in consternation.

"We have poling-boats at the lower crossing and we'll be at the
canon in two days. I'm going to load the hillside with shots, and
if they try to come through I'll set 'em off. They'll never dare
tackle it." Dan's eyes were dancing; his face was alive with
excitement.

"But suppose they should?" Eliza insisted, quietly.

"Then send Doc Gray with some stretchers. I owe one to Gordon,
and this is my chance." Drawing her aside, he said in an
undertone. "You've got to hold my ground with Natalie while I'm
gone. Don't let her see too much of Murray."

"I'll do the best I can," she answered him, "but if he seems to
be in earnest I'll renig, no matter what happens to you, Danny."

He kissed her affectionately and fled.




XII

HOW GORDON FAILED IN HIS CUNNING


The so-called canon of the Salmon River lies just above the twin
glaciers. Scenically, these are by far the more impressive, and
they present a more complex engineering problem; yet the canon
itself was the real strategic point in the struggle between the
railroad-builders. The floor of the valley immediately above
Garfield glacier, though several miles wide, was partly filled
with detritus which had been carried down from the mother range
on the east, and this mass of debris had forced the stream far
over against the westward rim, where it came roaring past the
foot wall in a splendid cataract some three miles long. To the
left of the river, looking up-stream at this point, the mountains
slanted skyward like a roof, until lost in the hurrying scud four
thousand feet above. To the right, however, was the old moraine,
just mentioned, consisting of a desolate jumble of rock and
gravel and silt overlaying the ice foot. On account of its broken
character and the unstable nature of its foundation this bank was
practically useless for road-building, and the only feasible
route for steel rails was along the steep west wall.

O'Neil on his first reconnaissance had perceived that while there
was room for more than one bridge across the Salmon between the
upper and the lower ice masses, there was not room for more than
one track alongside the rapids, some miles above that point. He
knew, moreover, that once he had established his title to a
right-of-way along the west rim of the cataract, it would be
difficult for a rival to oust him, or to parallel his line
without first crossing back to the east bank--an undertaking at
once hazardous and costly. He had accordingly given Dan Appleton
explicit instructions to be very careful in filing his survey,
that no opportunity might be left open for a later arrival. The
engineer had done his work well, and O'Neil rested secure in the
belief that he held possession of the best and least expensive
route through to the open valleys above. He had had no cause to
fear a clash with the Heidlemann forces, for they had shown a
strict regard for his rights and seemed content to devote
themselves to developing their terminus before trying to
negotiate the canon. They were wise in taking this course, for
their success would mean that O'Neil's project would fall of its
own weight. Kyak was nearer Seattle, by many miles, than Omar; it
was closer to the coal and copper fields, and the proven
permanence of their breakwater would render useless further
attempts to finance the S. R. & N.

But in the entrance of Curtis Gordon into the field O'Neil
recognized danger. Gordon was swayed by no such business scruples
as the Heidlemanns; he was evidently making a desperate effort to
secure a footing at any cost. In purchasing the McDermott
holdings he had executed a coup of considerable importance, for
he had placed himself on equal footing with the Trust and in
position to profit by its efforts at harbor-building without
expense to himself. If, therefore, he succeeded in wresting from
O'Neil the key to that upper passageway, he would be able to
block his personal enemy and to command the consideration of his
more powerful rival.

No one, not even the Trust, had taken the McDermott enterprise
seriously, but with Curtis Gordon in control the "wildcat"
suddenly became a tiger.

In view of all this, it was with no easy mind that O'Neil
despatched Appleton to the front, and it was with no small
responsibility upon his shoulders that the young engineer set out
in charge of those wooden boxes of dynamite. Murray had told him
frankly what hung upon his success, and Dan had vowed to hold the
survey at any cost.

Steam was up and the locomotive was puffing restlessly when he
returned from his farewell to Eliza. A moment later and the
single flat car carrying his party and its dangerous freight was
being whirled along the shores of Omar Lake. On it rushed,
shrieking through the night, out from the gloomy hills and upon
the tangent that led across the delta. Ten minutes after it had
rolled forth upon the trestle at the "lower crossing" the giant
powder had been transferred to poling-boats and the long pull
against the current had begun.

O'Neil had picked a crew for Dan, men upon whom he could depend.
They were on double pay, and as they had worked upon the North
Pass & Yukon, Appleton had no doubt of their loyalty.

The events of that trip were etched upon the engineer's mind with
extraordinary vividness, for they surpassed in peril and
excitement all his previous experiences. The journey resembled
nothing but the mad scramble of a gold stampede. The stubborn
boats with their cargoes which had to be so gently handled, the
ever-increasing fury of the river, the growing menace of those
ghastly, racing icebergs, the taut-hauled towing-lines, and the
straining, sweating men in the loops, all made a picture hard to
forget. Then, too, the uncertainty of the enterprise, the crying
need of haste, the knowledge of those other men converging upon
the same goal, lent a gnawing suspense to every hour. It was
infinitely more terrible than that first expedition when he and
Tom Slater and O'Neil had braved the unknown. It was vastly more
trying than any of the trips which had followed, even with the
winter hurricane streaming out of the north as from the mouth of
a giant funnel.

Dan had faced death in various forms upon this delta during the
past year and a half. He had seen his flesh harden to marble
whiteness under the raging north wind; his eyes and lungs had
been drifted full of sand in summer storms which rivaled those of
the Sahara. With transit on his back he had come face to face
with the huge brown grizzly. He had slept in mud, he had made his
bed on moss which ran water like a sponge; he had taken danger
and hardship as they came--yet never had he punished himself as
on this dash.

Through his confusion of impressions, his intense preoccupation
with present dangers and future contingencies, the thought of
Natalie floated now and then vaguely but comfortingly. He had
seen her for a moment, before leaving--barely long enough to
explain the nature of his mission--but her quick concern, her
unvoiced anxiety, had been very pleasant, and he could not
believe that it was altogether due to her interest in the
fortunes of O'Neil.

Dan knew that Mellen's crew was camped at the upper crossing,
busied in drilling for the abutments and foundations of the
bridge; but he reasoned that they would scarcely suspect the
object of Gordon's party and that, in any case, they were not
organized or equipped to resist it. Moreover, the strategic point
was four miles above the bridge site, and the surveying corps
would hardly precipitate a clash, particularly since there was
ample room for them to select a crossing-place alongside.

It was after midnight of the second day when he and his weary
boatmen stumbled into sight of the camp. Appleton halted his
command and stole forward, approaching the place through the
tangled alders which flanked it. He had anticipated that the
rival party would be up to this point by now, if not even farther
advanced, and he was both angered and relieved to sight the tops
of other tents pitched a few hundred yards beyond Mellen's
outfit. So they were here! He had arrived in time, after all! A
feeling of exultation conquered the deathly fatigue that slowed
his limbs. Although he still had to pass the invader's camp and
establish himself at the canon, the certainty that he had made
good thus far was ample reward for his effort.

A dog broke into furious barking as he emerged from cover, and he
had a moment's anxiety lest it serve as warning to the enemy; but
a few quick strides brought him to the tent of Mellen's foreman.
Going in, he roused the man, who was sleeping soundly.

"Hello!" cried the foreman, jumping up and rubbing his eyes, "I
thought Curtis Gordon had taken possession."

"Hush! Don't wake them up," Dan cautioned.

"Oh, there's no danger of disturbing them with this infernal
cannonading going on all the time." The night resounded to a
rumbling crash as some huge mass of ice split off, perhaps two
miles away.

"When did they arrive?"

"Night before last. They've located right alongside of us. Gee!
we were surprised when they showed up. They expect to break camp
in the morning." He yawned widely.

"Hm-m! They're making tracks, aren't they? Were they friendly?"

"Oh, sure! So were we. There was nothing else to do, was there?
We had no orders."

"I have two dozen men and four boatloads of dynamite with me. I'm
going to hold that mountainside."

"Then you're going to fight!" All vestige of drowsiness had fled
from the man's face.

"Not if we can help it. Who is in charge of this crew?"

"Gordon himself."

"Gordon!"

"Yes! And he's got a tough gang with him."

"Armed?"

"Sure! This is a bear country, you know."

"Listen! I want you to tell him, as innocently as you can, that
we're on the job ahead of him. Tell him we've been there for a
week and have loaded that first rock shoulder and expect to shoot
it off as soon as possible. You can tell him, too, that I'm up
there and he'd better see me before trying to pass through."

"I've got you! But that won't stop him."

"Perhaps! Now have you any grub in camp?"

"No."

"We threw ours overboard, to make time. Send up anything you can
spare; we're played out."

"It'll be nothing but beans, and they're moldy."

"We can fight on beans, and we'll eat the paper off those giant
cartridges if we have to. Don't fail to warn Gordon that the
hillside is mined, and warn him loud enough for his swampers to
hear."

Appleton hastened back to his boats, where he found his men
sprawled among the boulders sleeping the sleep of complete
exhaustion. They were drenched, half numbed by the chill air of
the glacier, and it was well that he roused them.

"Gordon's men are camped just above," he told them. "But we must
get through without waking them. No talking, now, until we're
safe."

Silently the crew resumed their tow-lines, fitting them to their
aching shoulders; gingerly the boats were edged out into the
current.

It was fortunate that the place was noisy, and that the voice of
the river and the periodic bombardment from the glaciers drowned
the rattle of loose stones dislodged by their footsteps. But it
was a trying half-hour that followed. Dan did not breathe easily
until his party had crossed the bar and were safely out upon the
placid waters of the lake, with the last stage of the journey
ahead of them.

About mid-forenoon of the following day Curtis Gordon halted his
party at the lower end of the rapids and went on alone. To his
right lay the cataract and along the steep slope against which it
chafed wound a faint footpath scarcely wide enough in places for
a man to pass. This trail dipped in and out, wound back and forth
around frowning promontories. It dodged through alder thickets or
spanned slides of loose rock, until, three miles above, it
emerged into the more open country back of the parent range. It
had been worn by the feet of wild animals and it followed closely
the right-of-way of the S. R. & N. To the left the hills rose
swiftly in great leaps to the sky; to the right, so close that a
false step meant disaster, roared the cataract, muddy and foam-
flecked.

As Gordon neared the first bluff he heard, above the clamor of
the flood, a faint metallic "tap-tap-tap," as of hammer and
drill, and, drawing closer, he saw Dan Appleton perched upon a
rock which commanded a view in both directions. Just around the
shoulder, in a tiny gulch, or gutter from the slopes above, were
pitched several tents, from one of which curled the smoke of a
cook-stove. Close at hand were moored four battered poling-
boats.

"Look out!" Appleton shouted from on high.

Gordon flushed angrily and kept on, scanning the surroundings
with practised eye.

"Hey, you!" Dan called, for a second time. "Keep back! We're
going to shoot."

Still heedless of the warning, Gordon held stubbornly to his
stride. He noted the heads of several men projecting from behind
boulders, and his anger rose. How dared this whipper-snapper
shout at him! He felt inclined to toss the insolent young
scoundrel into the rapids. Then suddenly his resentment gave
place to a totally different emotion. The slanting bank midway
between him and Appleton lifted itself bodily in a chocolate-
colored upheaval, and the roar of a dynamite blast rolled out
across the river. It was but a feeble echo of the majestic
reverberations from the glacier across the lake, but it was
impressive enough to send Curtis Gordon scurrying to a place of
safety. He wheeled in his tracks, doubling himself over, and his
long legs began to thresh wildly. Reaching the shelter of a rock
crevice, he hurled himself into it, while over his place of
refuge descended a shower of dirt and rocks and debris. When the
rain of missiles had subsided he stepped forth, his face white
with fury, his big hands twitching. His voice was hoarse as he
shouted his protest.

Appleton scrambled carefully down from his perch in the warm
sunshine and approached with insolent leisure.

"Say! Do you want to get your fool self killed?" he cried; then
in an altered tone: "Oh! Is it you, Gordon?"

"You knew very well it was I." Gordon swallowed hard and
partially controlled his wrath. "What do you mean by such
carelessness?" he demanded. "You ought to be hung for a thing
like that." He brushed the dirt from his expensive hunting-suit.

"I yelled my head off! You must be deaf."

"You saw me coming! Don't say you didn't. Fortunately I wasn't
hurt." In a tone of command he added, "You'll have to stop
blasting until I go through with my party."

"Sorry! Every day counts with us." Appleton grinned. "You know
how it is--short season, and all that."

"Come, come! Don't be an idiot. I have no time to waste,"

"Then you'll have to go around," said Dan. "This isn't a public
road, you know."

Gordon had come to argue, to pacify, to gain his ends by lying,
if necessary, but this impudent jackanapes infuriated him. His
plans had gone smoothly so far, and the unexpected threat of
resistance momentarily provoked him beyond restraint.

"You scoundrel," he cried. "You'd have blown me into the river if
you could. But I'll go through this canon--"

"Go as far and as fast as you like," Dan interrupted with equal
heat, "only take your own chances, and have a net spread at the
lower end of the rapids to catch the remains."

They eyed each other angrily; then Gordon said, more quietly:

"This is ridiculous. You can't stop me."

"Maybe I can't and maybe I can, I'm under orders to rush this
work and I don't intend to knock off to please you. I've planted
shots at various places along our right-of-way and I'll set 'em
off when it suits me. If you're so anxious to go up-river, why
don't you cross over to the moraine? There's a much better trail
on that side. You'll find better walking a few miles farther up,
and you'll run no danger of being hurt."

"I intend to run a survey along this hillside."

"There isn't room; we beat you to it."

"The law provides--"

"Law? Jove! I'd forgotten there is such a thing. Why don't you go
to law and settle the question that way? We'll have our track
laid by the time you get action, and I'm sure Mr. O'Neil wouldn't
place any obstacles in the way of your free passage back and
forth. He's awfully obliging about such things."

Gordon ground his fine, white, even teeth. "Don't you understand
that I'm entitled to a right-of-way through here under the law of
common user?" he asked, with what patience he could command.

"If you're trying to get a legal opinion on the matter why don't
you see a lawyer? I'm not a lawyer, neither am I a public speaker
nor a piano-tuner, nor anything like that--I'm an engineer."

"Don't get funny. I can't send my men in here if you continue
blasting."

"So it seems to me, but you appear to be hell bent on trying it."

Dan was enjoying himself and he deliberately added to the other's
anger by inquiring, as if in the blinding light of a new idea:

"Why don't you bridge over and go up the other side?" He pointed
to the forbidding, broken country which faced them across the
rapids.

Gordon snorted. "How long do you intend to maintain this
preposterous attitude?" he asked.

"As long as the powder lasts--and there's a good deal of it."

The promoter chewed his lip for a moment in perplexity, then said
with a geniality he was far from feeling:

"Appleton, you're all right! I admire your loyalty, even though
it happens to be for a mistaken cause. I always liked you. I
admire loyalty--It's something I need in my business. What I need
I pay for, and I pay well."

"So your man Linn told us."

"I never really discharged you. In fact, I intended to re-employ
you, for I need you badly. You can name your own salary and go to
work any time."

"In other words, you mean you'll pay me well to let you through."

"Fix your own price and I'll double it."

"Will you come with me up this trail a little way?" Dan inquired.

"Certainly."

"There's a spot where I'd like to have you stand. I'll save you
the trouble of walking back to your men--you'll beat the echo."

There was a pause while Gordon digested this. "Better think it
over," he said at length. "I'll never let O'Neil build his road,
not if it breaks me, and you're merely laying yourself open to
arrest by threatening me."

"Please come with me!" urged Appleton. "You'll never know what
hit you."

With a curse the promoter wheeled and walked swiftly down the
trail by which he had come.

"Get ready to shoot," Dan ordered when he had returned to his
vantage-point. A few moments later he saw the invading party
approach, but he withheld his warning shout until it was close at
hand. Evidently Gordon did not believe he would have the reckless
courage to carry out his threat, and had determined to put him to
the test.

The engineer gauged his distance nicely, and when the new-comers
had fairly passed within the danger zone he gave the signal to
fire.

A blast heavier than the one which had discouraged Gordon's
advance followed his command, and down upon the new-comers rained
a deluge which sent them scurrying to cover. Fortunately no one
was injured.

An hour later the invaders had pitched camp a mile below, and
after placing a trusted man on guard Appleton sent his weary men
to bed.

It was Curtis Gordon himself who brought O'Neil the first tidings
of this encounter, for, seeing the uselessness of an immediate
attempt to overcome Dan's party by force, he determined to make
formal protest. He secured a boat, and a few hours later the
swift current swept him down to the lower crossing, where McKay
put a locomotive at his disposal for the trip to Omar. By the
time he arrived there he was quite himself again, suave, self-
possessed, and magnificently outraged at the treatment he had
received. O'Neil met him with courtesy.

"Your man Appleton has lost his head," Gordon began. "I've come
to ask you to call him off."

"He is following instructions to the letter."

"Do you mean that you refuse to allow me to run my right-of-way
along that hillside? Impossible!" His voice betokened shocked
surprise.

"I am merely holding my own survey. I can't quit work to
accommodate you."

"But, my dear sir, I must insist that you do."

O'Neil shrugged.

"Then there is but one way to construe your refusal--it means
that you declare war."

"You saved me that necessity when you sent Linn to hire my men
away."

Gordon ignored this reference. "You must realize, O'Neil," said
he, "that I am merely asking what is mine. I have the right to
use that canonside--the right to use your track at that point, in
fact, if it proves impracticable to parallel it--under the law of
common user. You are an experienced contractor; you must be
familiar with that law."

"Yes. I looked it up before beginning operations, and I found it
has never been applied to Alaska."

Gordon started. "That's a ridiculous statement."

"Perhaps, but it's true. Alaska is not a territory, it's a
district, and it has its own code. Until the law of common user
has been applied here you'll have to use the other side of the
river."

"That would force me to bridge twice in passing the upper
glacier. We shall see what the courts have to say." "Thanks! I
shall be grateful for the delay."

Gordon rose with a bow. The interview had been short and to the
point. O'Neil put an engine at his service for the return trip,
and after a stiff adieu the visitor departed, inwardly raging.

It was his first visit to Omar, and now that he was here he
determined to see it all. But first another matter demanded his
attention--a matter much in his mind of late, concerning which he
had reached a more or less satisfactory decision during his
journey.

He went directly to the new hotel and inquired for Gloria Gerard.

Beneath the widow's coldness when she came to meet him he
detected an uncertainty, a frightened indecision which assured
him of success, and he set himself to his task with the zest he
always felt in bending another to his will.

"It has been the greatest regret of my life that we quarreled,"
he told her when their strained greeting was over. "I felt that I
had to come and see with my own eyes that you are well."

"I am quite well."

"Two people who have been to each other as much as we have been
cannot lightly separate; their lives cannot be divided without a
painful readjustment." He paused, then reflecting that he could
afford a little sentimental extravagance, added, "Flowers cannot
easily be transplanted, and love, after all, is the frailest of
blooms."

"I--think it is perennial. Have you--missed me?" Her dark eyes
were strained and curious.

"My dear, you can never know how much, nor how deeply distressing
this whole affair has been to me." He managed to put an affecting
pathos into words sufficiently banal, for he was an excellent
actor. "I find that I am all sentiment. Under the shell of the
hard-headed business man beats the heart of a school-boy. The
memory of the hours we have spent together, the places we have
seen, the joys and discouragements we have shared, haunts me
constantly. Memory can glean but never renew: 'joy's recollection
is no longer joy while sorrow's memory is sorrow still.'"

The spell of his personality worked strongly upon her.
"Recollection is the only paradise from which we cannot be turned
out," she said. "You read that to me once, but I didn't dream
that my own happiness would some day consist of recollection."

"Why should it, Gloria? Hope is ready to welcome you. Your home
stands open; my arms are outstretched."

"No!" she exclaimed, with a shake of her dark head. "There is
some one besides myself to consider. Natalie is happy here; no
one seems to know or to care what I have done."

"But surely you are not satisfied with this."

He ran his eye critically over the garish newness of the little
hotel parlor. It was flimsy, cheap, fresh with paint, very
different from the surroundings he had given her at Hope. "I
wonder that he presumed to offer you this after what you have
had. A hotel-keeper! A landlady!"

"I was glad to get even this, for I have no pride now," she
returned, coldly. "At least the house is honest, and the men who
come here are the same. Mr. O'Neil is especially kind to Natalie,
and she thinks a great deal of him."

"I presume he wants to marry her."

"I pray that he will. I don't intend her to make the mistake I
did."

Gordon received this announcement with grim satisfaction. It was
what he had suspected, and it fitted perfectly into his plans.

"I sha'n't allow this to continue, Gloria," he said. "Our
difference has gone far enough, and I sha'n't permit O'Neil to
put me in his debt. We have come to a final understanding, he and
I. While my views on the holiness of the marriage relation have
not changed in the least, still I am ready to follow your
wishes."

"You--mean it?" she queried, breathlessly.

"I do. Come home, Gloria."

"Wait! I must tell Natalie." She rose unsteadily and left the
room, while he reflected with mingled scorn and amusement upon
the weakness of human nature and the gullibility of women.

A moment later mother and daughter appeared, arm in arm, both
very pale.

"Is this true?" Natalie demanded.

"Quite true. You and Gloria seem to think I owe something; I
never shirk a debt." Mrs. Gerard's fingers tightened painfully
upon her daughter's arm as he continued: "There is only one
condition upon which I insist: you must both return to Hope at
once and have done with this--this man."

Natalie hesitated, but the look in her mother's eyes decided her.
With some difficulty she forced herself to acquiesce, and felt
the grip upon her arm suddenly relax. "When will the wedding take
place?" she asked.

"At the earliest possible moment," Gordon declared, with well-
feigned seriousness. "Once we return to God's country--"

"No!" cried Natalie. "We can't go back to Hope until she is
married; it would be scandalous."

"Why more scandalous to accept my protection than that of a
stranger? Do you care what these people think?" he demanded, with
an air of fine scorn.

"Yes! I care very much."

"Is there any--reason for waiting?" Mrs. Gerard inquired.

"Many! Too many to enumerate. It is my condition that you both
leave Omar at once."

Gloria Gerard looked at her daughter in troubled indecision, but
Natalie answered firmly:

"We can't do that."

"So! You have your own plans, no doubt, and it doesn't trouble
you that you are standing in the way of your mother's
respectability!" His voice was harsh, his sneer open. "Bless my
soul! Is the generosity to be all on my side? Or has this man
O'Neil forbidden you to associate with me?"

"I don't trust you." Natalie flared up. "I'm afraid you are
trying--"

"It is my condition, and I am adamant. Believe me, O'Neil knows
of your disgrace, or will learn of it in time. It would be well
to protect your name while you can." Turning to the other woman,
he said loudly: "Gloria, the girl is ready to sacrifice you to
her own ends."

"Wait!" Natalie's nerves were tingling with dislike of the man,
but she said steadily: "I shall do exactly as mother wishes."

Be it said to the credit of Gloria Gerard that she did not
hesitate.

"I shall be here when you are ready," she told him.

With an exclamation of rage Gordon rose and strode out of the
room.




XIII

WE JOURNEY TO A PLACE OF MANY WONDERS


Curtis Gordon's men broke camp upon his return from Omar, and by
taking the east bank of the Salmon River pressed through to the
upper valley. Here they recrossed to the west side and completed
their survey, with the exception of the three-mile gap which Dan
Appleton held.

Gordon continued to smart under the sting of his defeat, however.
O'Neil had gotten the better of him in argument, and Natalie's
simplicity had proved more than a match for his powers of
persuasion. At no time had he seriously considered making Mrs.
Gerard his wife, but he had thought to entice the two women back
under his own roof, in order to humble both them and their self-
appointed protector. He felt sure that Natalie's return to Hope
and her residence there would injure her seriously in the eyes of
the community, and this would be a stab to O'Neil. Although he
had failed for the moment, he did not abandon the idea. His
display of anger upon leaving the hotel had been due mainly to
disappointment at the checkmate. But knowing well the hold he
possessed upon the older woman, he laid it away for later use
when the fight grew hot, and meanwhile devoted himself to
devising further measures by which to harass his enemy and
incidentally advance his own fortunes.

Gordon's business career had consisted of a series of brilliant
manipulations whereby, with little to go upon, he had forced
financial recognition for himself. No one knew better than he the
unstable foundation beneath his Alaskan enterprises; yet more
than once he had turned as desperate ventures into the semblance
of success. By his present operations he sought not only to
hamper O'Neil, but to create an appearance of opposition to both
him and the Trust that could be coined into dollars and cents.
There are in the commercial world money wolves who prey upon the
weak and depend upon the spirit of compromise in their
adversaries. Gordon was one of these. He had the faculty of
snatching at least half a victory from apparent defeat, and for
this reason he had been able to show a record sufficiently
impressive to convince the average investor of his ability.

By purchasing for a song the McDermott rights at Kyak he had
placed himself in position to share in the benefits of the
Heidlemann breakwater, and by rapidly pushing his tracks ahead he
made his rivalry seem formidable. As a means of attack upon
O'Neil he adopted a procedure common in railroad-building. He
amended his original survey so that it crossed that of the S. R.
& N. midway between the lower bridge over the Salmon River and
the glaciers, and at that point began the hasty erection of a
grade.

It was at the cost of no little inconvenience that he rushed
forward a large body of men and supplies, and began to lay track
across the S. R. & N. right-of-way. If Appleton could hold a
hillside, he reasoned, he himself could hold a crossing, if not
permanently, at least for a sufficient length of time to serve
his purpose.

His action came as a disagreeable surprise to Omar. These battles
for crossings have been common in the history of railroading, and
they have not infrequently resulted in sanguinary affrays. Long
after the ties are spiked and the heads are healed, the legal
rights involved have been determined, but usually amid such a
tangle of conflicting testimony and such a confusion of
technicalities as to leave the justice of the final decision in
doubt. In the unsettled conditions that prevailed in the Salmon
River valley physical possession of a right-of-way was at least
nine-tenths of the law, and O'Neil realized that he must choose
between violence and a compromise. Not being given to compromise,
he continued his construction work, and drew closer, day by day,
to the point of contact.

Reports came from the front of his opponent's preparations for
resistance. Gordon had laid several hundred yards of light rails
upon his grade, and on these he had mounted a device in the
nature of a "go-devil" or skip, which he shunted back and forth
by means of a donkey-engine and steel cable. With this in
operation across the point of intersection like a shuttle,
interference would be extremely dangerous. In addition, he had
built blockhouses and breast-works of ties, and in these, it was
reported, he had stationed the pick of his hired helpers, armed
and well provisioned.

Toward this stronghold Murray O'Neil's men worked, laying his
road-bed as straight as an arrow, and as the intervening distance
decreased anxiety and speculation at Omar increased.

Among those who hung upon the rumors of the approaching clash
with greatest interest was Eliza Appleton. Since Dan's departure
for the front she had done her modest best to act the part he had
forced upon her, and in furtherance of their conspiracy she had
urged O'Neil to fulfil his promise of taking her over the work.
She felt an ever-growing curiosity to see those glaciers, about
which she had heard so much; and she reflected, though not
without a degree of self-contempt, that nothing could be more
favorable to her design than the intimacy of several days
together on the trail. Nothing breeds a closer relationship than
the open life, nothing brings people more quickly into accord or
hopeless disagreement. Although she had no faintest idea that
Murray could or would ever care seriously for her, she felt that
there was a bare possibility of winning his transient interest
and in that way, perhaps, affording her brother time in which to
attain his heart's desire. Of course, it was all utterly absurd,
yet it was serious enough to Dan; and her own feelings--well,
they didn't matter.

She was greatly excited when O'Neil announced one evening:

"I'm ready to make that trip to the front, if you are. I have
business at Kyak; so after we've seen the glaciers we will go
down there and you can take in the coal-fields."

"How long shall we be gone?"

"Ten days, perhaps. We'll start in the morning."

"I'm ready to leave at a moment's notice."

"Then perhaps you'd better help Natalie."

"Natalie!" exclaimed Eliza, seeing all her well-laid plans
tottering. "Is she going?"

"Oh yes! It's an opportunity she shouldn't miss, and I thought it
would be pleasanter for you if she went with us."

Eliza was forced to acknowledge his thoughtfulness, although it
angered her to be sacrificed to the proprieties. Her newspaper
training had made her feel superior to such things, and this of
all occasions was one upon which she would have liked to be free
of mere conventions. But of course she professed the greatest
delight.

O'Neil had puzzled her greatly of late; for at times he seemed
wrapped up in Natalie, and at other times he actually showed a
preference for Eliza's own company. He was so impartial in his
attentions that at one moment the girl would waver in her
determination and in the next would believe herself succeeding
beyond her hope. The game confused her emotions curiously. She
accused herself of being overbold, and then she noted with horror
that she was growing as sensitive to his apparent coldness as if
she were really in earnest. She had not supposed that the mere
acting of a sentimental role could so obsess her.

To counteract this tendency she assumed a very professional air
when they set out on the following morning. She was once more
Eliza Appleton the reporter, and O'Neil, in recognition of this
fact, explained rapidly the difficulties of construction which he
had met and overcome. As she began to understand there came to
her a fuller appreciation of the man and the work he was doing.
Natalie, however, could not seem to grasp the significance of the
enterprise. She saw nothing beyond the even gravel road-bed, the
uninteresting trestles and bridges and cuts and fills, the like
of which she had seen many times before, and her comment was
childlike. O'Neil, however, appeared to find her naivete
charming, and Eliza reflected bitterly:

"If my nose was perfectly chiseled and my eyebrows nice, he
wouldn't care if my brain was the size of a rabbit's. Here am I,
talking like a human being and really understanding him, while
she sits like a Greek goddess, wondering if her hat is on
straight. If ever I find a girl uglier than I am I'll make her my
bosom friend." She jabbed her pencil viciously at her notebook.

The track by this time had been extended considerably beyond the
lower crossing--a circumstance which rendered their boat journey
to the glaciers considerably shorter than the one Dan had taken
with his cargo of dynamite. When the engine finally stopped it
was in the midst of a tent village beside which flowed one of the
smaller branches of the Salmon. In the distance the grade
stretched out across the level swamps like a thin, lately healed
scar, and along its crest gravel-trains were slowly creeping. An
army of men like a row of ants were toiling upon it, and still
farther away shone the white sides of another encampment.

"Oh! That's Gordon's track," Eliza cried, quickly. "Why, you're
nearly up to him. How do you intend to get across?"

O'Neil nodded at the long thin line of moiling men in the
distance.

"There's a loose handle in each one of those picks," he said.

"Somebody will be killed in that kind of a racket."

"That rests with Gordon. I'm going through."

"Suppose he had said that when Dan stopped him at the canon?"

"If he'd said it and meant it he'd probably have done it. He
bluffs; I don't! I have to go on; he didn't. Now lunch is served;
and since this is our last glimpse of civilization, I advise you
to fortify yourselves. From here on we shall see nothing but the
wilderness."

He led them to a spotless tent which had been newly erected at
the edge of the spruce. It was smoothly stretched upon a
framework of timber, its walls and floor were of dressed lumber,
and within were two cots all in clean linen. There were twin
washstands also, and dressers and rocking-chairs, a table and a
stove. On the floor beside the beds lay a number of deep, soft
bear-rugs. A meal was spread amid glass and figured china and
fresh new napery.

"How cozy! Why, it's a perfect dear of a house!" exclaimed
Natalie.

"You will leave everything but your necessaries here, for we are
going light," Murray told them. "You will stop here on our way
back to Kyak, and I'll warrant you'll be glad to see the place by
that time."

"You built this just for us," Eliza said, accusingly.

"Yes. But it didn't take long. I 'phoned this morning that you
were coming." He ran a critical eye over the place to see that
its equipment was complete, then drew out their chairs for them.

A white-coated cook-boy served a luncheon in courses, the quality
of which astonished the visitors, for there was soup, a roast,
delicious vegetables, crisp salad, a camembert which O'Neil had
imported for his private use, and his own particular blend of
coffee.

The girls ate with appetites that rivaled those of the men in the
mess-tent near by. Their presence in the heart of a great
activity, the anticipation of adventure to come, the electric
atmosphere of haste and straining effort on every hand excited
them. Eliza began to be less conscious of her secret intention,
and Natalie showed a gaiety rare in her since the shadow of her
mother's shame had fallen upon her life.

The boat crews were waiting when they had finished, and they were
soon under way. A mile of comparatively slack water brought them
out into one of the larger estuaries of the river, and there the
long, uphill pull began. O'Neil had equipped his two companions
with high rubber boots, which they were only too eager to try. As
soon as they got ashore they began to romp and play and splash
through the shallows quite like unruly children. They spattered
him mischievously, they tugged at the towing-ropes with a great
show of assistance, they scampered ahead of the party, keeping
him in a constant panic lest they meet with serious accident.

It was with no little relief that he gave the order to pitch camp
some hours later. After sending them off to pick wild currants,
with a grave warning to beware of bears, he saw to the
preparations for the night. They returned shortly with their hats
filled and their lips stained; then, much to his disgust, they
insisted upon straightening out his tent with their own hands.
Once inside its low shelter, they gleefully sifted sand between
his blankets and replaced his pillow with a rock; then they
induced the cook to coil a wet string in his flapjack. When
supper was over and the camp-fires of driftwood were crackling
merrily, they fixed themselves comfortably where their feet would
toast, and made him tell them stories until his eyes drooped with
weariness.

It was late summer, and O'Neil had expected to find the glaciers
less active than usual, but heavy rains in the interior and hot
thawing weather along the coast had swelled the Salmon until many
bergs clogged it, while the reverberations which rolled down the
valley told him that both Garfield and Jackson were caving badly.
It was not the safest time at which to approach the place, he
reflected, but the girls had shown themselves nimble of foot, and
he put aside his uneasiness.

Short though the miles had been and easy as the trip had proved,
Eliza soon found herself wondering that it should be possible to
penetrate this region at all. The snarling river, the charging
icebergs, the caving banks, and the growing menace of that noisy
gap ahead began to have their effect upon her and Natalie; and
when the party finally rounded the point where Murray and Dan had
caught their first glimpse of the lower glacier they paused with
exclamations of amazement. They stood at the upper end of a gorge
between low bluffs, and just across the hurrying flood lay the
lower limit of the giant ice-field. The edge, perhaps six hundred
feet distant, was sloping and mud-stained, for in its slow
advance it had plowed a huge furrow, lifting boulders, trees,
acres of soil upon its back. The very bluff through which the
river had cut its bed was formed of the debris it had thrown off,
and constituted a bulwark protecting its flank. Farther up-stream
the slope, became steeper, then changed to a rugged perpendicular
face showing marks of recent cleavage. This palisade extended on
and on, around the nearest bend, following the contour of the
Salmon as far as they could see. The sun was reflected from its
myriad angles and facets in splendid iridescence. Mammoth caves
and caverns gaped. In spots the ice was white, opaque; in other
places it was a light cerulean blue which shaded into purple.
Ribbons and faint striations meandered through it like the
streaks in an agate. But what struck the beholders with
overwhelming force was the tremendous, the unbelievable bulk of
the whole slowly moving mass. It reared itself sheerly three
hundred feet high, and along its foot the river hurried, dwarfed
to an insignificant trickle. Here and there it leaned outward
threateningly, bulging from the terrific weight behind; at other
points the muddy flood recoiled from vast heaps which had slid
downward and half dammed its current. Back of these piles the
fresh cleavage showed dazzlingly. On, upward, back into the
untracked mountains it ran through mile upon mile of undulations,
until at last it joined the ice-cap which weighted the plateau.
As far as the eye could follow the river ahead it stood solidly.
Across its entire face it was dripping; a thousand little rills
and waterfalls ate into it, and over it swept a cool, dank
breath.

The effect of the first view was overwhelming. Nothing upon the
earth compares in majesty and menace to these dull-eyed monsters
of bygone ages; nothing save the roots of mountains can serve to
check them; nothing less than the ceaseless energy of mighty
rivers can sweep away their shattered fragments.

Murray O'Neil had seen Jackson Glacier many times, but always he
experienced the same feeling of awe, of personal insignificance,
as when he first came stumbling up that gorge more than a year
before.

For a long time the girls stood gazing without a word. They
seemed to have forgotten his presence.

"Well?" he said at last.

"Isn't it BIG?" Natalie faltered, with round eyes. "Will it fall
over on us?"

He shook his head. "The river is too wide for that, but when a
particularly big mass drops it makes waves large enough to sweep
everything before them. This bank on our right is sixty feet
high, but I've seen it inundated."

Turning to Eliza, he inquired:

"What do you think of it?"

Her face as she met his was strangely glorified, her eyes were
shining, her fingers tightly interlocked.

"I--I'd like to cry or--or swear," she said, uncertainly,

"Why, Eliza!" Natalie regarded her friend in shocked amazement,
but Murray laughed.

"It affects people differently," he said. "I have men who refuse
to make this trip. There's something about Jackson that frightens
them--perhaps it is its nearness. You see, there's no other place
on the globe where we pygmies dare come so close to a live
glacier of this size."

"How can we go on?" Natalie asked. "We must work our boats along
this bank. If the ice begins to crack anywhere near us I want you
both to scamper up into the alders as fast as your rubber boots
will carry you."

"What will you do?" Eliza eyed him curiously.

"Oh, I'll follow; never fear! If it's not too bad, I'll stay with
the boats, of course. But we're not likely to have much
difficulty at this season."

Eliza noted the intensity with which the boatmen were scanning
the passage ahead, and something in O'Neil's tone told her he was
speaking with an assurance he did not wholly feel.

"You have lost some men here, haven't you?" she asked.

"Yes. But the greater danger is in coming down. Then we have to
get out in the current and take our chances."

"I'd like to do that!" Her lips were parted, her eyes were
glowing, but Natalie gave a little cry of dismay.

"It's an utterly new sensation," O'Neil admitted. "I've been
thinking of sending you up across the moraine, but the trail is
bad, and you might get lost among the alders--"

"And miss any part of this! I wouldn't do it for worlds." Eliza's
enthusiasm was irresistible, and the expedition was soon under
way again.

Progress was more difficult now, for the river-shore was paved
with smooth, round stones which rolled under foot, and the boats
required extreme attention in the swift current. The farther they
proceeded, the more the ice wall opposite increased in height,
until at last it shut off the mountains behind. Then as they
rounded the first bend a new prospect unfolded itself. The size
of Jackson became even more apparent; the gravel bank under which
they crept was steeper and higher also. In places it was undercut
by the action of the waves which periodically surged across. At
such points Murray sent his charges hurrying on ahead, while he
and his men tracked the boats after them. In time they found
themselves opposite the backbone of the glacier, where the Salmon
gnawed at the foot of a frozen cliff of prodigious height. And
now, although there had been no cause for apprehension beyond an
occasional rumble far back or a splitting crack from near at
hand, the men assumed an attitude of strained watchfulness and
kept their faces turned to the left. They walked quietly, as if
they felt themselves in some appalling presence.

At last there came a sound like that of a cannon-shot, and far
ahead of them a fragment loosened itself and went plunging
downward. Although it appeared small, a ridge promptly leaped out
from beneath the splash and came racing down the river's bosom
toward them.

"Better go up a bit," O'Neil called to his charges.

The men at the ends of the tow-lines scrambled part way up the
shelving beach and braced themselves, then wrapped the ropes
about their waists, like anchormen on a tug-of-war team. Their
companions waded into the flood and fended the boats off the
rocks.

The wave came swiftly, lifting the skiffs high upon the bank,
then it sucked them back amid a tangle of arms and legs. A
portion of the river-bottom suddenly bared itself and as suddenly
was submerged again. The boats plunged and rolled and beat
themselves upon the shore, wrenching the anchormen from their
posts. They were half filled with water too, but the wave had
passed and was scudding away down-stream.

Eliza Appleton came stumbling back over the rock-strewn bank, for
during that first mad plunge she had seen O'Neil go down beneath
one of the rearing craft. A man was helping him out.

"Nothing but my ankle!" he reassured her when she reached his
side. "I was dragged a bit and jammed among the boulders." He
sank down, and his lips were white with pain, but his gray eyes
smiled bravely. The boatman removed his chief's boot and fell to
rubbing the injury, while the girls looked on helplessly.

"Come, come! We can't stay here," Murray told them. He drew on
the boot again to check the swelling.

"Can you walk?" they asked him, anxiously.

"Certainly! Two feet are really unnecessary. A man can get along
nearly as well on one." He hurried his men back to their tasks,
and managed to limp after them, although the effort brought beads
of sweat to his lips and brow.

It was well that he insisted upon haste, for they had not gone
far when the glacier broke abreast of the spot they had just
left. There came a rending crack, terrifying in its loudness; a
tremendous tower of ice separated itself from the main body,
leaned slowly outward, then roared downward, falling in a solid
piece like a sky-scraper undermined. Not until the arc described
by its summit had reached the river's surface did it shiver
itself. Then there was a burst as of an exploded mine. The
saffron waters of the Salmon shot upward until they topped the
main rampart, and there separated into a cloud of spray which
rained down in a deluge. Out from the fallen mass rushed a billow
which gushed across the channel, thrashed against the high bank,
then inundated it until the alder thickets on its crest whipped
their tips madly. A giant charge of fragments of every size flew
far out across the flats or lashed the waters to further anger in
its fall.

The prostrate column lay like a wing-dam, half across the stream,
and over it the Salmon piled itself. Disintegration followed;
bergs heaved themselves into sight and went rolling and lunging
after the billow which was rushing down-stream with the speed of
a locomotive. They ground and clashed together in furious
confusion as the river spun them; the greater ones up-ended
themselves, casting off muddy cascades. From the depths of the
flood came a grinding and crunching as ice met rock.

Spellbound, the girls watched that first wave go tearing out of
sight, filling the river bank-full. With exclamations of wonder,
they saw the imprisoned waters break the huge dam to pieces.
Finally the last shattered fragment was hurried out of sight, the
flood poured past unhampered, and overhead the glacier towered
silent, unchanged, staring at them balefully like a blind man
with filmed eyes. There remained nothing but a gleaming scar to
show where the cataclysm had originated.

"If I'd known the river was so high I'd never have brought you,"
O'Neil told them. "It's fortunate we happened to be above that
break. You see, the waves can't run up against the current." He
turned to his men and spurred them on.

It was not until the travelers had reached the camp at the bridge
site that all the wonders of this region became apparent. Then
the two girls, in spite of their fatigue, spent the late
afternoon sight-seeing. At this point they were able to gain a
comprehensive view; for at their backs lay Jackson Glacier, which
they had just passed, and directly fronting them, across a placid
lake, was Garfield, even larger and more impressive than its
mate. Thirty, forty miles it ran back, broadening into a frozen
sea out of which scarred mountain peaks rose like bleak islands,
and on beyond the range of vision was still more ice.

They were surrounded by ragged ramparts. The Salmon River ran
through a broken chalice formed by the encircling hills, and over
the rim of the bowl or through its cracks peered other and
smaller ice bodies. The lake at its bottom was filled by as
strange a navy as ever sailed the sea; for the ships were bergs,
and they followed each other in senseless, ceaseless manoeuvers,
towed by the currents which swept through from the cataract at
its upper end. They formed long battle-lines, they assembled into
flotillas, they filed about the circumference of a devil's
whirlpool at the foot of the rapids, gyrating, bobbing, bowing
until crowded out by the pressure of their rivals. Some of them
were grounded, like hulks defeated in previous encounters, and
along the guardian bar which imprisoned them at the outlet of the
lake others were huddled, a mass of slowly dissolving wreckage.

O'Neil was helped into camp, and when his boot had been cut away
he sent news of his arrival to Dan, who came like an eager
bridegroom.




XIV

HOW THE TRUTH CAME TO ELIZA


Appleton found his employer with one foot in a tub of hot water
and his lap full of blueprints. O'Neil explained briefly the
condition of affairs down the river.

"I want some one to make that crossing," he said.

"A volunteer?" asked Dan, with quickened pulses.

"Yes."

"Will I do?"

"I sent for you to give you the first chance--you've been chafing
so at your idleness. We must have steel laid to this point before
snow flies. Every hour counts. I daren't risk Mellen or McKay,
for they might be disabled. I intended to take charge myself, but
I won't be able to walk now for some time." He swore a little,
and Dan nodded sympathetically. "I wouldn't send anybody where
I'd refuse to go myself. You understand?"

"Of course."

"If either McKay or Mellen were hurt I couldn't build the bridge,
and the bridge must be built."

"If Gordon stands pat somebody may be--hurt."

"I don't look for anything worse than a few broken heads, but of
course I can't tell. I'll stand behind you with my last dollar,
no matter what happens."

Dan laughed. "As I understand the situation you won't have a
dollar unless we make the crossing."

"Right!" O'Neil smiled cheerfully. "The life of the S. R. & N.
depends upon it. I'd give ten thousand dollars for your right
ankle."

"You can have it for nothing, Chief. I'd amputate the whole leg
and present it to you," Dan declared earnestly.

Murray took his hand in a hearty grip. "Perhaps I'll be able to
serve you some time," he said, simply. "Anyhow, I'll look out for
the chance. Now spend the evening with the girls, and leave in
the morning. I'll be down as soon as I can travel, to watch the
fight from the side-lines." O'Neil's voice was level, but his
teeth were shut and his fingers were clenched with rage at his
disability.

Dan hurried away highly elated, but when he told Eliza of the
part he had undertaken she stormed indignantly.

"Why, the brute! He has no right to send you into danger. This
isn't war."

"Sis, dear, it's my chance. He can't stand, and he daren't risk
his right-hand men."

"So he sacrifices you! I won't permit it. Your life and safety
are worth more than all his dollars. Let his old railroad go to
smash!"

"Wait! More than my safety depends on this. He said he'd wait for
a chance to pay me back. If I do this he'll owe me more than any
man on the job, and when he learns that I love Natalie--"

"Dan!" exclaimed his sister.

"Oh, he'll make good!"

"Why, you're worse than he! The idea of suggesting such a thing!"

"Don't preach! I've had nothing to do lately but think of her;
she's always in my mind. The loneliness up here has made me feel
more than ever that I can't exist without her. The river whispers
her name; her face looks at me from the campfire; the wind brings
me her messages--"

"Fiddlesticks! She saves her messages for him. When a man reaches
the poetical stage he's positively sickening. You'll be writing
verses next."

"I've written 'em," Dan confessed, sheepishly; "oceans of mush."

"Fancy! Thank Heaven one of us is sane."

"Our dispositions were mixed when we were born, Eliza. You're
unsentimental and hard-headed: I'm romantic. You'll never know
what love means."

"If you are a sample, I hope not." Eliza's nose assumed an even
higher tilt than usual.

"Well, if I knew I had no chance with Natalie I'd let Gordon's
men put an end to me--that's how serious it is. But I have a
chance--I know I have."

"Bosh! You've lived in railroad camps too long. I know a dozen
girls prettier than she." Eying him with more concern, she asked,
seriously, "You wouldn't really take advantage of a service to
Murray O'Neil to--to tell him the nature of your insanity?"

"I might not actually tell him, but I'd manage it so he'd find
out."

"Don't you think Natalie has something to say? Don't you think
she is more than a piece of baggage waiting to be claimed by the
first man who comes along?" sputtered Miss Appleton in fine
disgust at this attitude. "She has more sense and determination
than any girl, any pretty girl, I ever saw. That's one reason why
I hate her so. There's no use trying to select a husband for her.
When the time comes she'll do the selecting herself. She'll knock
over all our plans and walk blushingly up to the altar with
O'Neil, leaving us out on the sidewalk to cheer. I'm sorry I ever
tried to help you! I'm going to quit and get back my self-
respect."

"You'll do no such thing. You'll continue to help your poor red-
headed brother to the finish. Say! When I'm alone I'm just
bursting with optimism; when I'm with you I wither with despair;
when I'm with Natalie I become as heavy and stupid as a frog full
of buckshot--I just sit and blink and bask and revel in a sort of
speechless bliss. If she ever saw how really bright and engaging
I am--"

"You!" Eliza sniffed. "You're as uninteresting as I am."

"Now that you've pledged your undying support, here goes for some
basking," said Dan; and he made off hastily in search of Miss
Gerard.

Eliza had really made up her mind to wash her hands of the
affair, but she wavered, and, as usual, she gave in. She did go
to O'Neil to protest at Dan's selection for the post of danger,
but after talking with him she began to see the matter in a new
light, and her opposition weakened. He showed her that the S. R.
& N. had an individuality of its own--an individuality greater
than Murray O'Neil's, or Dan Appleton's, or that of any man
connected with it. She began to understand that it was a living
thing, and that O'Neil was merely a small part of it--a person
driven by a power outside himself, the head servant of a great
undertaking, upon whom rested a heavy responsibility. She saw for
the first time that the millions invested in the project imposed
upon those concerned with its management a sacred duty, and that
failure to defend the company's rights would be the worst sort of
treachery. She began to appreciate also how men may be willing to
lay down their lives, if necessary, to pave the way for the march
of commerce.

"I never looked at it in this way," she told him, when he had
finished. "I--don't like to take that view of it, even now, but I
suppose I must."

"Try not to worry about Dan," he said, sympathetically. "We'll
start back as soon as I'm able to move around, and I'll do my
best to see that he isn't hurt. It's--tough to be laid up this
way."

"There's another sick man in camp, by the way."

"Who?"

"The Indian boy who helps the cook. He was hunting and shot
himself in the arm."

"They told me he was doing well."

"Oh, he is, but the pain has kept the poor fellow awake until
he's nearly out of his head. There are no drugs here."

"None this side of the end of the track."

"Can't we do something?"

"We can give Dan a note to 'Happy Tom' in the morning and have
whatever you want sent up. Tom will be there, and perhaps if you
ask him he'll despatch a man on foot at once."

Seizing pen and paper from the table, Eliza wrote a note, which
she read aloud:

"DEAR UNCLE TOM,--There is a sick Indian here. Won't you please
send up an opiate by special messenger, and receive the blessing
of, Your affectionate, ELIZA."

"Better change the word 'opiate,'" O'Neil advised. "I don't think
Tom is equal to that; he might send overalls!" So Eliza
substituted "something to put him to sleep." This message Dan
promised faithfully to deliver.

Murray had expected to begin the return journey within twenty-
four hours after his arrival; but his injury mended slowly, and
when the time came he was still unable to stand. This interval
the girls spent in watching the glaciers, of which they never
seemed to tire, and in spoiling many films.

It was late on the second day when a tired and sodden messenger
bearing the marks of heavy travel appeared at O'Neil's tent and
inquired for Miss Appleton. To her he handed a three-foot bundle
and a note from Tom Slater which read:

   DEAR MADAM,--Here is the best thing I know of to put an
Indian to sleep.       THOS. SLATER.

"There's some mistake, surely," said the girl, as she unrolled
the odd-looking package; then she cried out angrily, and O'Neil
burst into laughter. For inside the many wrappings was a pick-
handle.

Eliza's resentment at "Happy Tom's" unsympathetic sense of humor
was tempered in a measure by the fact that the patient had taken
a turn for the better and really needed no further medical
attention. But she was not accustomed to practical jokes, and she
vowed to make Tom's life miserable if ever the occasion offered.

As the days wore on and Murray remained helpless his impatience
became acute, and on the fourth morning he determined to leave,
at whatever cost in pain or danger to the injury. He gave orders,
therefore, to have a boat prepared, and allowed himself to be
carried to it. The foreman of the bridge crew he delegated to
guide the girls down across the moraine, where he promised to
pick them up. The men who had come with him he sent on to the
cataract where Dan had been.

"Aren't you coming with us?" asked Natalie, when they found him
seated in the skiff with an oarsman.

"It's rough going. I'd have to be carried, so I prefer this," he
told them.

"Then we'll go with you," Eliza promptly declared.

Natalie paled and shook her dark head. "Is it safe?" she
ventured.

"No, it isn't! Run along now! I'll be down there waiting, when
you arrive."

"If it's safe enough for you, it's safe enough for us," said
Eliza. Climbing into the boat, she plumped herself down with a
look which seemed to defy any power to remove her. Her blue eyes
met O'Neil's gray ones with an expression he had never seen in
them until this moment.

"Nonsense, child!" he said. "Don't be silly."

"Don't you try to put me out. I'll hang on and--kick. Don't you
say 'please,' either," she warned him.

"I must," he protested. "Please don't insist."

She scowled like an angry boy, and seized the gunwales firmly.
Her expression made him smile despite his annoyance, and this
provoked her the more.

"I'm going!" she asserted, darkly.

This outing had done wonders for both girls. The wind and the
sunshine had tanned them, the coarse fare had lent them a hearty
vigor, and they made charming pictures in their trim short skirts
and sweaters and leather-banded hats.

"Very well! If you're going, take off your boots," commanded
O'Neil.

"What for?"

"We may be swamped and have to swim for it. You see the man has
taken his off." Murray pointed to the raw-boned Norwegian
oarsman, who had stripped down as if for a foot-race.

Eliza obeyed.

"Now your sweater."

Natalie had watched this scene with evident concern. She now
seated herself upon a boulder and began to tug at her rubber
boots.

"Here! Here! You're not going, too!" O'Neil exclaimed.

"Yes, I am. I'm frightened to death, but I won't be a coward."
Her shaking hands and strained voice left no doubt of her
seriousness.

"She can't swim," said Eliza; and O'Neil put an end to this
display of heroism with a firm refusal.

"You'll think I'm afraid," Natalie expostulated.

"Bless you, of course we will, because you are! So am I, and so
is Eliza, for that matter. If you can't swim you'd only be taking
a foolish risk and adding to our danger. Besides, Eliza doesn't
know the feel of cold water as we do."

Natalie smiled a little tremulously at recollection of the
shipwreck.

"I'd much rather walk, of course," she said; and then to Eliza,
"It--it will be a lovely ramble for us."

But Eliza shook her head. "This is material for my book, and I'll
make enough out of it to--to--"

"Buy another orchard," Murray suggested.

Feeling more resigned now that the adventure had taken on a
purely financial color, Natalie at length allowed herself to be
dissuaded, and Eliza settled herself in her seat with the
disturbing consciousness that she had made herself appear selfish
and rude in O'Neil's eyes. Nevertheless, she had no notion of
changing her mind.

When the other girl had gone the oarsman completed his
preparations by lashing fast the contents of the skiff--a
proceeding which Eliza watched with some uneasiness. O'Neil
showed his resentment by a pointed silence, which nettled her,
and she resolved to hold her seat though the boat turned
somersaults.

Word was finally given, and they swung out into the flood. O'Neil
stood as best he could on his firm leg, and steered by means of a
sculling-oar, while the Norwegian rowed lustily.

Bits of drift, patches of froth, fragments of ice accompanied
them, bobbing alongside so persistently that Eliza fancied the
boat must be stationary until, glancing at the river-banks, she
saw them racing past like the panoramic scenery in a melodrama.
The same glance showed her that they were rushing directly toward
the upper ramparts of Jackson Glacier, as if for an assault. Out
here in the current there were waves, and these increased in size
as the bed of the Salmon grew steeper, until the poling-boat
began to rear and leap like a frightened horse. The gleaming wall
ahead rose higher with every instant: it overhung, a giant,
crumbling cliff, imposing, treacherous. Then the stream turned at
right angles; they were swept along parallel with the ice face,
and ahead of them for three miles stretched the gauntlet. The
tottering wall seemed almost within reaching distance; its breath
was cold and damp and clammy. O'Neil stood erect and powerful in
the stern, swaying to the antics of the craft, his weight upon
the sweep, his eyes fixed upon the Thing overhead. The Norwegian
strained at his oars while the sweat ran down into his open
shirt. The boat lunged and wallowed desperately, rising on end,
falling with prodigious slaps, drenching the occupants with
spray. It was splendid, terrifying! Eliza clung to her seat and
felt her heartbeats smothering her. Occasionally the oarsman
turned, staring past her with round, frightened eyes, and
affording her a glimpse of a face working with mingled fear and
exultation.

Thus far the glacier had not disputed their passage; it
maintained the silence and the immobility of marble; nothing but
the snarl of the surging flood re-echoed from its face. But with
the suddenness of a rifle-shot there came a detonation, louder,
sharper than any blast of powder. The Norwegian cursed; the
helmsman dropped his eyes to the white face in the bow and
smiled.

Half a mile ahead of them a mass of ice came rumbling down, and
the whole valley rocked with the sound. Onward the little craft
fled, a dancing speck beneath the majesty of that frozen giant,
an atom threatened by the weight of mountains. At last through
the opening of the gorge below came a glimpse of the flats that
led to the sea. A moment later the boat swung into an eddy and
came to rest, bumping against the boulders.

O'Neil sat down, wiping his wet face.

"Well, was it worth your trouble, Miss Kick-over the-traces?" he
asked.

"Oh, it was glorious! I'll never forget it."

Eliza's cheeks were burning now, her aching hands relaxed their
hold, and she drew a deep breath--the first of which she had been
conscious since the start, fifteen minutes before.

"Now, on with your boots and your sweater. We'll have an hour's
wait for Natalie."

She gave a cry of surprise and offered him a glimpse of a trim
ankle and a dripping foot.

"See! They're wet, and I wriggled my toes right through my
stockings. I NEVER was so excited."

The boatman fastened the painter and resumed his outer clothing.
O'Neil lit a cigar and asked:

"Tell me, why did you insist on coming?"

"I was afraid something might happen to you."

He raised his brows, and she flushed. "Don't you understand? Dan
would never have forgiven me, and--and--I just HAD to come,
that's all. It's corking material for me--I thought you might
upset, and I--I don't know why I insisted." She bent over her
stubborn boots, hiding her face. She was flaming to the ears, for
suddenly she knew the reason that had prompted her. It rushed
upon her like a sense of great shame. She recalled the desperate
grip at her heart when she had seen him ready to leave, the
wildness of her longing to share his danger, the black fear that
he might meet disaster alone. It had all come without warning,
and there had been no time for self-consciousness, but now she
realized the truth. The poignant pain of it made her fingers
clumsy and sent that flood of scarlet to her neck and ears.

When Natalie arrived they cast off, and the remaining miles were
made in a few hours.

Appleton joined them for lunch in the tent they remembered so
well, and professed to be shocked at the report of his sister's
foolhardiness. But whatever may have been Natalie's fear of
ridicule, it promptly disappeared under his complete indorsement
of her wisdom in refraining from such a mad adventure. As if to
put her even more at ease, O'Neil was especially attentive to
her; and Eliza reflected gloomily that men, after all, dislike
bravado in women, that a trapeze artist or a lady balloonist
inspires only a qualified admiration.

During O'Neil's absence work had progressed steadily. On his
return he found the grade completed to within a few yards of
Gordon's right-of-way. Although he was still unable to walk, he
insisted upon going to the front, whither he was helped by
Appleton and "Happy Tom."

Into the narrow space between the end of his embankment and that
of his rival's a gravel-train was spilling its burden, and a
hundred pick-and-shovel men were busy. The opposing forces also
seemed hard at work, but their activity was largely a pretense,
and they showed plainly that they were waiting for the clash.
They were a hard-looking crew, and their employer had neglected
no precaution. He had erected barricades for their protection
until his grade looked like a military work.

"They haven't showed any guns yet, but I'm sure they're armed,"
Appleton told his chief.

"How is the place lighted by night?" O'Neil inquired.

"Oil torches," Slater answered. "Ah! We've been recognized. That
comes from being fat, I s'pose."

As he spoke a donkey-engine at the right of the proposed crossing
set up a noisy rattling, a thin steel cable whipped into view
between the rails, and from the left there appeared a contrivance
which O'Neil eyed curiously. It was a sort of drag, and rode back
and forth upon the rails.

"Humph! They'd better not put much trust in that," Murray
grunted, grimly.

"Don't fool yourself; it's no rubber-tired baby-carriage," said
Slater. "Our men are afraid of it."

After watching the device scuttle back and forth for a few
moments O'Neil said shortly:

"Post a notice at once, offering a thousand dollars for any man
who cuts that cable."

"A thousand--" Appleton gasped. "Why, I'll do it. Let me--"

"No, you won't," Slater broke in. I'll take that on myself."

"I spoke first. It's my first chance," Dan cried.

"It's my job! I'm going--"

"Wait a minute!" O'Neil silenced the two, who were glaring at
each other angrily. "Don't let's have any fighting; there will be
enough of that later."

"I spoke first," Dan repeated, stubbornly.

"I had my mouth puckered to spit, that's why," the fat man
explained. "A fellow has to spit--"

"I'd rather you wouldn't volunteer, Dan," said O'Neil.

"Why?"

"You might get hurt."

"Happy Tom" nodded his agreement. "Certainly! Never send a boy on
a man's errand."

"And I don't want you to do it either, Tom, for the same reason."

Slater mumbled some sort of sour acquiescence, but Dan would not
be denied.

"You made the offer, and I took it up," he told O'Neil. "Somebody
has to make the first move, and I have a particular need for
exactly one thousand dollars. If they start a rumpus, it will
give us the excuse we're looking for. I've been studying that
'go-devil' through field-glasses for two days now, and I'll
guarantee to put it out of commission before Gordon's men know
what I'm about. Just forget the reward, if you like, and give me
a chance."

"What's your plan?" Slater inquired, eagerly; but Appleton shook
his head.

"No you don't, Tommy!" he said. "I'm wise to you."

Murray hesitated briefly, then gave his permission. "I'd rather
you'd let one of the rough-necks take the chance, but if you
insist--"

"I do."

"Then get your sister's consent--"

Slater swore mournfully, as if from a heart filled with black
despair.

"Ain't that my luck? One cud of gum cost me a thousand dollars!
Hell! It would take a millionaire to afford a habit like that."
He expelled the gum violently and went grumbling off up the
track.

"Sis won't object," said Dan, lightly. "She'd offer to do the
trick herself, for she's getting the spirit of the work."

When O'Neil had managed to regain the camp he began preparations
for an attack that very night, using the telephone busily. News
of the coming affray quickly spread, and both the day and night
shifts discussed it excitedly at supper-time.

Nor was the excitement lessened when a loaded gravel-train rolled
in and Dr. Gray descended from it with his emergency kit and two
helpers from the hospital at Omar.

Up to this point both Eliza and Natalie had hoped that the affair
might not, after all, turn out to be very serious, but the
presence of the grim-faced surgeon and the significant
preparations he set about making boded otherwise. Eliza undertook
to reason with her brother, but her words refused to come. As a
matter of fact, deep down in her heart was a great rebellion at
the fate which had made her a woman and thus debarred her from an
active part in the struggle. Natalie, on the other hand, was
filled with dread, and she made a much more vigorous attempt to
dissuade Dan from his purpose than did his sister. But he refused
to heed even her, and soon hurried away to finish his
preparations.

After supper the camp settled itself to wait for darkness. Night
was slow in coming, and long before Appleton signified his
readiness speculation was rife. With the approach of twilight the
torches along Gordon's grade began to glow brightly. Then Dan set
his watch with "Happy Tom's," kissed Eliza, and made off across
the tundra. He left the S. R. & N. at right angles and continued
in that direction for a mile or more before swinging about in a
wide circle which brought him well to the rear of Gordon's
encampment. The gloom now covered his movements, and by taking
advantage of an alder thicket he managed to approach very closely
to the enemy's position. But the footing was treacherous, the
darkness betrayed him into many a fall, and he was wet, muddy,
and perspiring when he finally paused not more than two hundred
feet from the scene of the proposed crossing.




XV

THE BATTLE OF GORDON'S CROSSING


Curtis Gordon was not in charge of his field forces, having left
the command to his favorite jackal, Denny. Beneath his apparent
contempt for the law there lurked a certain caution. He knew his
rival's necessity, he appreciated his cunning, but, wishing to
guard against the possibility of a personal humiliation, he
retired to Kyak, where he was prepared to admit or to deny as
much responsibility as suited him. Denny had not forgotten
O'Neil's exposure of his dishonesty, and his zeal could be relied
upon. He personally knew all the men under him, he had coached
them carefully, and he assured Gordon of his ability to hold his
ground.

Dan Appleton, from his covert, measured the preparations for
resistance with some uneasiness, reflecting that if Denny had the
nerve to use firearms he would undoubtedly rout O'Neil's men, who
had not been permitted to carry guns. By the bright torchlight he
could see figures coming and going along the grade like
sentinels, and from within the barricades of ties he heard others
talking. The camp itself, which lay farther to the left, was
lighted, and black silhouettes were painted against the canvas
walls and roofs. Some one was playing an accordion, and its
wailing notes came to him intermittently. He saw that steam was
up in the boiler which operated the "go-devil," although the
contrivance itself was stationary. It was upon this that he
centered his attention, consulting his watch nervously.

At last ten o'clock came, bringing with it a sound which startled
the near-by camp into activity. It was a shrill blast from an S.
R. & N. locomotive and the grinding of car-wheels. The accordion
ceased its complaint, men poured out of the lighted tents,
Appleton moved cautiously out from cover.

He stumbled forward through the knee-deep mud and moss, bearing
slightly to his right, counting upon the confusion to mask his
approach. He timed it to that of the gravel-train, which came
slowly creaking nearer, rocking over the uneven tracks, then down
upon the half-submerged rails which terminated near the opposing
grade. It stopped finally, with headlight glaring into the faces
of Denny and his troops, and from the high-heaped flat cars
tumbled an army of pick-and-shovel men. During this hullabaloo
Appleton slipped out of the marsh and climbed the gravel-bed in
time to see the steel cable of the skip tighten, carrying the
drag swiftly along the track. The endless cable propelling the
contrivance ran through a metal block which was secured to a
deadhead sunk between the ties, and up to this post Dan hastened.
He carried a cold-chisel and hammer, but he found no use for
them, for the pulley was roped to the deadhead. Drawing his
knife, he sawed at the manila strands. Men were all around him,
but in their excitement they took no notice of him. Not until he
had nearly completed his task was he discovered; then some one
raised a shout. The next instant they charged upon him, but his
work had been done. With a snap the ropes parted, the cable went
writhing and twisting up the track, the unwieldy apparatus came
to a stop.

Dan found himself beset by a half-dozen of the enemy, who, having
singled him out of the general confusion as the cause of
disaster, came at him head-long. But by this time O'Neil's men
were pouring out of the darkness and overrunning the grade so
rapidly that there was little opportunity for concerted action.
Appleton had intended, as soon as he had cut the cable, to beat a
hasty retreat into the marsh; but now, with the firm gravel road-
bed under his feet and the battle breaking before his eyes, he
changed his mind. He carried a light heart, and the love of
trouble romped through his veins. He lowered his head, therefore,
and ran toward his assailants.

He met the foremost one fairly and laid him out. He vanquished
the second, then closed with a burly black man who withstood him
capably. They went down together, and Dan began to repent his
haste, for blows rained upon him and he became the target, not
only of missiles of every kind, but of heavy hobnailed shoes that
were more dangerous than horses' hoofs.

The engineer dearly loved a fair fight, even against odds, but
this was entirely different: he was trampled, stamped upon,
kicked; he felt himself being reduced to a pulp beneath the
overpowering numbers of those savage heels. The fact that the
black man received an equal share of the punishment was all that
saved Dan. Over and over between the ties the two rolled,
scorning no advantage, regarding no rules of combat, each
striving to protect himself at the other's expense.

They were groveling there in a tangle of legs and arms when
"Happy Tom" came down the grade, leading a charge which swept the
embankment clean.

The boss packer had equipped his command with pick-handles and
now set a brilliant example in the use of this, his favorite
weapon. For once the apathetic Slater was fully roused; he was
tremendous, irresistible. In his capable grasp the oaken cudgel
became both armor and flail; in defense it was as active as a
fencing-master's foil, in offense as deadly as the kick of a
mule. Beneath his formless bulk were the muscles of a gladiator;
his eye had all the quickness of a prize-fighter. There was
something primeval, appallingly ferocious about the fat man, too:
he fought with a magnificent enthusiasm, a splendid abandon. And
yet, in spite of his rage, he was clear-headed, and his ears were
sensitively strained for the sound of the first gunshot-something
he dreaded beyond measure.

He was sobbing as much from anxiety as from the violence of his
exertions when he tore Appleton from the clutch of the black man
and set him on his feet.

"Are you hurt, son?" he gasped.

"Sure! I'm--hurt like hell." Dan spat out a mouthful of blood and
sand. "Gimme a club."

"Go back yonder," Tom directed, swiftly. "Nail Denny before he
gets 'em to shooting. Kill him if you have to. I'll take care of
these fellers."

The younger man saw that the engagement at this end of the line
was no longer general, but had become a series of individual
combats, so he made what haste he could toward the scene of the
more serious encounter to the right of the crossing. He judged
that the issue was still in doubt there, although he could make
out little in the confusion on account of the glaring headlight,
which dazzled him.

As he ran, however, he discovered that the S. R. & N. forces were
in possession of the middle ground, having divided the enemy's
ranks like a wedge, and this encouraged him. Out of the darkness
to right and left came shouts, curses, the sounds of men
wallowing about in the knee-deep tundra. They were Gordon's
helpers who had been routed from their positions.

Now that Appleton had time to collect himself he, too, grew sick
with suspense, for he knew that arms had been stacked inside the
barricades. Any instant might bring them into play. He began to
wonder why Denny withheld the word to fire.

As a matter of fact, the explanation was simple, although it did
not appear until later. Mr. Denny at that moment was in no
condition to issue orders of any kind, the reason being as
follows: when preparations for the advance were made, Dr. Gray,
who understood perhaps more fully than any one else except O'Neil
the gravity of the issue and the slender pivot upon which the
outcome balanced, had taken his place in the vanguard of the
attacking party instead of in the background, as befitted his
calling. The first rush had carried him well into the fray, but
once there he had shown his good judgment by refusing to
participate in it.

Instead, he had selected Denny out of the opposing ranks and
bored through the crowd in his direction, heedless of all efforts
to stop him. His great strength had enabled him to gain ground;
he had hurled his assailants aside, upsetting them, bursting
through the press as a football-player penetrates a line; and
when the retreat had begun he was close at the heels of his
victim. He had overtaken Denny beside one of the barricades just
as Denny seized a rifle and raised it. With one wrench he
possessed himself of the weapon, and the next instant he had bent
the barrel over its owner's head.

Then, as the fight surged onward, he had gathered the limp figure
in his arms and borne it into the light of a gasolene-torch,
where he could administer first aid. He was kneeling over the
fellow when Appleton found him as he came stumbling along the
grade.

But the decisive moment had come and gone now, and without a
leader to command them Gordon's men seemed loath to adopt a more
bloody reprisal. They gave way, therefore, in a half-hearted
hesitation that spelled ruin to their cause. They were forced
back to their encampment: over the ground they had vacated picks
and shovels began to fly, rails were torn up and relaid, gravel
rained from the flat cars, the blockhouses were razed, and above
the rabble the locomotive panted and wheezed, its great yellow
eye glaring through the night. When it backed away another took
its place; the grade rose to the level of the intersection, then
as morning approached it crept out beyond. By breakfast-time a
long row of flats extended across the line which Curtis Gordon
had tried to hold in defiance of the law.

Dan Appleton, very dirty, very tired, but happy, found Natalie
and Eliza awaiting him when he limped up to their tent in the
early morning light. One of his eyes was black and nearly closed,
his lips were cut and swollen, but he grinned cheerfully as he
exclaimed:

"Say! It was a great night, wasn't it?"

Eliza cried out in alarm at his appearance.

"You poor kid! You're a sight." She ran for hot water and soap,
while Natalie said, warmly:

"You were perfectly splendid, Dan. I knew you'd do it."

"Did you?" He tried to smile his appreciation, but the effort
resulted in a leer so repulsive that the girl looked dismayed.
"You ought to have seen the shindy."

"Seen it! Maybe we didn't!"

"Honestly?"

"Did you think we could stay behind? We sneaked along with the
cook-house gang, and one of them helped us up on the gravel-cars.
He smelled of dish-water, but he was a hero. We screamed and
cried, and Eliza threw stones until Mr. O'Neil discovered us and
made us get down. He was awfully mean."

"He's a mean man."

"He isn't! He was jumping around on one leg like a crippled
grasshopper."

"I made a thousand dollars," said Dan. "Guess what I'm going to
do with it?"

"How can I guess?"

"I'm going to buy an engagement ring." Once more he leered
repulsively.

"How nice!" said Natalie, coolly. "Congratulations!"

"Guess who it's for?"

"I couldn't, really."

"It's for you."

"Oh no, it isn't!" Natalie's voice was freezing. "You have made a
mistake, a very great mistake, Dan. I like you, but--we won't
even mention such things, if you please."

Eliza's entrance saved her further embarrassment, and she quickly
made her escape. Dan groaned so deeply as his sister bathed his
injuries that she was really concerned.

"Goodness, Danny," she said, "are you as badly hurt as all that?"

"I'm worse," he confessed. "I've just been shot through the
heart. Slow music and flowers for me! Arrange for the services
and put a rose in my hand, Sis."

"Nonsense! I'll put a beefsteak on your eye," she told him,
unfeelingly.

Under Dr. Gray's attention O'Neil's ankle began to mend, and by
the time the track had been laid far enough beyond the crossing
to insure against further interference from Gordon he declared
himself ready to complete the journey to Kyak, which he and the
girls had begun nearly three weeks before.

During the interval Eliza had occupied herself in laying out her
magazine stories, and now she was eager to complete her
investigations so as to begin the final writing. Her experience
in the north thus far had given her an altered outlook upon the
railroad situation, but as yet she knew little of the coal
problem. That, after all, was the more important subject, and she
expected it to afford her the basis for a sensational exposure.
She had come to Alaska sharing her newspaper's views upon
questions of public policy, looking upon Murray O'Neil as a
daring promoter bent upon seizing the means of transportation of
a mighty realm for his own individual profit; upon Gordon as an
unscrupulous adventurer; and upon the Copper Trust as a greedy
corporation reaching out to strangle competition and absorb the
riches of the northland. But she had found O'Neil an honorably
ambitious man, busied, like others, in the struggle for success,
and backing his judgment with his last dollar. She had learned,
moreover, to sympathize with his aims, and his splendid
determination awoke her admiration. Her idea of the Trust had
changed, likewise, for it seemed to be a fair and dignified
competitor. She had seen no signs of that conscienceless,
grasping policy usually imputed to big business. In regard to
Gordon alone, her first conviction had remained unchanged. He
was, in truth, as evil as he had been reputed.

The readjustment of her ideas had been disappointing, in a way,
since it robbed her of a large part of her ammunition; but she
consoled herself with the thought that she had not yet reached
the big, vital story which most deeply concerned the welfare of
the north.

She was a bit afraid to pursue her inquiries into the coal
subject, for her ideas were fixed, and she feared that O'Neil's
activities merited condemnation. In his railroad-building, she
believed, he was doing a fine work, but the coal was another
matter. Obviously it belonged to the people, and he had no right
to lay hands upon their heritage.

She wondered if it would not be possible to omit all mention of
him in her coal stories and center attention upon the Trust. It
was impossible for her to attack him now, since she had come to
understand her feelings toward him. Even so, she reflected with
horror that if her articles created the comment she anticipated
their effect would be to rob him of his holdings. But she took
her work very seriously, and her sense of duty was unwavering.
She was one of the few who guide themselves by the line of
principle, straight through all other considerations. She would
write what she found true, for that was her mission in life. If
Murray proved culpable she would grieve over his wrong-doing--and
continue to love him.

O'Neil had recognized her sincerity, and on the broad subject of
conservation he had done nothing to influence her views. He
preferred to let her see the workings of the principle and, after
actually meeting some of those who had suffered by it, form her
own conclusions. It was for this reason mainly that he had
arranged the trip to Kyak.

The journey in a small boat gave Eliza a longed-for opportunity
to discuss with him the questions which troubled her. He was
uncommunicative at first, but she persisted in her attempt,
drawing him out in the hope of showing him the error of his ways.
At last she provoked him to a vigorous defense of his views.

"Conservation is no more than economy," he declared, "and no one
opposes that. It's the misapplication of the principle that has
retarded Alaska and ruined so many of us. The situation would be
laughable if it weren't so tragic."

"Of course you blame your troubles on the Government. That's one
thing governments are for."

"Our ancestors blamed King George for their troubles, more than a
hundred years ago, and a war resulted. But every abuse they
suffered is suffered by the people of Alaska to-day, and a lot
more besides. Certainly England never violated her contracts with
the colonies half so flagrantly as our Government has violated
its contracts with us."

"Of course you exaggerate."

"I don't. Judge for yourself. The law offers every citizen the
chance--in fact, it invites him--to go upon the public domain and
search for treasure. If he is successful it permits him to locate
the land in blocks, and it agrees to grant him a clear title
after he does a certain amount of work and pays a fixed price.
Further, it says in effect: 'Realizing that you may need
financial assistance in this work, we will allow you to locate
not only for yourself, but also for your friends, through their
powers of attorney, and thus gain their co-operation for your
mutual advantage. These are the rules, and they are binding upon
all parties to this agreement; you keep your part, we will keep
ours." Now then, some pioneers, at risk of life and health, came
to Kyak and found coal. They located it, they did all the law
required them to do--but did the Government keep its word? Not at
all. It was charged that some of them hadn't conformed strictly
to the letter of the agreement, and therefore all the claims were
blacklisted. Because one man was alleged to have broken his
contract the Government broke its contract with every man who had
staked a coal claim, not only at Kyak, but anywhere else in
Alaska. Guilty and innocent were treated alike. I was one of the
latter. Was our money returned to us? No! The Government had it
and it kept it, along with the land. We've been holding on now
for years, and the Interior Department has tried by various means
to shake us off. The law has been changed repeatedly at the whim
of every theorist who happened to be in power. It has been
changed without notice to us even while we were out in the
wilderness trying to comply with the regulations already imposed.
You can see how it worked in the case of Natalie and her mother.
The Government succeeded in shaking them off."

"That's only one side of the question," said Eliza. "You lose
sight of the fact that this treasure never really belonged to
you, but to the public. The coal-lands were withdrawn from entry
because men like you and the agents of the Heidlemanns were
grabbing it all up."

O'Neil shook his head, frowning. "That's what the papers say, but
it isn't true. There are twenty million acres of coal in Alaska,
and not more than thirty thousand acres have been located. The
law gave me the right to locate and buy coal claims, and I took
advantage of it. Now it tells me that I have money enough, and
takes back what it gave. If it did the right thing it would grant
patents to those who located under the law as it then existed and
withdraw the rest of the land from entry if advisable. This
country needs two things to make it prosper--transportation and
fuel. We are doing our best to supply the first in spite of
hindrance from Washington; but the fuel has been locked away from
us as if behind stone walls. Rich men must be brave to risk their
dollars here under existing conditions, for they are not
permitted to utilize the mines, the timber, or the water-power,
except upon absurd and unreasonable terms. Why, I've seen timber
lying four layers deep and rotting where it lies. The Government
won't save it, nor will it allow us to do so. That's been its
policy throughout. It is strangling industry and dedicating
Alaska to eternal solitude. Railroads are the keys by which this
realm can be unlocked; coal is the strength by which those keys
can be turned. The keys are fitted to the lock, but our fingers
are paralyzed. For eight years Alaska's greatest wealth has lain
exposed to view, but the Government has posted the warning,
'Hands off! Some one among you is a crook!' Meanwhile the law has
been suspended, the country has stagnated, men have left
dispirited or broken, towns have been abandoned. The cost in
dollars to me, for instance, has been tremendous. I'm laying my
track alongside rich coal-fields, but if I picked up a chunk from
my own claim to throw at a chipmunk I'd become a lawbreaker. I
import from Canada the fuel to drive my locomotives past my own
coal-beds--which I have paid for--and I pay five times the value
of that fuel, forty percent of which is duty. I haul it two
thousand miles, while there are a billion tons of better quality
beneath my feet. Do you call that conservation? I call it waste."

"Fraud was practised at the start, and of course it takes time to
find out just where it lay."

"That's the excuse, but after all these years no fraud has been
proved. In administering the criminal law there is an axiom to
the effect that it is better for ninety-nine guilty men to escape
than for one innocent man to suffer, but the Land Office says
that ninety-nine innocent Alaskans shall suffer rather than that
one guilty man shall escape. The cry of fraud is only a pretense,
raised to cover the main issue. There's something sinister back
of it."

"What do you mean?"

"A conspiracy of the Eastern coal-operators and the
transcontinental freight-lines."

"How ridiculous!" cried Eliza.

"You think so? Listen! Since all the high-grade coal of the
Pacific coast must come from the East, who, then, would
discourage the opening of local fields but those very interests?
Every ton we burn means a profit to the Eastern miner and the
railroad man. Yes, and twenty per cent. of the heat units of
every ton hauled are consumed in transportation. Isn't that
waste? Every two years it costs our navy the price of a battle-
ship to bring coal to the Pacific fleet, while we have plenty of
better fuel right here on the ground. Our coal is twenty-five
hundred miles nearer to the Philippines than San Francisco, and
twelve thousand miles nearer than its present source. If Alaskan
coal-beds were opened up, we wouldn't have this yearly fight for
battle-ship appropriations; we'd make ourselves a present of a
first-class navy for nothing. No, our claims were disputed, and
the dispute was thrown into politics to keep us out of
competition with our Eastern cousins. We Alaskans sat in a game
with high stakes, but after the cards were dealt the rules were
changed."

"You argue very well," said Eliza, who was a bit dazed at this
unexpected, forceful counter-attack, "but you haven't convinced
me that this coal should be thrown open to the first person who
comes along."

"I didn't expect to convince you. It's hard to convince a woman
whose mind is made up. It would take hours to cover the subject;
but I want to open your eyes to the effect of this new-fangled
national policy. Any great principle may work evil if it isn't
properly directed, and in Kyak you'll see the results of
conservation ignorantly applied. You'll see how it has bound and
gagged a wonderful country, and made loyal Americans into ragged,
bitter traitors who would spit upon the flag they used to
cherish."

"Is that the only reason why you came along--just to make sure
that I saw all this?"

"No. I want to look at the Heidlemann breakwater. My fortune
hangs upon it."

"It's as serious as that?"

O'Neil shrugged. "I'm waiting for the wind. My coal is in the
hands of the bureaucracy at Washington, my railroad is in the
hands of the wind god. Incidentally, I'd much rather trust the
god than the Government."

Natalie, who had listened so far without the least sign of
interest, now spoke up.

"If the storm doesn't come to your help, will you be ruined?" she
asked.

Murray smiled cheerfully. "No man is ruined as long as he keeps
his dreams. Money isn't much, after all, and failure is merely a
schooling. But--I won't fail. Autumn is here: the tempest is my
friend; and he won't be long in coming now. He'll arrive with the
equinox, and when he does he'll hold my fortune in his hand."

"Why, the equinoctial storm is due," said Eliza.

"Exactly! That's why I'm going to meet it and to bid it welcome."

The village of Kyak lay near the mouth of the most easterly
outlet of the Salmon, and it was similar in most respects to Hope
and to Omar, save that it looked out across a shallow,
unprotected bay to the open reaches of the north Pacific. The
shores were low; a pair of rocky islets afforded the only shelter
to its shipping, and it was from these as a starting-point that
the Copper Trust had built its break-water. A trestle across the
tide-flats connected the work with the mainland, and along this
rock-trains crawled, adding their burdens to the strength of the
barrier. Protected by this arm of steel and stone and timber lay
the terminal buildings of the Alaska Northern, as the Heidlemann
line was called, and there also lay the terminus of the old
McDermott enterprise into which Curtis Gordon had infused new
life. Both places showed plenty of activity when O'Neil and his
two companions arrived, late one afternoon.

Kyak, they found, was inferior to Omar in its public
accommodations, and Murray was at a loss to find shelter for the
girls until his arrival was made known to the agents of the
Alaska Northern. Then Mr. Trevor, the engineer in charge, looked
him up and insisted upon sharing his quarters with the visitors.
In Trevor's bearing was no suggestion of an enmity like Gordon's.
He welcomed his rival warmly--and indeed the Trust had never been
small in its opposition. O'Neil accepted the invitation
gratefully.

After dinner he took Natalie with him to see the sights, while
Eliza profited by the opportunity to interview Trevor. In her
numerous tilts with O'Neil she had not been over-successful from
the point of view of her magazine articles, but here at her hand
was the representative of the power best known and best hated for
its activities in the north-land, and he seemed perfectly willing
to talk. Surely from him she would get information that would
count.

"Understand, I'm on the side of your enemies," she warned him.

"So is everybody else," Mr. Trevor laughed; "but that's because
we're misunderstood."

"The intentions of any Trust warrant suspicion."

He shrugged. "The Heidlemanns are just ordinary business men,
like O'Neil, looking for investment. They heard of a great big
copper-field hidden away back yonder in the mountains, and they
bought what they considered to be the best group of claims. They
knew the region was difficult of access, but they figured that a
railroad from tide-water would open up not only their own
properties, but the rest of the copper-belt and the whole
interior country. They began to build a road from Cortez, when
some 'shoe-stringer' raised the cry that they had monopolized the
world's greatest copper supply, and had double-cinched it by
monopolizing transportation also. That started the fuss. They
needed cheap coal, of course, just as everybody else needs it;
but somebody discovered the danger of a monopoly of that and set
up another shout. Ever since then the yellow press has been
screaming. The Government withdrew all coal-lands from entry, and
it now refuses to grant patents to that which had been properly
located. We don't own a foot of Alaskan coal-land, Miss Appleton.
On the contrary, we haul our fuel from British Columbia, just
like O'Neil and Gordon. Those who would like to sell local coal
to us are prevented from doing so."

"It sounds well to hear you tell it," said Eliza. "But the minute
the coal patents are issued you will buy what you want, then
freeze out the other people. You expect to control the mines, the
railroads, and the steamship lines, but public necessities like
coal and oil and timber and water-power should belong to the
people. There has been an awakening of the public conscience, and
the day of monopolized necessities is passing."

"As long as men own coal-mines they will sell them. Here we are
faced not by a question of what may happen, but of what has
happened. If you agreed to buy a city lot from a real-estate
dealer, and after you paid him his price he refused to give you a
deed, you'd at least expect your money back, wouldn't you? Well,
that's the case of Uncle Sam and the Alaskan miners. He not only
refuses to deliver the lot, but keeps the money, and forces them
to pay more every year. I represent a body of rich men who,
because of their power, are regarded with suspicion; but if they
did anything so dishonest as what our Government has done to its
own people they would be jailed."

"No doubt there has been some injustice, but the great truth
remains that the nation should own its natural resources, and
should not allow favored individuals to profit by the public
need."

"You mean railroads and coal-fields and such things?"

"I do."

Trevor shook his head. "If the people of Alaska waited for a
Government railroad, they'd die of old age and be buried where
they died, for lack of transportation. The Government owns
telegraph-lines here, but it charges us five times the rates of
the Western Union. No, Miss Appleton, we're not ready for
Government ownership, and even if we were it wouldn't affect the
legality of what has been done. Through fear that the Heidlemanns
might profit this whole country has been made to stagnate. Alaska
is being depopulated; houses and stores are closed; people are
leaving despondent. Alaskans are denied self-government in any
form; theories are tried at their expense, but they are never
consulted. Not only does Congress fail to enact new laws to meet
their needs, but it refuses to proceed under the laws that
already exist. If the same policy had been pursued in the
settlement of the Middle West that applies to this country, the
buffalo would still be king of the plains and Chicago would be a
frontier town. You seem to think that coal is the most important
issue up here, but it isn't. Transportation is what the country
needs, for the main riches of Alaska are as useless to-day as if
hidden away in the chasms of the moon. O'Neil had the right idea
when he selected the Salmon River route, but he made an error of
judgment, and he lost."

"He hasn't lost!" cried Eliza, in quick defense of her friend.
"Your breakwater hasn't been tested yet."

"Oh, it will hold," Trevor smiled. "It has cost too much money
not to hold."

"Wait until the storms come," the girl persisted.

"That's what we're doing, and from present indications we won't
have much longer to wait. Weather has been breeding for several
days, and the equinox is here. Of course I'm anxious, but--I
built that breakwater, and it can't go out."

When O'Neil and Natalie returned they found the two still
arguing. "Haven't you finished your tiresome discussions?" asked
Natalie.

"Mr. Trevor has almost convinced me that the octopus is a noble
creature, filled with high ideals and writhing at the thrusts of
the muck-rakers," Eliza told them.

But at that the engineer protested. "No, no!" he said. "I haven't
half done justice to the subject. There are a dozen men in Kyak
to-night who could put up a much stronger case than I. There's
McCann, for instance. He was a prospector back in the States
until he made a strike which netted him a hundred thousand
dollars. He put nearly all of it into Kyak coal claims and
borrowed seventy thousand more. He got tired of the interminable
delay and finally mined a few tons which he sent out for a test
in the navy. It had better steaming qualities than the Eastern
coal now being used, but six weeks later an agent of the Land
Office ordered him to cease work until his title had been passed
upon. That was two years ago, and nothing has been done since. No
charges of irregularity of any sort have ever been filed against
McCann or his property. The Government has had his money for five
years, and still he can't get a ruling. He's broke now and too
old to make a living. He's selling pies on the street--"

"He borrowed a dollar from me just now," said O'Neil, who was
staring out of a window. Suddenly he turned and addressed his
host. "Trevor, it's going to storm." His voice was harsh, his
eyes were eager; his tone brought the engineer to his side.
Together they looked out across the bay.

The southern sky was leaden, the evening had been shortened by a
rack of clouds which came hurrying in from the sea.

"Let it storm," said Trevor, after a moment. "I'm ready."

"Have you ever seen it blow here?"

"The old-timers tell me I haven't, but--I've seen some terrible
storms. Of course the place is unusual--"

"In what way?" Eliza inquired.

"The whole country back of here is ice-capped. This coast for a
hundred miles to the east is glacial. The cold air inland and the
warm air from the Japanese Current are always at war."

"There is a peculiar difference in air-pressures, too," O'Neil
explained. "Over the warm interior it is high, and over the coast
range it is low; so every valley becomes a pathway for the wind.
But that isn't where the hurricanes come from. They're born out
yonder." He pointed out beyond the islands from which the
breakwater flung its slender arm. "This may be only a little
storm, Trevor, but some day the sea and the air will come
together and wipe out all your work. Then you'll see that I was
right."

"You told me that more than a year ago, but I backed my skill
against your prophecy."

O'Neil answered him gravely: "Men like you and me become over-
confident of our powers; we grow arrogant, but after all we're
only pygmies."

"If Nature beats me here, I'm a ruined man," said the engineer.

"And if you defeat her, I'm ruined." O'Neil smiled at him.

"Let's make medicine, the way the Indians did, and call upon the
Spirit of the Wind to settle the question," Eliza suggested, with
a woman's quick instinct for relieving a situation that
threatened to become constrained. She and Natalie ran to Trevor's
sideboard, and, seizing bottle and shaker, brewed a magic broth,
while the two men looked on. They murmured incantations, they
made mystic passes, then bore the glasses to their companions.

As the men faced each other Natalie cried:

"To the Wind!"

"Yes! More power to it!" Eliza echoed.

Trevor smiled. "I drink defiance."

"In my glass I see hope and confidence," said O'Neil. "May the
storm profit him who most deserves help."

Despite their lightness, there was a certain gravity among the
four, and as the night became more threatening they felt a
growing suspense. The men's restlessness communicated itself to
the girls, who found themselves listening with almost painful
intentness to the voice of the wind and the rumble of the surf,
which grew louder with every hour. By bed-time a torrent of rain
was sweeping past, the roof strained, the windows were sheeted
with water. Now and then the clamor ceased, only to begin with
redoubled force. Trevor's guests were glad indeed of their snug
shelter.

As Natalie prepared for bed she said: "It was fine of Mr. Trevor
to treat Murray O'Neil so nicely. No one would dream that they
were rivals, or that one's success means the other's ruin. Now
Gordon--" She turned to see her friend kneeling at the bedside,
and apologized quickly.

Eliza lifted her face and said simply, "I'm praying for the
Wind."

Natalie slipped down beside her and bowed her dark head close to
the light one. They remained there for a long time, while outside
the rain pelted, the surf roared, and the wind came shrieking in
from the sea.




XVI

THE FRUIT OF THE TEMPEST


Neither O'Neil nor his host was in sight when the girls came to
breakfast. The men had risen early, it seemed, and were somewhere
out in the storm. A wilder day would be hard to imagine; a
hurricane was raging, the rain was whirled ahead of it like
charges of shot. The mountains behind Kyak were invisible, and to
seaward was nothing but a dimly discernible smother of foam and
spray, for the crests of the breakers were snatched up and
carried by the wind. The town was sodden; the streets were
running mud. Stove-pipes were down, tents lay flattened in the
mire, and the board houses were shaking as if they might fly to
pieces at any moment. The darkness was uncanny, and the tempest
seemed to be steadily growing in violence.

When an hour or two had passed with no word from the men Eliza
announced her intention of looking them up. She had spent the
time at a window, straining her eyes through the welter, while
Natalie had curled up cozily with a book in one of Trevor's arm-
chairs.

"But, dearie, you'll be drenched." Natalie looked up in surprise.
"Mr. O'Neil is all right."

"Of course he is. I'm not going out to spank him and bring him
in. I want to look at the storm."

"So do I, but it won't do any good. I can't make it blow any
harder by getting my feet wet."

"You read your novel and talk to Mr. Trevor when he comes back.
He knows we're to blame for this storm, so you must be nice to
him. I can't." She clad herself in rain-coat, sou'wester, and
boots, and hurried out. Walking was difficult enough, even in the
shelter of the village, but not until she had emerged upon the
beach did she meet the full strength of the gale. Here it wrapped
her garments about her limbs until she could scarcely move. The
rain came horizontally and blinded her; the wind fairly snatched
her breath away and oppressed her lungs like a heavy weight. She
shielded herself as best she could, and by clinging to stationary
objects and watching her chance she managed to work her way
onward. At last she caught sight of O'Neil, standing high above
the surf, facing the wind defiantly, as if daring it to unfoot
him. He saw her and came in answer to her signal; but to breast
that wind was like stemming a rushing torrent, and when he
reached her side he was panting.

"Child! What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I couldn't wait any longer," she shouted back. "You've been out
since daylight. You must be wet through."

He nodded. "I lay awake all night listening. So did Trevor. He's
beginning to worry already."

"Already? If the breakwater stands this--"

"The storm hasn't half started! Come! We'll watch it together."
He took her hand, and they lunged into the gale, battling their
way back to his point of vantage. He paused at length, and with
his arm about her pointed to the milk-white chaos which marked
Trevor's handiwork. The rain pelted against their faces and
streamed from their slickers.

The breakwater lay like a reef, and over it the sea was pounding
in mighty wrath. High into the air the waters rose, only to
disappear upon the bosom of the gale. They engulfed the structure
bodily, they raced along it with thunderous detonations, bursting
in a lather of rage. Out beyond, the billows appeared to be
sheared flat by the force of the wind, yet that ceaseless
upheaval of spume showed that the ocean was in furious tumult.
For moments at a time the whole scene was blotted out by the
scud, then the curtain would tear asunder and the wild scene
would leap up again before their eyes.

Eliza screamed a question at her companion, but he did not seem
to hear; his eyes roved back and forth along that lace-white
ridge of rock on the weakness of which depended his salvation.
She had never seen him so fierce, so hawklike, so impassive. The
gusts shook him, his garments slatted viciously, every rag
beneath his outer covering was sodden, yet he continued to face
the tempest as indifferently as he had faced it since the dawn.
The girl thrilled at thought of the issue these mighty forces
were fighting out before her eyes, and of what it meant to the
man beside her. His interests became hers; she shared his painful
excitement. Her warm flesh chilled as the moisture embraced her
limbs; but her heart was light, for O'Neil's strong arm encircled
her, and her body lay against his.

After a long time he spoke. "See! It's coming up!" he said.

She felt no increase in the wind, but she noted that particles of
sand and tiny pebbles from the beach were flying with the salt
raindrops. Her muscles began to tremble from the constant effort
at resistance, and she was relieved when Murray looked about for
a place of refuge. She pointed to a pile of bridge timbers, but
he shook his head.

"They'll go flying if this keeps up." He dragged her into the
shelter of a little knoll. Here the blasts struck them with
diminished force, the roaring in their ears grew less, and the
labor of breathing was easier.

Rousing himself from his thoughts, the man said, gently:

"Poor kid! You must be cold."

"I'm freezing. But--please don't send me back." The face that met
his was supplicating; the eyes were bluer than a spring day. He
patted her dripping shoulder.

"Not until you're ready."

"This is grander than our trip past the glacier. That was merely
dangerous, but this--means something."

"There may be danger here if we expose ourselves. Look at that!"

High up beyond reach of the surf a dory had been dragged and left
bottom up. Under this the wind found a fingerhold and sent it
flying. Over and over it rolled, until a stronger gust caught it
and sent it in huge leaps, end over end. It brought up against
the timber pile with a crash, and was held there as if by a
mighty suction. Then the beams began to tremble and lift. The
pile was disintegrated bit by bit, although it would have
required many hands to move any one of its parts.

Even where the man and the woman crouched the wind harried them
like a hound pack, but by clinging to the branches of a gnarled
juniper bush they held their position and let the spray whine
over their heads.

"Farther west I've seen houses chained to the earth with ships'
cables," he shouted in her ear. "To think of building a harbor in
a place like this!"

"I prayed for you last night. I prayed for the wind to come,"
said the girl, after a time.

O'Neil looked at her, curiously startled, then he looked out at
the sea once more. All in a moment he realized that Eliza was
beautiful and that she had a heart. It seemed wonderful that she
should be interested in his fortunes. He was a lonely man;
beneath his open friendliness lay a deep reserve. A curiously
warm feeling of gratitude flamed through him now, and he silently
blessed her for bearing him company in the deciding hour of his
life.

Noon came, and still the two crouched in their half-shelter,
drenched, chilled, stiff with exposure, watching Kyak Bay lash
itself into a boiling smother. The light grew dim, night was
settling; the air seemed full of screaming furies. Then O'Neil
noticed bits of driftwood racing in upon the billows, and he rose
with a loud cry.

"It's breaking up!" he shouted. "It's breaking up!"

Eliza lifted herself and clung to him, but she could see nothing
except a misty confusion. In a few moments the flotsam came
thicker. Splintered piling, huge square-hewn timbers with
fragments of twisted iron or broken bolts came floating into
sight. A confusion of wreckage began to clutter the shore, and
into it the sea churned.

The spindrift tore asunder at length, and the watchers caught a
brief glimpse of the tumbling ocean. The breakwater was gone.
Over the place where it had stood the billows raced unhindered.

"Poor Trevor!" said O'Neil. "Poor Trevor! He did his best, but he
didn't know." He looked down to find Eliza crying. "What's this?
I've kept you here too long!"

"No, no! I'm just glad--so glad. Don't you understand?"

"I'll take you back. I must get ready to leave."

"Leave? Where--"

"For New York! I've made my fight, and I've won." His eyes
kindled feverishly. "I've won in spite of them all. I hold the
key to a kingdom. It's mine--mine! I hold the gateway to an
empire, and those who pass through must pay." The girl had never
seen such fierce triumph in a face. "I saw it in a dream, only it
was more than a dream." The wind snatched O'Neil's words from his
lips, but he ran on: "I saw a deserted fishing-village become a
thriving city. I saw the glaciers part to let pass a great
traffic in men and merchandise. I saw the unpeopled north grow
into a land of homes, of farms, of mining-camps, where people
lived and bred children. I heard the mountain passes echo to
steam whistles and the whir of flying wheels. It was a wonderful
vision that I saw, but my eyes were true. They called me a fool,
and it took the sea and the hurricane to show them I was right."
He paused, ashamed of his outburst, and, taking the girl's hand
in his, went stumbling ahead of the storm.

Their limbs were cramped, their teeth chattered, they wallowed
through mire, and more than once they fell. Nearing Trevor's
house, they saw what the storm had done. Kyak was nearly razed.
Roofs had been ripped off, chimneys were down, glass was out.
None but the most substantial log cabins had withstood the
assault, and men were busied in various quarters trying to repair
the damage.

They found Natalie beside herself with anxiety for their safety,
and an hour later Trevor came in, soaked to the skin. He was very
tired, and his face was haggard.

"Well! She went out!" he said. "I saw a million dollars swallowed
up in that sea."

They tried to comfort him, but the collapse of his work had left
him dazed.

"God! I didn't think it could blow like this--and it isn't over
yet. The town is flat."

"I'm sorry. You understand I sympathize?" said Murray; and the
engineer nodded.

"You told me it blew here, and I thought I knew what you meant,
but nothing could withstand those rollers."

"Nothing."

"You'll go East and see our people, I suppose?"

"At once."

"Tell them what you saw. They'll never understand from my
reports. They're good people. If there's anything I can do--"

O'Neil took his hand warmly.

Two days later Murray bade the girls good-by, and left, traveling
light. They remained in Kyak so that Eliza might complete her
investigations.

Of all those who suffered by the storm Curtis Gordon took his
misfortune hardest. This had been a black season for him, indeed.
Beginning with O'Neil's rivalry, everything had gone against him.
He had dropped his coal interests at Kyak in favor of the copper-
mine, because they failed to yield quick profits. Then he had
learned that the mine was valueless, and realized that it could
not serve him much longer as a means of raising funds. Still, he
had trusted that by taking a vigorous part in the railroad
struggle he would be able either to recoup his fortunes or at
least to effect a compromise in the shadow of which his fiasco at
Hope would be forgotten. As yet the truth about Hope Consolidated
was not generally known to his stock-holders, but a certain
restlessness among them had become troublesome. The stream of
money had diminished alarmingly, and it was largely because of
this that he had bought the McDermott right-of-way and moved to
Kyak. And now, just as he had his affairs in shape for another
and a greater campaign of stock-flotation, the storm had come to
ruin him.

The bitterest element in his defeat was the realization that
O'Neil, who had bested him at every turn, was destined to profit
by the very blow which crushed him. Defeat at the hands of the
Copper Trust he would have accepted with a fairly good grace; but
the mere thought that Murray O'Neil, whom he considered in every
way his inferior, had gained the upper hand was intolerable. It
was in keeping with Gordon's character that instead of blaming
his own judgment he became furiously angry at the Trust for the
mistake of its engineers, and held them responsible for his
desperate situation. That it was truly desperate he very soon
realized, since disaster to his railroad project meant that his
stock-holders would be around his ears like a swarm of hornets,
and once they understood the true state of affairs at Hope the
complete collapse of his fortunes would surely follow.

During the days succeeding the storm he scarcely knew where to
turn, so harassed was he; yet he never for a moment wavered in
his resolve to make O'Neil pay for his interference and to exact
a reckoning from Gloria Gerard.

Natalie's presence in Kyak confirmed his belief that O'Neil was
interested in her, and he began to plan a stroke by which he
could take revenge upon all three. It did not promise in any way
to help him out of his financial straits, but at least it would
give him a certain satisfaction.

He sent word to the girl that he would like to see her.




XVII

HOW THE PRINCE BECAME A MAN


Gordon found his erstwhile ward greatly improved by her recent
life. She was brown, vigorous, healthy; her physical charms
quickened his pulses.

"You must have a very good reason for coming to see me," she
began. "I don't flatter myself that it is from affection."

"There you wrong me," he assured her, with the warm earnestness
he so easily assumed. "I have always regarded you as a daughter."

"I have no faith in you."

"Exactly, and the knowledge distresses me. You and Gloria were a
large part of my life; I can't bear to lose you. I hope--and I
believe--that her regard for me has changed no more than mine for
her. It remains for me to regain yours."

"That is impossible. You had the chance--"

"My dear, you can't know my reasons for acting as I did at Omar.
But those reasons no longer exist."

"Just what--do you mean by that?" stammered Natalie.

"I mean what I say. I'm ready to marry your mother."

"When?"

"At once. You shall plead my cause for me. You shall add your
voice to mine--"

"That isn't necessary. You know mother is only waiting for you.
It means so much to her that she couldn't refuse."

"Doesn't it mean anything to you?"

Natalie nodded. "It means more to me than to any one else,
perhaps. I have been carrying a great burden, almost more than I
can bear. Sometimes I've wished I were a man--for just long
enough to make you pay. Oh yes," she continued, as he started to
protest. "Don't let us begin this new life with any false
conceptions; you may as well know that I shall always hate you.
We shall see very little of each other."

"Nonsense! I can't let you feel like that. I sha'n't rest until I
win back your love and confidence."

She eyed him searchingly for a moment, then opened her lips to
speak, but closed them.

"Well?" he prompted her. "Let us be frank with each other."

"I'm merely wondering how greatly your decision has been
influenced by the storm and the fight at the railroad crossing. I
understand how you feel toward Mr. O'Neil, and I know that he
means to crush you."

"Oh!" Gordon's face lighted.

"Yes! He has never said so, but I can feel it. I wonder if you
have snatched us up in your extremity as a defense."

"Ridiculous! Your suspicions are insulting. I have nothing to
fear from him, for he is broken, his credit is gone, he is in
desperate straits."

"Are you in any better condition? How long can you fool your
people with that pretense of a mine?"

Gordon flushed, but affected scorn. "So! Have you and Gloria
begun to balance my wealth against my love? If so--"

"You know she would marry you if you were penniless."

"I hope so--and, indeed, I can't believe her mercenary. Well, I
shall say good-by to Kyak, without idle regret, and we three
shall return to Hope, where I can attack my problems with fresh
courage. I can well afford my loss here, if by doing so I gain
the woman of my desires."

"You want me to go with you?"

"Of course. You can't stay in Omar, knowing what you do about
O'Neil. Remember, I shall be in the position of a father to you."

"Very well. It is the least I can do. Miss Appleton and I are
returning to Omar in a few days. Will you go with us?"

"I shall be delighted, my dear." He smiled upon her in his most
fatherly fashion, but she was far from feeling the assurance he
meant to convey.

The eighteen-hour train from Chicago bore Murray O'Neil into New
York on time, and he hastened directly to the Holland House,
where the clerk greeted him as if he had run in from Yonkers
instead of from the wilderness of the far northwest. His arrival
was always the forerunner of great prosperity for the bell-boys,
and there was the customary struggle for his baggage.

An hour later, having bathed and changed his linen, he was
whizzing toward lower Broadway, with the roar of the Subway in
his ears. New York looked very good to O'Neil, for this time he
came not as a suppliant, but as a conqueror, and a deep
contentment rested in his heart. More than once during the last
two years he had made this flying trip across an ocean and a
continent, but heretofore he had been burdened with worries and
responsibilities. Always he had needed to gather his wits for
some supreme effort; always there had been the urgent necessity
of raising money. As the S. R. & N. had grown his obligations had
increased; and, while he had never returned empty-handed, no one
but he knew at what cost of time and strength he had succeeded in
financing his venture. Invariably he had left New York mentally
and physically exhausted, and his days in the open had barely
served to replenish his store of nervous energy for the next
campaign.

As he looked back upon it all he was amazed at his daring in
attempting to finance a railroad out of his own pocket. But he
had won, and the Trust had met with a sharp reverse in attempting
to beat him at his own game. He held the winning card, and he
looked out upon the world through eyes which were strained and
weary, but complacent.

Mr. Herman Heidlemann was expecting him.

"You have the most confident way of arranging appointments from
the other side of the world," he began, as O'Neil entered his
office. "Steamships and railroads appear to be your obedient
servants."

"Not always. I find railroads very troublesome at times."

"Well, you're on time to the minute," said Heidlemann. "Now tell
me about Kyak. Trevor cables that you were there during the storm
which ruined us." The head of the copper syndicate did not look
like a man facing ruin; in fact, he seemed more curious to hear
of the physical phenomena of that hurricane than of its effect
upon his fortunes.

"Kyak was a great mistake," he admitted, when O'Neil had given
him the particulars he asked for. "We're all agreed on that
point. Some of our associates feel that the whole Alaskan
enterprise has been a mistake--mines and all."

"Your mines are as good as they ever were, but Kyak is a long way
from Wall Street, and you relied too much upon other people's
judgment."

"We have to rely upon our experts."

"Of course. But that country must have a railroad."

"Must?" Heidlemann lifted his brows. "It has done very well
without one so far. Our friends call us crazy for trying to build
one, and our enemies call us thieves."

"You can't afford to give up."

"No. There's an element of pride in the matter, and I really
believe the country does need transportation."

"You can't understand how badly it needs it."

"Yet it's a heavy load to carry," said Heidlemann, with
conviction, "for a road will lose money for many years. We were
willing to wait until the agriculture and the mining developed,
even though the profit came only to our children; but--we have
been misunderstood, abused by the press and the public. Even
Congress is down on us. However, I suppose you came to tell me
once more that Omar is the gateway and that we need it."

O'Neil smiled. "That's hardly necessary now, is it? I own every
inch of water-front at that point, and there's no other harbor.
My track will be laid to the glaciers by the time snow flies."

"Trevor reports that a bridge is possible, although expensive."

"It will cost two million dollars."

"I don't see how it can be built to withstand the ice."

"I'll guarantee to build it so it will hold."

"What is your proposition?" asked Heidlemann.

"I'll sell the S.R.&N. for five million dollars and contract to
complete the road within two years on a ten-per-cent commission."

"It has cost you about three million dollars, I believe. That
would leave you a handsome profit."

"One million for me, one million for my associates."

"What will the remaining hundred miles cost?"

"About ten millions. That will give me another million profit as
contractor. My force and equipment is on the ground. I can save
you money and a year's time."

Mr. Heidlemann drummed upon the top of his desk for a moment.

"You're a high-priced man, O'Neil," he said, finally.

"You've had experience with the other kind."

"Counting the money we've already sunk, the road would stand us
about twenty million dollars completed."

"It will cost thirty to build from Cortez, and take two years
longer."

Mr. Heidlemann seemed to consider this for a moment. "We've had
this matter before us almost constantly since the report of the
storm," he said, at length, "and after deliberation our directors
have voted to do nothing just yet."

O'Neil opened his eyes in amazement.

"I don't understand."

"It's this way. Our engineers first recommended Cortez as a
starting-point, and we spent a fortune there. Then you attacked
the other route, and we sent Trevor up to find if you were right
and we were wrong. He recommended the Salmon River valley, and
told us he could build a breakwater at Kyak. You know the result.
We relied upon him, for he seemed to be the best man in the
country, but as a matter of precaution we later sent other
engineers. Their reports came in not three months ago, and, while
all seemed confident that the breakwater could be built, none of
them were certain about the bridge. One, in fact, condemned it
absolutely. Now on the heels of their statements comes the news
that the very work they united in declaring feasible has been
undone. Naturally, we don't know where we are or whom to
believe."

"They simply didn't know the conditions at Kyak," argued O'Neil,
"and they evidently haven't studied the bridge as I have. But
you'll have to go at the breakwater again or build in from Cortez
or give up."

"No, we have decided to mark time until that crossing is proved
feasible. Understand, I voice the sentiment of the majority."

"If I build that bridge you may find it more difficult to buy me
out," said O'Neil, quietly.

"We'll have to take our medicine," Mr. Heidlemann replied,
without heat. "We cannot afford another mistake."

"This is definite?"

"Oh, absolutely! We're going slow for a time."

A blow in the face could not have affected O'Neil more
disagreeably than this statement. Fortune had seemed within his
grasp when he entered the room; now ruin was more imminent than
it had ever been before. The ground seemed to be slipping from
beneath his feet; he discovered that he was dizzy. He felt
himself utterly incapable of raising the two million dollars
necessary to carry his road to a point where the Trust would
consider a purchase, yet to fail meant the loss of all he had put
in. He knew also that these men would never recede from a
position once taken.

"Hasn't this public clamor had something to do with your
determination?" he asked.

"A great deal. We had the best intentions when we started--we
still have--but it's time to let the general sentiment cool. We
thought we were doing a fine thing for the country in opening
Alaska, but it seems we're regarded as thieves and grafters. One
gets tired of abuse after a while."

"Will you take an option on the S. R. can't help you, O'Neil, but
rest assured we won't do anything to hinder you. You have treated
us fairly; we will reciprocate. Once you have built your bridge
we can discuss a purchase and the abandonment of our original
enterprise, but meanwhile we must proceed cautiously. It is
unfortunate for us all."

"Especially for me."

"You need money badly, don't you?"

"I'm worse than broke," O'Neil admitted.

"I'd really be sorry to take over the wreck of your enterprise,"
Heidlemann said, earnestly, "for you have made a good fight, and
your ideas were better than ours. I'd much prefer to pay your
price than to profit by your misfortune. Needless to say we don't
feel that way about Gordon."

"There would be no uncertainty about the bridge if I had the
money. With your means I could build a road to the moon, and
double-track it."

Although Murray felt that further effort was useless, he
continued to argue the matter from various angles, hoping against
hope to sway Heidlemann's decision. But he gave up at last. Out
in the marble hall which led to the elevators he discovered that
all his vigor of an hour ago had passed. The spring was out of
his limbs; he walked slowly, like an old man. A glimpse of his
image in the mirrors of the car as he shot downward showed him a
face grave and haggard. The crowds jostled him, but he was hardly
conscious of them. The knowledge that his hardest fight was yet
to come filled him with sickening apprehension. He was like a
runner who toes the mark for a final heat knowing himself to be
upon the verge of collapse.

The magnitude of the deal narrowed his field of operations
alarmingly, and he had already learned what a serious effect upon
capital the agitation about Alaska had produced. More than once
he had found men who were willing to invest but feared the effect
of public sentiment. Popular magazines, newspapers like The
Review, and writers like Eliza Appleton had been largely to blame
for the wrong. They had misunderstood the problem and
misinterpreted the spirit of commercial progress. But, strangely
enough, he felt no bitterness at thought of Eliza. On the
contrary, his heart softened in a sort of friendly yearning for
her company. He would have liked to talk the matter over with
her.

Looking the situation squarely in the face, he realized that he
must face a crash or raise two million dollars within the next
month. That meant seventy thousand dollars a day. It was a man-
sized task.

He bought himself a cigar at the corner, hailed a taxicab, and
was driven all the way up town to the Holland House. Once there,
he established himself in that corner of the men's cafe which he
always frequented.

The waiter who served him lingered to say:

"It's good to see you back in your 'office' again. You've been a
long time away, sir."

O'Neil smiled as he left a silver dollar on the tray.

"It's good to be back, Joe," he said. "This time I may not
leave."




XVIII

HOW THE MAN BECAME A PRINCE AGAIN


O'Neil had the faculty of sleeping well, in spite of the most
tormenting worries. He arose on the morning after his interview
with Mr. Heidlemann, ready to begin the struggle with all his
normal energy and confidence. But the day brought him only
discouragement. He had a large acquaintance, the mention of his
name in quarters where he was not personally known gained him
respectful attention; but he found himself working in the shadow
of the Copper Trust, and its silent influence overcame his
strongest arguments. One banker expressed the general attitude by
saying:

"If the Heidlemanns were not in the field we might help you, but
it would be financial suicide to oppose them."

"There's no opposition about it," Murray assured him. "If I build
that bridge they'll buy us out."

At this his hearer very naturally wished to know why, if the
bridge were indeed feasible, the Heidlemanns delayed action; and
O'Neil had to fall back upon a recital of the facts, realizing
perfectly that they failed to carry conviction.

No one, it seemed, cared to risk even a semblance of rivalry with
that monstrous aggregation of capital, for the interlacing of
financial interests was amazingly intricate, and financiers were
fearful of the least misstep. Everywhere O'Neil encountered the
same disheartening timidity. His battle, it seemed, had been lost
before it was begun.

Days passed in fruitless endeavors; evenings found O'Neil in his
corner of the Holland House Cafe racking his brain for some way
out of his perplexities. Usually he was surrounded by friends,
for he continued to entertain in the lavish fashion for which he
had gained a reputation; but sometimes he was alone, and then his
solitude became more oppressive than it had ever been even in the
farthest wastes of the northland. He was made to feel his
responsibility with dreadful keenness, for his associates were in
a panic and bombarded him with daily inquiries, vexatious and
hard to answer. He had hoped that in this extremity they might
give him some practical help, and they did make a few half-
hearted attempts, only to meet the same discouragements as he. At
last they left him to carry the burden alone.

A week, two weeks went by. He was in constant cable communication
with Omar, but not even the faithful Dr. Gray knew the dire
straits in which his chief was struggling. Work on the S. R. & N.
was going forward as usual. The organization was running at its
highest efficiency: rails were being laid; gangs of rock-workers
were preparing the grade beyond the glaciers. Yet every day that
passed, every pay-check drawn brought ruin closer. Nevertheless,
O'Neil continued to joke and chat with the men who came to his
table in the cafe and kept his business appointments with his
customary cheerfulness. The waiters who attended him rejoiced in
his usual princely tips.

One evening as he ran through his mail he found a letter in a
woman's handwriting and, glancing at the signature, started. It
was signed "Gloria Gordon." Briefly it apprised him of her
marriage and of her and Natalie's return to Hope. Gloria thanked
him perfunctorily for his many kindnesses, but she neither
expressed nor implied an invitation for him to visit them. He
smiled a little grimly--already her loyalty had veered to
Gordon's side, and Natalie no doubt shared her feeling. Well, it
was but natural, perhaps. It would be unreasonable to expect them
to sacrifice their desires, and what they now seemed to consider
their interests, to a business quarrel they could hardly be
expected to understand. He could not help feeling hurt that the
women should so readily exchange his friendship for the
protection of his bitterest enemy, but--they were helpless and he
had helped them; let it rest at that. He was really troubled,
however, that they had been so easily deceived. If they had only
waited! If he had only been able to advise them! For Gordon's
intention was plain. He was aroused from his train of thought by
a stranger whom he found standing beside his table and looking
down at him with wavering eye.

"Misser O'Neil, ain't it?" the fellow inquired. "Sure! Thought I
knew you. I'm Bulker, of the old North Pass. Remember me?"

Mr. Bulker had been imbibing freely. He showed evidences of a
protracted spree not only in his speech, but in the trembling
hand which he extended. His eyes were bloodshot, and his good-
natured face was purple.

O'Neil greeted him pleasantly, and, considering himself
enthusiastically welcomed, the new-comer sat down suddenly, as if
some one had tripped him.

"Been washing you for ten minutes."

"Washing me?"

"No! WASHING you. Couldn't make you out--eyesight's getting bad.
Too many bright lights in this town. Ha! Joke! Let's have a
gill."

"Thank you, no."

"Must have a little dram for old time's sake. You're the only one
of the North Pass crowd I'll drink with." Mr. Bulker gestured
comprehensively at a group of waiters, and Murray yielded. "You
were my friend, O'Neil; you always treated me right."

"What are you doing now?" asked O'Neil, with the interest he
could not refuse to any one who had ever worked with him. He
remembered the fellow perfectly. He had come on from the East as
auditor, and had appeared to be capable, although somewhat given
to drink.

"I'm a broker. Wall Street's my habitat. Fine time to buy stocks,
Misser O'Neil." Bulker assumed an expression of great wisdom.
"Like to have a tip? No? Good! You're a wise man. They fired me
from the North Pass. Wha'd you know about that? Fired me for
drinking! Greatest injustice I ever heard of, but I hit running,
like a turkey. That wasn't the reason they let me go, though. Not
on your life!" He winked portentously, and strangely enough his
eyelid failed to resume its normal position. It continued to
droop, giving the appearance of a waggish leer. "I knew too mush!
Isn't healthy to know too mush, is it?"

"I've never had a chance to find out," smiled Murray.

"Oh, don't be an ingenue; you savvied more than anybody on the
job. I'll admit I took a nip now and then, but I never got
pickled. Say! Who d'you s'pose I saw to-day? Old man Illis!"

O'Neil became suddenly intent. He had been trying to get in touch
with Poultney Illis for more than a fortnight, but his cables to
London had brought no response.

"When did he arrive?"

"Just lately. He's a game old rooster, ain't he? Gee, he's sore!"

"Sore about what?"

Bulker winked again, with the same lack of muscular control.

"About that North Pass deal, of course. He was blackmailed out of
a cold million. The agreement's about up now, and I figure he's
over here to renew it."

"You're talking Greek," said O'Neil; but his eagerness was
manifest.

"I s'posed you knew. The North Pass has been paying blackmail to
the Yukon steamboat companies for three years. When you built the
line it practically put 'em out of the Dawson market,
understand?"

"Of course."

Now that Mr. Bulker's mind was running along well-worn grooves,
his intoxication became less apparent.

"Those Frisco steamboat men got together and started a rate war
against the railroad; they hauled freight to Dawson by way of St.
Michaels at a loss. Of course Illis and his crowd had to meet
competition, and it nearly broke 'em the first two seasons. Gee,
they were the mad ones! Finally they fixed up an agreement--had
to or go bust--and of course the Native Sons put it over our
English cousins. They agreed to restore the old rate, and each
side promised to pay the other a royalty of ten dollars a ton on
all the freight it hauled to Dawson and up-river points. You can
guess the result, can't you? The steamboat companies let Illis
haul all the freight and sat back on their haunches and took
their profit. For every ton he hauled he slipped 'em ten round
American dollars, stamped with the Goddess of Liberty. Oh, it was
soft! When they had him fairly tied up they dry-docked their
steamboats, to save wear and tear. He paid 'em a thousand dollars
a day for three years. If that ain't blackmail, it's a first
cousin to it by marriage."

"Didn't the Interstate Commerce Commission get wise?"

"Certainly not. It looks wise, but it never GETS wise. Oh,
believe me, Poultney Illis is hopping mad. I s'pose he's over
here now to renew the arrangement for another three years on
behalf of his stock-holders. Let's have a dram." Bulker sat back
and stared as through a mist at his companion, enjoying the
effect of his disclosure.

O'Neil was indeed impressed--more deeply than his informant
dreamed. Out of the lips of a drunken man had come a hint which
set his nerves to tingling. He knew Illis well, he knew the
caliber of the Englishman, and a plan was already leaping in his
brain whereby he might save the S. R. & N.

It lacked an hour of midnight when O'Neil escaped from Bulker and
reached his room. Once inside, he seized the telephone and rang
up hotel after hotel, inquiring for the English capitalist, but
without result. After a moment's consideration he took his hat
and gloves and went out. The matter did not permit of delay. Not
only were his own needs imperative, but if Poultney Illis had
come from London to confer with his rivals there was little time
to spare.

Remembering the Englishman's habits, O'Neil turned up the Avenue
to the Waldorf, where he asked for the manager, whom he well
knew.

"Yes, Mr. Illis is here," he was informed, "but he's registered
under a different name. No doubt he'll be glad to see you,
however."

A moment later Murray recognized the voice of Illis's valet over
the wire and greeted him by name. Another brief delay, and the
capitalist himself was at the 'phone.

"Come right up," he said; and O'Neil replaced the receiver with a
sigh of relief.

Illis greeted him warmly, for their relations had been close.

"Lucky you found me," he said. "I'm going back on the next
sailing."

"Have you signed up with the Arctic Navigation Company?" Murray
inquired; and the other started.

"Bless me! What do you mean?"

His caller laughed. "I see you haven't. I don't think you will,
either, after you've talked with me."

Without the tremor of an eyelash Illis exclaimed:

"My word! What are you driving at?"

"That agreement over freight rates, of course."

The Briton eyed him for a moment, then carefully closed the door
leading from his sitting-room, and, seating himself, lit a cigar.

"What do you know about that matter?" he asked, quietly.

"About all there is to know--enough, at least, to appreciate your
feelings."

"I flattered myself that my affairs were private. Where did you
get your information?"

"I'll tell you if you insist, although I'd rather not. There's no
danger of its becoming public."

Illis showed his relief. "I'm glad. You gave me a start. Rotten
fix for a man to be in. Why, I'm here under an assumed name!
Fancy! But--" he waved his hand in a gesture which showed his
acceptance of the inevitable.

"You haven't made your new agreement?"

"I'm to meet Blum and Capron to-morrow."

"Why didn't you take the S. R.& N. when I cabled you last month?"

"I couldn't. But what has that to do with the matter?"

"Don't you see? It's so plain to me that I can't understand how
you failed to realize the value--the necessity of buying my
road."

"Explain, please."

"Gladly. The North Pass & Yukon is paying a fabulous blackmail to
the river-lines to escape a ruinous rate war."

"Right! It's blackmail, as you say." "Under the present agreement
you handle the Dawson freight and keep out of the lower river;
they take the whole Tanana valley and lower Yukon."

"Correct."

"Didn't it occur to you that the S.R.& N., which starts four
hundred miles west of the North Pass and taps the Tanana valley,
can be used to put the river steamers of that section out of
business?"

"Let's have a look at the map." Mr. Illis hurried into an
adjoining room and returned with a huge chart which he unrolled
upon the table. "To tell you the truth, I never looked at the
proposition from that angle. Our people were afraid of those
glaciers and the competition of the Copper Trust. They're
disgusted, too, with our treatment."

"The Trust is eliminated. Kyak harbor is wiped off the map, and
I'm alone in the field."

"How about this fellow Gordon?"

"He'll be broke in a year. Incidentally, that's my trouble."

"But I'm told you can't pass the glaciers."

"I can. Parker says he'll have the bridge done by spring."

"Then I'd bank on it. I'd believe Parker if I knew he was lying.
If you both agree, I haven't the slightest doubt."

"This is a bigger proposition than the North Pass, Mr. Illis. You
made money out of that road, but this one will make more." He
swiftly outlined the condition of affairs, even to the attitude
assumed by the Heidlemanns; and Illis, knowing the speaker as he
did, had no doubt that he was hearing the exact truth. "But
that's not all," continued O'Neil. "The S. R. & N. is the club
which will hammer your enemies into line. That's what I came to
see you about. With a voice in it you can control the traffic of
all central Alaska and force the San Francisco crowd to treat the
N. P. & Y. fairly, thereby saving half a million a year."

"It's a big undertaking. I'm not sure our crowd could swing it."

"They don't have to. There's a quick profit of two million to be
had by selling to the Trust next spring. You can dictate your own
terms to those blackmailers to-morrow, and then make a turn-over
in nine months. It doesn't matter who owns the S. R. & N. after
it's completed. The steamboat men will see their profits cut. As
it is now, they can make enough out of their own territory to
haul freight into yours for nothing."

"I dare say you'll go to them if we don't take you up, eh?"

"My road has its strategic value. I must have help. If you don't
come to my rescue it will mean war with your line, I dare say."

Mr. Illis sat back, staring at the ceiling for a long time. From
the street below came the whir and clatter of taxicabs as the
midnight crowd came and went. The city's nocturnal life was at
its height; men had put aside the worries of the day and were
devoting themselves to the more serious and exhausting pastimes
of relaxation. Still the white-haired Briton weighed in his mind
the matter of millions, while the fortunes of Murray O'Neil hung
in the balance.

"My people won't buy the S. R. & N.," Illis finally announced.
"But I'll put it up to them."

"I can't delay action if there's a chance of a refusal. I'll have
to see Blum and Capron," said O'Neil."

"I'll cable full details within the hour. We'll have an answer by
to-morrow night."

"And if they refuse?" O'Neil lit a cigar with steady fingers.

"Oh, if they refuse I'll join you. We'll go over the matter
carefully in the mean time. Two million you said, didn't you?"

"Yes. There's two million profit for you in nine months." His
voice was husky and a bit uneven, for he had been under a great
strain.

"Good! You don't know how resentful I feel toward Blum and his
crowd. I--I'm downright angry: I am that."

Illis took the hand which his caller extended, with an
expressionless face.

"I'm glad I found you," confessed O'Neil. "I was on my last legs.
Herman Heidlemann will pay our price when the last bridge-bolt is
driven home, and he'll pay with a smile on his face--that's the
sort of man he is."

"He won't pay if he knows I'm interested. We're not exactly
friendly since I sold out my smelter interests. But he needn't
know--nobody need know."

Illis called his valet and instructed him to rouse his secretary
and ring for some cable blanks.

"I think I'll cable, too," Murray told him. "I have some 'boys'
up there who are working in the dark with their teeth shut.
They're waiting for the crash, and they'd like to hear the good
news."

His fingers shook as he scrawled the name of Doctor Gray, but his
eyes were bright and youth was singing in his heart once more.

"Now let's get down to business," said Mr. Illis. "We'll have to
talk fast."

It was growing light in the east when O'Neil returned to the
Holland House; but he felt no fatigue, and he laughed from the
pure joy of living, for his dream seemed coming true.




XIX

MISS APPLETON MAKES A SACRIFICE


Tom Slater came puffing up the hill to the Appleton bungalow,
plumped himself into a chair, and sighed deeply.

"What's the matter? Are you played out?" asked Eliza.

"No. I'm feeling like a colt."

"Any news from Omar Khayyam?"

"Not a word."

Eliza's brows drew together in a worried frown, for none of
Murray's "boys" had awaited tidings from him with greater anxiety
than she.

It had been a trying month for them all. Dr. Gray, upon whom the
heaviest responsibility rested, had aged visibly under the
strain; Parker and Mellen and McKay had likewise become worn and
grave as the days passed and they saw disaster approaching. Even
Dan was blue; and Sheldon, the light-hearted, had begun to lose
interest in his commissary duties.

After the storm at Kyak there had been a period of fierce
rejoicing, which had ended abruptly with the receipt of O'Neil's
curt cablegram announcing the attitude of the Trust. Gloom had
succeeded the first surprise, deepening to hopeless despondency
through the days that followed. Oddly enough, Slater had been the
only one to bear up; under adversity he blossomed into a peculiar
and almost offensive cheerfulness. It was characteristic of his
crooked temperament that misfortune awoke in him a lofty and
unshakable optimism.

"You're great on nicknames, ain't you?" he said to Eliza,
regarding her with his never-failing curiosity. "Who's this Homer
Keim you're always talking about?"

"He isn't any more: he WAS. He was a cheerful old Persian poet."

"I thought he was Dutch, from the name. Well! Murray's cheerful
too. Him and me are alike in that. I'll bet he isn't worrying
half so much as Doc and the others."

"You think he'll make good?" "He never fails."

"But--we can't hold on much longer. Dan says that some of the men
are getting uneasy and want their money."

Tom nodded. "The men are all right--Doc has kept them paid up;
it's the shift bosses. I say let 'em quit."

"Has it gone as far as that?"

"Somebody keeps spreading the story that we're busted and that
Murray has skipped out. More of Gordon's work, I s'pose. Some of
the sore-heads are coming in this evening to demand their wages."

"Can we pay them?"

"Doc says he dassent; so I s'pose they'll quit. He should have
fired 'em a week ago. Never let a man quit--always beat him to
it. We could hold the rough-necks for another two weeks if it
wasn't for these fellows, but they'll go back and start a
stampede."

"How many are there?"

"About a dozen."

"I was afraid it was worse. There can't be much owing to them."

"Oh, it's bad enough! They've been letting their wages ride,
that's why they got scared. We owe them about four thousand
dollars."

"They must be paid," said Eliza. "It will give Mr. O'Neil another
two weeks--a month, perhaps."

"Doc's got his back up, and he's told the cashier to make 'em
wait."

Eliza hesitated, and flushed a little. "I suppose it's none of my
business," she said, "but--couldn't you boys pay them out of your
own salaries?"

Mr. Slater grinned--an unprecedented proceeding which lent his
face an altogether strange and unnatural expression.

"Salary! We ain't had any salary," he said, cheerfully--"not for
months."

"Dan has drawn his regularly."

"Oh, sure! But he ain't one of us. He's an outsider."

"I see!" Eliza's eyes were bright with a wistful admiration.
"That's very nice of you men. You have a family, haven't you,
Uncle Tom?"

"I have! Seven head, and they eat like a herd of stock. It looks
like a lean winter for 'em if Murray don't make a sale--but he
will. That isn't what I came to see you about; I've got my asking
clothes on, and I want a favor."

"You shall have it, of course."

"I want a certificate."

"Of what?"

"Ill health. Nobody believes I had the smallpox."

"You didn't."

"Wh-what?" Tom's eyes opened wide. He stared at the girl in hurt
surprise.

"It was nothing but pimples, Tom."

"Pimples!" He spat the word out indignantly, and his round cheeks
grew purple. "I--I s'pose pimples gave me cramps and chills and
backache and palpitation and swellings! Hunh! I had a narrow
escape--narrow's the word. It was narrower than a knife-edge!
Anything I get out of life from now on is 'velvet,' for I was
knocking at death's door. The grave yawned, but I jumped it. It's
the first sick spell I ever had, and I won't be cheated out of
it. Understand?"

"What do you want me to do?" smiled the girl.

"You're a writer: write me an affidavit--"

"I can't do that."

"Then put it in your paper. Put it on the front page, where folks
can see it."

"I've quit The Review. I'm doing magazine stories."

"Well, that'll do. I'm not particular where it's printed so long
as--"

Eliza shook her head. "You weren't really sick, Uncle Tom."

At this Mr. Slater rose to his feet in high dudgeon.

"Don't call me 'Uncle,'" he exclaimed. "You're in with the
others."

"It wouldn't be published if I wrote it."

"Then you can't be much of a writer." He glared at her, and
slowly, distinctly, with all the emphasis at his command, said:
"I had smallpox--and a dam' bad case, understand? I was sick. I
had miseries in every joint and cartage of my body. I'm going to
use a pick-handle for a cane, and anybody that laughs will get a
hickory massage that'll take a crooked needle and a pair of
pinchers to fix. Thank God I've got my strength back! You get
me?"

"I do."

He snorted irately and turned to go, but Eliza checked him.

"What about those shift bosses?" she asked.

Slater rolled his eyes balefully. "Just let one of 'em mention
smallpox," he said, "and I'll fill the hospital till it bulges."

"No, no! Are you going to pay them?"

"Certainly not."

Eliza considered for a moment. "Don't let them see Dr. Gray," she
said, at length. "He has enough to worry him. Meet them at the
train and bring them here."

"What for? Tea?"

"You boys have done all you can; I think it's time Dan and I did
something."

Tom stared. "Are YOU going to pay 'em?" he asked, gruffly.

"Yes. Mr. O'Neil needs time. Dan and I have saved four thousand
dollars. I'd offer it to Dr. Gray--"

"He wouldn't take it."

"Exactly. Send Dan up here when you see him."

"It doesn't seem exactly right." Tom was obviously embarrassed.
"You see, we sort of belong to Murray, and you don't, but--" He
shook his head as if to rid himself of unwelcome emotion. "Women
are funny things! You're willing to do that for the chief, and
yet you won't write me a little affidavit!" He grunted and went
away, still shaking his head.

When Eliza explained her plan to Dan she encountered an
opposition that shocked and hurt her.

"I won't do it!" he said, shortly.

"You--WHAT?"

"We can't build the S. R.

"Yes, and made you love him, too," said Dan, roughly. "I can see
that."

Eliza lifted her head and met his eyes squarely.

"That's true! But why not? Can't I love him? Isn't it my
privilege to help him if I want to? If I had two million dollars
instead of two thousand I'd give it to him, and--and I wouldn't
expect him to care for me, either. He'll never do that. He
couldn't! But--oh, Danny, I've been miserable--"

Dan felt a certain dryness of the throat which made speech oddly
difficult. "I don't see why he couldn't care for you," he said,
lamely.

Eliza shook her head hopelessly. "I'm glad it happened," she
said--"glad. In writing these articles I've tried to make him
understood; I've tried to put my whole soul into them so that the
people will see that he isn't, wouldn't be, a thief nor a
grafter. I've described him as he is--big, honorable, gentle--"

"I didn't know you were writing fiction," said her brother,
impatiently.

"I'm not. It's all true. I've cried over those articles, Dan.
I've petted them, and I've kissed his name--oh, I've been silly!"
She smiled at him through a sudden glimmer of tears.

Dan began to wonder if his sister, in spite of her exemplary
conduct in the past, were after all going to have hysterics.
Women were especially likely to, he reflected, when they demanded
the impossible. At last he said, uncomfortably: "Gee, I thought I
was the dippy member of the family!"

"It's our chance to help him," she urged. "Will you--?"

"No! I'm sorry, Sis, but my little bit wouldn't mean anything to
him; it means everything to me. Maybe that's selfish--I don't
care. I'm as mad over Natalie as you seem to be over him. A
week's delay can't make any difference now--he played and lost.
But I can't afford to lose. He'll make another fortune, that's
sure--but do you think I'll ever find another Natalie? No! Don't
argue, for I won't listen."

He left the house abruptly, and Eliza went into the white bedroom
which O'Neil had fitted up for her. From the remotest corner of
her lowest bureau drawer she drew a battered tin box, and,
dividing the money it contained into two equal parts, placed one
in the pockets of her mannish jacket.

It was dark when Tom Slater arrived, at the head of a group of
soiled workmen whom he ushered into the parlor of the bungalow.

"Here's the bunch!" he announced, laconically.

As the new-comers ranged themselves uncomfortably about the wall
Dan Appleton entered and greeted them with his customary
breeziness.

"The pay-master is busy, and Doc Gray has a surgical case," he
said, "so I'll cash your time-checks. Get me the box, will you,
Sis?"

He had avoided Eliza's eyes upon entering, and he avoided them
now, but the girl's throat was aching as she hurried into her
bedroom and hastily replaced the rolls of greenbacks she had
removed from the tin box.

When he had finished paying off, Dan said, brusquely:

"Now we mustn't have any loafing around town, understand?"

"We can't get back to-night," said one of the men.

"Oh yes, you can. I ordered an engine out."

"We hear--there's talk about quitting work," another ventured.
"Where's O'Neil?"

"He's in the States buying a steamship," answered Dan,
unblushingly. "We can't get stuff fast enough by the regular
boats."

"Good! That sounds like business. We don't want to quit."

"Now hurry! Your parlor-car is waiting."

When he and Eliza were alone he turned to her with a flush of
embarrassment. "Aren't we the darnedest fools, Sis? I wouldn't
mind if we had done the chief any good, but we haven't." He
closed the lid of the tin box, which was nearly empty now, and
pushed it away from him, laughing mirthlessly. "Hide that
sarcophagus where I can't see it," he commanded. "It makes me
sick."

Eliza flung her arm about his neck and laid her cheek against
his. "Poor Danny! You're a brick!"

"It's the bread-line for us," he told her.

"Never mind. We're used to it now." She laughed contentedly and
snuggled her face closer to his.

It was on the following morning that O'Neil's cablegram
announcing the result of his interview with Illis reached Omar.
Dr. Gray brought the news to the Appleton bungalow while Dan and
his sister were still at breakfast. "Happy Tom" came puffing and
blowing at his heels with a highly satisfied I-told-you-so
expression on his round features.

"He made it! The tide has turned," cried the doctor as he burst
in waving the message on high. "Yes!" he explained, in answer to
their excited questions. "Murray got the money and our troubles
are over. Now give me some coffee, Eliza. I'm all shaky."

"English money!" commented Slater. "The same as we used on the
North Pass."

"Then he interested Illis!" cried Dan.

"Yep! He's the white-winged messenger of hope. I wasn't worried
for a minute," Tom averred.

The breakfast which followed was of a somewhat hysterical and
fragmentary nature, for Eliza felt her heart swelling, and the
faithful Gray was all but undone by the strain he had endured.
"That's the first food I've tasted for weeks," he confessed.
"I've eaten, but I haven't tasted; and now--I'm not hungry." He
sighed, stretched his long limbs gratefully, and eyed the
Appletons with a kindly twinkle. "You were up in the air, too,
weren't you? The chief will appreciate last night's affair."

Eliza colored faintly. "It was nothing. Please don't tell him."
At the incredulous lift of his brows she hastened to explain:
"Tom said you men 'belonged' to Mr. O'Neil and Dan was an
outsider. That hurt me dreadfully."

"Well, he can't say that now; Dan is one of Murray's boys, all
right, and you--you must be his girl."

At that moment Mellen and McKay burst into the bungalow,
demanding the truth behind the rumor which had just come to their
ears; and there followed fresh explanations and rejoicings,
through which Eliza sat quietly, thrilled by the note of genuine
affection and loyalty that pervaded it all. But, now that the
general despondency had vanished and joy reigned in its place,
Tom Slater relapsed into his habitual gloom and spoke
forebodingly of the difficulties yet to be encountered.

"Murray don't say how MUCH he's raised," he remarked. "It may be
only a drop in the bucket. We'll have to go through all this
again, probably, and the next time he won't find it so easy to
sting a millionaire."

"We'll last through the winter anyhow--"

"Winter!" Slater shook his bald head. "Winter is hard on old men
like me."

"We'll have the bridge built by spring, sure!" Mellen declared.

"Maybe! I hope so. I wish I could last to see it, but the
smallpox undermined me. Perhaps it's a mercy I'm so far gone;
nobody knows yet whether the bridge will stand, and--I'd hate to
see it go out."

"It won't go out," said the engineer, confidently.

"Maybe you're right. But that's what Trevor said about his
breakwater. His work was done, and ours isn't hardly begun. By
the way, Murray didn't say he HAD the money; he just said he
expected to get it."

"Go out and hang your crepe on the roundhouse," Dan told him;
"this is a jubilee. If you keep on rejoicing you'll have us all
in tears." When the others had gone he turned to Eliza. "Why
don't you want O'Neil to know about that money, Sis?" he asked,
curiously. "When I'm a hero I like to be billed as one."

"Please!" She hesitated and turned her face away. "You--you are
so stupid about some things."

On the afternoon of this very day Curtis Gordon found Natalie at
a window staring out across the sound in the direction of Omar.
He laid a warm hand upon her shoulder and said:

"My dear, confess! You are lonesome."

She nodded silently.

"Well, well! We mustn't allow that. Why don't you run over to
Omar and see your friend Miss Appleton? She has a cheerful way
with her." "I'm afraid things aren't very gay over there," said
Natalie, doubtfully.

"Quite probably. But the fact that O'Neil is on his last legs
needn't interfere with your pleasure. A change will do you good."

"You are very kind," she murmured. "You have done everything to
make me happy, but--it's autumn. Winter is coming. I feel dull
and lonely and gray, like the sky. Are you sure Mr. O'Neil has
failed?"

"Certainly. He tried to sell his holdings to the Trust, but they
refused to consider it. Poor fellow!" he continued, unctuously.
"Now that he's down I pity him. One can't dislike a person who
has lost the power of working harm. His men are quitting: I doubt
if he'll dare show his face in this country again. But never mind
all that. There's a boat leaving for Omar in the morning. Go;
have a good time, return when you will, and tell us how they bear
up under their adversity." He patted her shoulder affectionately
and went up to his room.

It was true enough that Natalie had been unhappy since returning
to Hope--not even her mother dreamed how she rebelled at
remaining here. She was lonely, uninterested, vaguely homesick.
She missed the intimate companionship of Eliza; she missed Dan's
extravagant courting and O'Neil's grave, respectful attentions.
She also felt the loss of the honest good-fellowship of all those
people at Omar whom she had learned to like and to admire. Life
here was colorless, and was still haunted by the shadow of that
thing from which she and her mother had fled.

Gordon, indeed, had been generous to them both. Since his
marriage his attitude had changed entirely. He was polite,
agreeable, charmingly devoted: no ship arrived without some
tangible and expensive evidence of his often-expressed desire to
make his wife and stepdaughter happy; he anticipated their
slightest wish. Under his assiduous attentions Natalie's distrust
and dislike had slowly melted, and she came to believe that she
had misjudged him. There were times when he seemed to be
overdoing the matter a bit, times when she wondered if his
courtesy could be altogether disinterested; but these occasions
were rare, and always she scornfully accused herself of
disloyalty. As for Gloria, she was deeply contented--as nearly
happy, in fact, as a woman of her temperament could be, and in
this the daughter took her reward.

Natalie arrived at Omar in time to see the full effect of the
good news from New York, and joined sincerely in the general
rejoicing. She returned after a few days, bursting with the
tidings of O'Neil's victory.

Gordon listened to her with keenest attention; he drew her out
artfully, and when he knew what he had sent her to learn he gave
voice to his unwelcome surprise.

"Jove!" he snarled. "That beggar hoodwinked the Heidlemanns,
after all. It's their money. What fools! What fools!"

Natalie looked up quickly.

"Does it affect your plans?" she asked.

"Yes--in a way. It consolidates my enemies."

"You said you no longer had any ill feeling toward Mr. O'Neil."

Gordon had resumed his usual suavity. "When I say enemies," he
qualified, "of course, I mean it only in a business sense. I
heard that the Trust had withdrawn, discouraged by their losses,
but, now that they re-enter the field, I shall have to fight
them. They would have done well to consult me--to buy me off,
rather than be bled by O'Neil. They shall pay well for their
mistake, but--it's incredible! That man has the luck of the
devil."

That evening he and Denny sat with their heads together until a
late hour, and when they retired Gordon had begun to whip new
plans into shape.




XX

HOW GORDON CHANGED HIS ATTACK


O'Neil's return to Omar was triumphal. All his lieutenants
gathered to meet him at the pier and the sincerity of their
welcome stirred him deeply. His arrangements with Illis had taken
time; he had been delayed at Seattle by bridge details and the
placing of steel contracts. He had worked swiftly, and with such
absorption that he had paid little heed to the rumors of Gordon's
latest activities. Of the new venture which his own success had
inspired he knew only the bare outline. He had learned enough,
however, to arouse his curiosity, and as soon as the first
confusion of his arrival at the front was over he asked for news.

"Haven't you read the papers?" inquired "Happy Tom." He had
attached himself to O'Neil at the moment of his stepping ashore,
and now followed him to headquarters, with an air of melancholy
satisfaction in mere physical nearness to his chief.

"Barely!" O'Neil confessed. "I've been working twenty hours a day
getting that steel under motion."

Dr. Gray said with conviction: "Gordon is a remarkable man. It's
a pity he's crooked."

"I think it's dam' lucky," declared Tom. "He's smarter than us,
and if he wasn't handicapped by a total lack of decency he'd beat
us."

"After the storm," explained Gray, "he moved back to Hope, and we
thought he'd made his last bow, but in some way he got the idea
that the Trust was back of us."

"So I judged from the little I read."

"Well, we didn't undeceive him, of course. His first move was an
attack through the press in the shape of a broadside against the
Heidlemanns. It fairly took our breaths. It appeared in the
Cortez Courier and all over the States, we hear--a letter of
defiance to Herman Heidlemann. It declared that the Trust was up
to its old tricks here in Alaska had gobbled the copper; had the
coal tied up under secret agreements, and was trying to get
possession of all the coast-range passes and defiles--the old
story. But the man can write. That article caused a stir."

"I saw it."

"Naturally, the Cortez people ate it up. They're sore at the
Trust for leaving their town, and at us for building Omar. Then
Gordon called a mass-meeting, and some of us went up to watch the
fireworks. I've never seen anything quite like that meeting;
every man, woman, and child in the city was there, and they
hissed us when we came in. Gordon knew what he was about, and he
was in fine voice. He told them Cortez was the logical point of
entry to the interior of Alaska and ought to have all the
traffic. He fired their animosity toward the Trust, and accused
us of basely selling out to it. Then he broached a project to
build, by local subscription, a narrow-gauge electric line from
Cortez, utilizing the waterfalls for power. The idea caught on,
and went like wild-fire: the people cheered themselves hoarse,
and pledged him over a hundred thousand dollars that night. Since
then they have subscribed as much more, and the town is crazy.
Work has actually begun, and they hope to reach the first summit
by Christmas."

Slater broke in: "He's a spell-binder, all right. He made me hate
the Heidlemanns and detest myself for five minutes. I wasn't even
sure I liked YOU, Murray."

"It's a wild scheme, of course," continued the doctor, "but he's
putting it over. The town council has granted him a ninety-nine-
year lease covering every street; the road-bed is started, and
things are booming. Lots have been staked all over the flats,
property values are somersaulting, everybody is out of his head,
and Gordon is a god. All he does is organize new companies. He
has bought a sawmill, a wharf, a machine shop, acres of real
estate. He has started a bank and a new hotel; he has
consolidated the barber shops; and he talks about roofing in the
streets with glass and making the town a series of arcades."

Slater half smiled--evidence of a convulsive mirth within.

"They've picked out a site for a university!" he said, bitterly.
"Cortez is going to be a seat of learning and culture. They're
planning a park and a place for an Alaskan World's Fair and a
museum and a library. I've always wondered who starts public
libraries--it's 'nuts.' But I didn't s'pose more than one or two
people got foolish that way."

O'Neil drew from his pocket a newspaper five days old, which he
unfolded and opened at a full-page advertisement, headed:

CORTEZ HOME RAILWAY

"This is running in all the coast papers," he said, and read:

"OUR PLATFORM:

No promotion shares. No construction profits.

No bonds. No incompetence.

No high-salaried officials. No monopoly.

No passes or rebates. No graft.

"OF ALASKA, BY ALASKA, FOR ALASKA."

There was much more of a similar kind, written to appeal to the
quick-profit-loving public, and it was followed by a violent
attack upon the Trust and an appeal to the people of Seattle for
assistance, at one dollar per share.

"Listen to this," O'Neil went on:

"Among the original subscribers are the following:

   "Hotels and saloons of Cortez ..... $17,000
    City Council .......................15,000
    Prospectors......................... 7,000
    Ladies' Guild of Cortez .............. 740
    School-children of Cortez............. 420"

Tom grew red in the face and gave his characteristic snort. "I
don't mind his stringing the City Council and the saloons, and
even the Ladies' Guild," he growled, "but when he steals the
licorice and slate-pencils from the kids it's time he was
stopped."

Murray agreed. "I think we are about done with Gordon. He has led
his ace."

"I'm not sure. This is a kind of popular uprising, like a camp-
meeting. If I went to Cortez now, some prattling school-girl
would wallop me with her dinner-bucket. We can't shake Gordon
loose: he's a regular splavvus."

"What is a splavvus, Tom?" inquired Dr. Gray.

"It's a real peculiar animal, being a cross between a bulldog and
a skunk. We have lots of 'em in Maine!"

O'Neil soon found that the accounts he had received of Gordon's
last attempt to recoup his fortunes were in no way exaggerated.
Cortez, long the plaything of the railroad-builders, had been
ripe for his touch: it rose in its wounded civic pride and
greeted his appeal with frantic delight. It was quite true that
the school-children had taken stock in the enterprise: their
parents turned their own pockets inside out, and subscriptions
came in a deluge. The price of real estate doubled, quadrupled,
and Gordon bought just enough to establish the price firmly. The
money he paid was deposited again in his new bank, and he
proceeded to use it over and over in maintaining exorbitant
prices and in advancing his grandiose schemes. His business took
him often to Seattle, where by his whirlwind methods he
duplicated his success in a measure: his sensational attack upon
the money powers got a wide hearing, and he finally secured an
indorsement of his scheme by the Businessmen's Association. This
done, he opened splendid offices and began a wide-spread stock-
flotation campaign. Soon the Cortez Home Railway became known as
a mighty, patriotic effort of Alaskans to throw off the shackles
of oppression.

Gordon perfectly understood that something more than vague
accusations were necessary to bring the public to his support in
sufficient numbers to sweep him on to victory, and with this in
mind he laid crafty plans to seize the Heidlemann grade. The
Trust had ceased active work on its old right-of-way and moved to
Kyak, to be sure, but it had not abandoned its original route,
and in fact had maintained a small crew at the first defile
outside of Cortez, known as Beaver Canon. Gordon reasoned
shrewdly that a struggle between the agents of the Trust and the
patriotic citizens of the town would afford him precisely the
advertising he needed and give point to his charge of unfair play
against the Heidlemanns.

It was not difficult to incite his victims to this act of
robbery. On the contrary, once he had made the suggestion, he had
hard work to restrain them, until he had completed his
preparations. These preparations were simple; they consisted in
writing and mailing to every newspaper of consequence a highly
colored account of the railroad struggle. These mimeographed
stories were posted from Seattle in time for them to reach their
destinations on the date set for the seizure of the grade.

It was an ingenious publicity move, worthy of a theatrical press-
agent, and it succeeded beyond the promoter's fondest
expectations--too well, in fact, for it drove the Trust in
desperation to an alliance with the S. R. & N.

The day set for the demonstration came; the citizens of Cortez
boldly marched into Beaver Canon to take possession of the old
Heidlemann workings, but it appeared that they had reckoned
prematurely. A handful of grim-faced Trust employees warned them
back: there was a rush, some rough work on the part of the
aggressors, and then the guards brought their weapons into play.
The result afforded Gordon far more sensational material than he
had hoped for: one citizen was killed and five others were badly
wounded. Cortez, dazed and horror-stricken, arose in her wrath
and descended upon the "assassins"; lynchings were planned, and
mobs threatened the local jail, until soldiers were hurried
thither and martial law was declared.

Of course, the wires were burdened with the accounts; the reading
public of the States awoke to the fact that a bitter strife was
waging in the north between honest miners and the soulless
Heidlemann syndicate. Gordon's previously written and carefully
colored stories of the clash were printed far and wide.
Editorials breathed indignation at such lawlessness and pointed
to the Cortez Home Railway as a commendable effort to destroy the
Heidlemann throttle-hold upon the northland. Stock subscriptions
came in a deluge which fairly engulfed Gordon's Seattle office
force.

During this brief white-hot campaign the promoter had been
actuated as much by his senseless hatred of O'Neil as by lust of
glory and gain, and it was with no little satisfaction that he
returned to Alaska conscious of having dealt a telling blow to
his enemy. He sent Natalie to Omar on another visit in order that
he might hear at first hand how O'Neil took the matter. But his
complacency received a shock when the girl returned. He had no
need to question her.

"Uncle Curtis," she began, excitedly, "you ought to stop these
terrible newspaper stories about Mr. O'Neil and the Trust."

"Stop them? My dear, what do you mean?"

"He didn't sell out to the Trust. He has nothing to do with it."

"What?" Gordon's incredulity was a challenge.

"He sold to an Englishman named Illis. They seem to be amused by
your mistake over there at Omar, but I think some of the things
printed are positively criminal. I knew you'd want the truth--"

"The truth, yes! But this can't be true," stammered Gordon.

"It is. Mr. O'Neil did try to interest the Heidlemanns, but they
wouldn't have anything to do with him, and the S. R. & N. was
going to smash when Mr. Illis came along, barely in time. It was
too exiting and dramatic for anything the way Mr. O'Neil found
him when he was in hiding--"

"Hiding?"

"Yes. There was something about blackmail, or a secret
arrangement between Mr. Illis and the Yukon River lines--I
couldn't understand just what it was--but, anyhow, Murray took
advantage of it and saved the North Pass and the S. R. & N. at
the same time. It was really a perfectly wonderful stroke of
genius. I determined a once that you should stop these lies and
correct the general idea that he is in the pay of the Trust. Why,
he went to Cortez last week and they threatened his life!"

Mrs. Gordon, who had listened, said, quietly: "Don't blame Curtis
for that. That bloody affray at Beaver Canyon has made Cortez
bitter against every one connected with the Heidlemanns."

"What about this blackmail?" said her husband, upon whose ear the
word had made a welcome impression. "I don't understand what you
mean by O'Neil's 'saving' the North Pass and his own road at the
same time--nor Illis's being in hiding."

"Neither do I." Natalie confessed, "but I know you have made a
mistake that ought to be set right."

"Why doesn't he come out with the truth?"

"The whole thing is secret."

"Why?"

Natalie shrugged hopelessly, and Gordon lost himself in frowning
thought.

"This is amazing," he said, brusquely, after a moment. "It's
vital. It affects all my plans. I must know everything at once."

"I'm sorry I paid so little attention."

"Never mind; try it again and be diplomatic. If O'Neil won't tell
you, question Appleton--you can wind him around your fingers
easily enough."

The girl eyed him with a quick change of expression.

"Isn't it enough to know that the Trust has nothing to do with
the S. R. & N.?"

"No!" he declared, impatiently. "I must know the whole inside of
this secret understanding--this blackmail, or whatever it is."

"Then--I'm sorry."

"Come! Don't be silly. You can do me a great service."

"You said you no longer disliked Mr. O'Neil and that he couldn't
harm you."

"Well, well! Must I explain the whys and wherefores of every move
I make?"

"It would be spying if I went back. The matter is confidential--I
know that."

"Will you do as I ask?" he demanded.

Natalie answered him firmly: "No! I told you what I did tell you
only so that you might correct--"

"You rebel, eh?" Gordon spoke out furiously.

It was their first clash since the marriage. Mrs. Gordon looked
on, torn between loyalty to her husband and a desire to protect
her daughter. She was searching her mind painfully for the
compromise, the half-truth that was her remedy for every moral
distress. At length she said, placatingly:

"I'm sure Natalie will help you in any way she can, Curtis. She
isn't rebellious, she merely doesn't understand."

"She doesn't need to understand. It is enough that I direct her--
" As Natalie turned and walked silently to the window he stifled
an oath. "Have I no authority?" he stormed. "Do you mean to
obey?"

"Wait!" Gloria laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Perhaps I can
learn what you want to know. Mr. O'Neil was very kind--"

Her daughter whirled, with white face and flashing eyes.

"Mother!" she gasped.

"Our loyalty begins at home," said Gloria, feebly.

"Oh-h! I can't conceive of your--of such a thing. If you have no
decency, I have. I'm sorry I spoke, but--if you DARE to do such a
thing I shall warn Mr. O'Neil that you are a spy." She turned a
glance of loathing on Gordon. "I see," she said, quietly. "You
used me as a tool. You lied about your feeling toward him. You
meant harm to him all the time." She faced the window again.

"Lied!" he shouted. "Be careful--that's pretty strong language.
Don't try me too far, or you may find yourself adrift once more.
I have been too patient. But I have other ways of finding out
what I wish to know, and I shall verify what you have told me."
He strode angrily from the room, leaving Natalie staring out upon
the bleak fall scene, her shoulders very straight, her breast
heaving. Gloria did not venture to address her.

Fortunately for the peace of all concerned, Gordon left for
Seattle on the next steamer. Neither of the women believed that
Natalie's fragmentary revelation was the cause of his departure;
but, once in touch with outside affairs, he lost no time in
running down the clues he had gathered, and it was not long
before he had learned enough to piece the truth together. Then he
once more brought his mimeograph into use.




XXI

DAN APPLETON SLIPS THE LEASH


The first winter snows found O'Neil's track laid to the bridge
site and the structure itself well begun. He had moved his office
out to the front, and now saw little of Eliza, who was busied in
writing her book. She had finished her magazine articles, and
they had been accepted, but she had given him no hint as to their
character.

One afternoon "Happy Tom" burst in upon his chief, having
hastened out from Omar on a construction-train. Drawing a Seattle
paper from his pocket, he began excitedly:

"Well, the fat's in the fire, Murray! Somebody has belched up the
whole North Pass story."

O'Neil seized the newspaper and scanned it hurriedly. He looked
up, scowling.

"Who gave this out?" he inquired, in a harsh voice.

Slater shrugged. "It's in the Cortez Courier too, so I s'pose it
came from Gordon. Blessings come from one source, and Gordon's
the fountain of all evil. I'm getting so I blame him for
everything unpleasant. Sometimes I think he gave me the
smallpox."

"Where did he learn the inside of Illis's deal? By God! There's a
leak somewhere!"

"Maybe he uncovered it back there in the States."

Murray shook his head. "Nobody knows anything about it except you
boys." He seized the telephone at his elbow and called Dr. Gray,
while Tom listened with his shining forehead puckered anxiously.
O'Neil hung up with a black face.

"Appleton!" he said.

Tom looked, if possible, a shade gloomier than usual. "I wouldn't
be too sure it was Dan if I was you," he ventured, doubtfully.

"Where is he?" O'Neil ground out the words between his teeth.

"Surveying the town-site addition. If he let anything slip it was
by mistake--"

"Mistake! I won't employ people who make mistakes of that kind.
This story may bring the Canadian Government down on Illis and
forfeit his North Pass charter--to say nothing of our
authorities. That would finish us." He rose, went to the door,
and ordered the recently arrived engine uncoupled. Flinging
himself into his fur coat, he growled: "I'd rather have a crook
under me than a fool. Appleton told us he talked too much."

Tom pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Gordon got it through the
Gerard girl, I s'pose."

"Gordon! Gordon! Will there never be an end to Gordon?" His frown
deepened. "He's in the way, Tom. If he balks this deal I'm afraid
I'll--have to change ghosts."

"It would be a pious act," Slater declared. "And his ghost
wouldn't ha'nt you none, either. It would put on its asbestos
overshoes and go out among the other shades selling stock in
electric fans or 'Gordon's Arctic Toboggan Slide.' He'd promote a
Purgatory Development Company and underwrite the Bottomless Pit
for its sulphur. I--I'd hate to think this came from Dan."

The locomotive had been switched out by this time, and O'Neil
hurried to board it. On his way to Omar he had time thoroughly to
weigh the results of this unexpected complication. His present
desire was merely to verify his suspicion that Appleton had told
his secret to Natalie; beyond that he did not care to think, for
there was but one course open.

His anger reached the blazing-point after his arrival. As he
stepped down from the engine-cab Gray silently handed him a code
message from London which had arrived a few moments before. When
its contents had been deciphered, O'Neil cursed and he was
furious as he stumbled through the dark toward the green bungalow
on the hill.

Swinging round the corner of the house, he came into a bright
radiance which streamed forth from Eliza's window, and he could
not help seeing the interior of the room. She was there, writing
busily, and he saw that she was clad in the elaborate kimono
which he had given her; yet it was not her personal appearance
which arrested his angry eyes and caused his step to halt; it
was, instead, her surroundings.

He had grown to accept her prim simplicity as a matter of course,
and never associated her in his thoughts with anything feminine,
but the room as it lay before him now was a revelation of
daintiness and artful decoration. Tasteful water-colors hung on
the walls, a warm rug was on the floor, and everywhere were rosy
touches of color. The plain white bed had been transformed into a
couch of Oriental luxury; a lace spread of weblike texture
covered it, the pillows were hidden beneath billowing masses of
ruffles and ribbons. He saw a typical woman's cozy corner piled
high with cushions; there was a jar of burning incense sticks
near it--everything, in fact, was utterly at variance with his
notions of the owner. Even the girl herself seemed transfigured
for her hair was brought forward around her face in some loose
mysterious fashion which gave her a bewilderingly girlish
appearance. As he looked in upon her she raised her face so that
the light shone full upon it; her brows were puckered, she
nibbled at the end of her pencil, in the midst of some creative
puzzle.

O'Neil's eyes photographed all this in a single surprised glance
as he passed; the next moment he was mounting the steps to the
porch.

Dan flung open the door, but his words of greeting froze, his
smile of welcome vanished at sight of his chief's forbidding
visage.

Murray was in no mood to waste words; he began roughly:

"Did you tell Miss Gerard that Poultney Illis is backing me?"

Dan stammered. "I--perhaps--I--What has gone wrong, Chief?"

"Did you tell her the inside--the story of his agreement with the
steamboat people?"

Dan paled beneath his tan, but his eyes met Murray's without
flinching. "I think I did--tell her something. I don't quite
remember. But anything I may have said was in confi--"

"I thought so. I merely wished to make certain. Well, the whole
thing is in the papers."

Appleton laid his hand upon the table to steady himself.

"Then it--didn't come from her. She wouldn't--"

"Gordon has spread the story broadcast. It couldn't have come
from any other source; it couldn't have reached him in any other
way, for none of my boys has breathed a word." His voice rose
despite his effort at self-control. "Illis's agreement was
ILLEGAL," he said, savagely; "it will probably forfeit the
charter of the North Pass or land him in court. I suppose you
realize that! I discovered his secret and assured him it was safe
with me; now you peddle it to Gordon, and the whole thing is
public. Here's the first result." He shook the London cablegram
in Dan's face, and his own was distorted with rage. There was a
stir in Eliza's room which neither noticed. Appleton wiped his
face with uncertain hand; he moistened his lips to say:

"I--I'm terribly sorry! But I'm sure Natalie wouldn't spy--I
don't remember what I told her, or how I came to know about the
affair. Doc Gray told me, I think, in the first excitement, but--
God! She--wouldn't knowingly--"

"Gordon fired you for talking too much. I thought you had learned
your lesson, but it seems you hadn't. Don't blame Miss Gerard for
pumping you--her loyalty belongs to Gordon now. But I require
loyalty, too. Since you lack it you can go."

O'Neil turned as Eliza's door opened; she stood before him, pale,
frightened, trembling.

"I couldn't help hearing," she said. "You discharge us?"

He nodded. "I'm sorry! I've trusted my 'boys' so implicitly that
the thought of betrayal by them never occurred to me. I can't
have men close to me who make such mistakes as this."

"Perhaps there was--an excuse, or the shadow of one, at least.
When a man is in love, you know--"

Murray wheeled upon Dan and demanded sharply:

"What's this?" Then in a noticeably altered tone he asked, "Do
you love--Natalie?"

"Yes."

"Does she love you?"

"No, sir!"

O'Neil turned back to the girl, saying: "I told Dan, when I hired
him, that he would be called upon to dare much, to suffer much,
and that my interests must be his. He has disregarded them, and
he must go. That's all. There's little difference between
treachery and carelessness."

"It's--too bad," said the girl, faintly. Dan stood stiff and
silent, wholly dazed by the sudden collapse of his fortunes.

"I'm not ungrateful for what you've done, Appleton," O'Neil went
on. "I intend to pay you well for the help you gave me. You took
a chance at the Canon and at Gordon's Crossing. You'll get a
check."

"I don't want your damned money," the other gulped. "I've drawn
my wages."

"Nevertheless, I shall pay you well. It's highly probable that
you've wrecked the S. R. & N. and ruined me, but I don't intend
to forget my obligations to you. It's unfortunate. Call on the
cashier in the morning. Good night."

He left them standing there unhappily, dumb and stiff with shame.
Once outside the house, he plunged down the hill as if fleeing
from the scene of some crime. He rushed through the night
blindly, for he had loved his assistant engineer, and the memory
of that chalk-faced, startled girl hurt him abominably.

When he came to the company office he was walking slowly,
heavily. He found Gray inside and dropped into a chair: his face
was grimly set, and he listened dully to the physician's rambling
talk.

"I fired Appleton!" he broke out, at last. Gray looked up
quickly. "He acknowledged that he--did it. I had no choice. It
came hard, though. He's a good boy."

"He did some great work, Chief!"

"I know! That affair at the Crossing--I intend to pay him well,
if he'll accept. It's not that--I like those kids, Stanley. Eliza
took it harder than he. It wasn't easy for me, either," he
sighed, wearily. "I'd give ten thousand dollars if it hadn't
happened. She looked as if I'd struck her."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing. He has been careless, disloyal--"

"You told them so?"

O'Neil nodded.

"And they said nothing?"

"Nothing! What could they say?"

Gray answered gruffly: "They might have said a good deal. They
might have told you how they paid off your men and saved a walk-
out when I had no money."

O'Neil stared incredulously. "What are you talking about?" he
demanded.

When he had the facts he rose with an exclamation of dismay.

"God! Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't they speak out? I--I--
why, that's loyalty of the finest kind. All the money they had
saved, too--when they thought I had failed! Jove! That was fine.
Oh, I'm sorry! I wonder what they think of me? I can't let Dan go
after that. I--" He seized his cap and hurried out of the
building.

"It's hardly right--when things were going so well, too!" said
Dan. He was sitting crumpled up in a chair, Eliza's arm
encircling his shoulders. "I didn't mean to give up any secrets,
but--I'm not myself when I'm with Natalie."

"We must take our medicine," his sister told him, gravely. "We
deserve it, for this story may spoil all he's done. I didn't
think it of her, though."

Dan groaned and bowed his head in his hands. "I don't know which
hurts worse," he said--"his anger or her action. She--couldn't do
such a thing, Sis; she just couldn't!"

"She probably didn't realize--she hasn't much sense, you know.
But after all he's suffered, to think that we should injure him!
I could cry. I think I shall."

The door opened before a rough hand, and O'Neil strode into the
room, huge, shaggy in his coonskin coat. They rose, startled, but
he came to them swiftly, a look of mingled shame and gladness in
his face.

"I've come back to apologize," he cried. "I couldn't wait. I've
learned what you children did while I was gone, and I've come to
beg forgiveness. It's all right--it's all right."

"I don't know what you mean," Dan gasped.

"Doc told me how you paid those men. That was real friendship; it
was splendid. It touched me, and I--I want to apologize. You see,
I hurried right back."

They saw that his eyes were moist, and at the sight Eliza gave a
quivering cry, then turned swiftly to hide her face. She felt
O'Neil's fur-clad arm about her shoulder; his hand was patting
her, and he was saying gently: "You are a dear child. It was
tremendously good of you both, and I--ought to be shot for acting
as I did. I wonder if you can accept a wretched apology as
bravely as you accepted a wrong accusation."

"It wasn't wrong; it was right," she sobbed. "Dan told her, and
she told Gordon."

"There, there! I was to blame, after all, for letting any one
know, and if Dan made a mistake he has more than offset it by his
unselfishness--his sacrifices. It seems I forgot how much I
really owe him."

"That affair with the shift bosses wasn't anything," said Dan,
hastily, "and it was all Eliza's idea. I refused at first, but
when she started to pay them herself I weakened." He stuttered
awkwardly, for his sister was motioning him desperately to be
silent; but he ran on: "Oh, he ought to know the whole truth and
how rotten I acted, Sis. I deserve to be discharged."

"Please don't make this any harder for me than it is," Murray
smiled. "I'm terribly embarrassed, for I'm not used to apologies.
I can't afford to be unjust; I--have so few friends that I want
to cherish them. I'm sorry you saw me in such a temper. Anger is
a treacherous thing, and it always betrays me. Let's forget that
I was here before and pretend that I just came to thank you for
what you did." He drew Dan into the shelter of his other arm and
pressed the two young people to him. "I didn't realize how deeply
you kids care for each other and for me."

"Then I'm not fired?" Dan queried, doubtfully.

"Of course not. When I take time to think about discharging a man
I invariably end by raising his salary."

"Dan isn't worth half what you're paying him," came Eliza's
muffled voice. She freed herself from Murray's embrace and
rearranged her hair with tremulous fingers. Surreptitiously she
wiped her eyes. "You gave us an awful fright; it's terrible to be
evicted in winter-time." She tried to laugh, but the attempt
failed miserably.

"Just the same, when a man contemplates marriage he must have
money."

"I don't want your blamed money," Dan blurted, "and it doesn't
cost anything to contemplate marriage. That's all I'm doing--just
looking at it from a distance."

"Perhaps I can help you to prevail on Miss Natalie to change her
mind. That would be a real service, wouldn't it?" Under his grave
glance Dan's heart leaped. "I can't believe she's indifferent to
you, my boy. You're suited to each other, and there's no reason
on earth why you shouldn't marry. Perhaps she doesn't know her
own mind."

"You're mighty good, but--" The lover shook his head.

Murray smiled again. "I think you're too timid. Don't plead and
beg--just carry her off. Be firm and masterful. Be rough--"

"The idea!" exclaimed Eliza. "She's no cave-woman!"

"Exactly. If she were, Dan would need to court her and send her
bouquets of wild violets. She's over-civilized, and therefore he
needs to be primitive."

Dan blushed and faltered. "I can't be firm with her, Murray; I
turn to jelly whenever she looks at me." There was something so
friendly and kind in his employer's attitude that the young
fellow was tempted to pour out all his vexations; he had never
felt so close to O'Neil as now; but his masculine reserve could
not be overcome all in a moment, and he held his tongue.

When Murray had put the two young people fully at their ease he
rose to go, but Eliza's eager voice made him turn with his hand
on the door-knob.

"What can we do about this unfortunate Illis affair?" she asked.
"Dan must try to--"

"Leave that to me. I'll straighten it out somehow. It is all my
fault, and I'll have to meet it." He pressed their hands warmly.

When he had gone Dan heaved a great sigh of relief.

"I'm glad it happened just as it did, Sis," he announced. "He
knows my secret now, and I can see that he never cared for
Natalie. It's a load off my mind to know the track is clear."

"What a simpleton you are!" she told him. "Don't you see he's
merely paying his debt?"

"I wonder--" Dan eyed her in amazement.

"Gee! If that's so he is a prince, isn't he?"

The same ship which had brought the ominous news to O'Neil also
brought Curtis Gordon north. He had remained in Seattle only long
enough to see the Illis story in print, and then had hastened
back to the front. But his satisfaction over the mischief he had
done received a rude jolt when at his first moment of leisure he
looked over the late magazines which he had bought before taking
leave. In one which had appeared on the news-stands that very day
he found, to his amazement, an article by Miss Eliza Appleton, in
which his own picture appeared. He pounced upon it eagerly; and
then, as he read, his eyes narrowed and his jaw stiffened. There,
spread out to the public gaze, was his own record in full,
including his initial venture into the Kyak coal-fields, his
abandonment of that project in favor of Hope Consolidated, and an
account of his connection with the latter enterprise. Eliza had
not hesitated to call the mine worthless, and she showed how he,
knowing its worthlessness from the first, had used it as a lure
to investors. Then followed the story of his efforts to gain a
foothold in the railroad struggle, his defeat at the Salmon River
Canon, his rout at the delta crossing, and his final death-blow
at Kyak. His career stood out boldly in all its fraudulent
colors; failure was written across every one of his undertakings.
The naked facts showed him visionary, incompetent, unscrupulous.

Thus far he had succeeded in keeping a large part of his stock-
holders in ignorance of the true condition of Hope Consolidated,
but he quailed at the inevitable result of this article, which
had been flung far and wide into every city and village in the
land. He dared not think of its effect upon his present
enterprise, now so auspiciously launched. He had made a ringing
appeal to the public, and its support would hinge upon its
confidence in him as a man of affairs. Once that trust was
destroyed the Cortez Home Railway would crumble as swiftly as had
all his other schemes.

The worst of it was that he knew himself shut off from the world
for five days as effectually as if he were locked in a dungeon.
There was no wireless equipment on the ship, he could not start
the machinery of his press bureau, and with every hour this
damnable story was bound to gain momentum. He cursed the luck
which had set him on this quest for vengeance and bound his
hands.

Once he had gathered his wits, he occupied himself in the only
possible way--by preparing a story of his own for the wire. But
for the first time in his experience he found himself upon the
defensive and opposing a force against which no bland
persuasiveness, no personal magnetism could prevail. In the
scattered nature of his support lay his greatest weakness, for it
made the task of self-justification extremely difficult. Perhaps
it was well for his peace of mind that he could not measure the
full effect of those forces which Eliza Appleton's pen had set in
motion.

In Omar, of course, the article excited lively interest. O'Neil
felt a warm thrill of satisfaction as he read it on the morning
after his scene with Eliza and Dan. But it deepened his feeling
of obligation almost painfully; for, like all who are
thoughtlessly prodigal of their own favors, he was deeply
sensible of any kindness done himself. Eliza's dignified
exposition of Alaskan affairs, and particularly the agreeable
things she had written about him, were sure to be of great
practical assistance, he knew, and he longed to make some real
return. But so far as she was concerned there seemed to be
nothing that he could do. With Dan, of course, it was quite
different. Mere money or advancement, he admitted seemed paltry,
but there was a possibility of another kind of service.

Meanwhile Dan was struggling with his problem in his own way. The
possibility that Natalie had voluntarily betrayed him was a
racking torture, and the remembrance of Eliza's words added to
his suffering. He tried to gain some hint of his chief's feeling,
but Murray's frank and friendly attitude baffled him.

When at last he received a brief note from Natalie asking him to
call, he raced to Hope afraid, yet eager to hear what she might
say. She met him on the dock as he left the S. R. & N. motorboat
and led him directly to the house.

Natalie went straight to the point. "I'm in dreadful trouble,"
she said, "and I sent for you to tell you that I had no idea of
betraying confidences."

Dan uttered some inane platitude, but his eyes lighted with
relief.

"When I saw in the papers what a stir that North Pass & Yukon
story had made I was afraid I had done something dreadful. Tell
me, is it so? Did I make trouble?"

"You certainly did. O'Neil was furious, and nobody knows yet what
the result will be. It--it nearly cost me my head."

"Does he blame me?"

"N-no! He says you're on Gordon's side now. He blames me, or did,
until he generously took it on himself."

"What does it all mean? I'm nearly distracted." Natalie's eyes
were pleading. "Did you think I spied on you?"

Dan glowed with embarrassment and something more. "I didn't know
what to think," he said. "I was wretchedly miserable, for I was
afraid. And yet I knew you couldn't do such a thing. I told
O'Neil I wasn't responsible for what I did or said when with
you."

"Mr. Gordon sent me to Omar purposely. He sent me twice. It was I
who brought him word that the road was saved. I told all I'd
learned because I believed he no longer hated Mr. O'Neil. I was
happy to tell all I knew, for he deceived me as he deceives every
one. I learned the truth too late."

"Why do you stay here?" Dan demanded, hotly.

"Why? I--don't know. Perhaps because I'm afraid to leave. I'm
alone--you see mother believes in him: she's completely under his
sway, and I can't tell her the sort of man he is. She's happy,
and her happiness is worth more to me than my own. But--I SHALL
go away. I can't stand it here much longer."

"Where will you go?"

"Back to my old home, perhaps. Somewhere--anywhere away from
Alaska."

"I suppose you know I can't get along without you."

"Please don't! You have been very good and sweet to me, but--"
She shook her dark head. "You couldn't marry me--even if I cared
for you in that way."

"Why? I intend to marry you whether you want to or not."

"Oh, Dan, it wouldn't do. You know--about--mother. I've nearly
died of shame, and--it would be sure to come up. Somebody would
speak of it, sometime."

Dan's blue eyes went cold and smoky as he said:

"It would take a pretty brave person to mention the subject in my
presence. I don't care a whoop for anything Gordon or your family
may say or do. I--"

There was a stir in the hall outside, and the speaker turned to
behold Curtis Gordon himself in the doorway. The latter in
passing had been drawn by the sound of voices and had looked into
the library. Recognizing Natalie's caller, he frowned.

"What is this?" he inquired, coldly. "A proposal? Do I
interrupt?"

"You do," said Dan; then, after a pause, "I'll finish it when you
leave."

Gordon entered, and spoke to his stepdaughter.

"What is this man doing in my house?"

"He is here at my invitation," she replied.

"Tell him to leave. I won't have him here."

"Why don't YOU tell me?" cried Dan. "I don't need an
interpreter."

"Young man, don't be rash. There is a limit to my patience. If
you have the indecency to come here after what you have done, and
after what your sister has said about me, I shall certainly--"

Dan broke in roughly: "I didn't come to see you, Gordon. You may
be an agreeable sight to some people, but you're no golden sunset
in my eyes. Eliza flattered you."

Natalie gave a little terrified cry, for the men were glaring at
each other savagely. Neither seemed to hear her.

"Did you read that article?"

"Read it? I wrote it!"

Gordon's face flamed suddenly with rage; he pointed to the door
with trembling fingers, and shouted:

"Get out! I'll not have you here. I discharged you once. Get
out!" His utterance was rapid and thick.

Dan smiled mirthlessly, dangerously. In a soft voice he said:

"I haven't finished proposing. I expect to be accepted. You'll
pardon me, I know."

"Will you go, you--"

Dan turned to the girl, who, after that first outcry, had stood
as if spellbound, her face pale, her eyes shining.

"Natalie dear," he said, earnestly, "you can't live in the same
house with this beast. He's a cheat and a scoundrel. He's done
his best to spoil your life, and he'll succeed if you stay, so
come with me now. Eliza loves you and wants you, and I'll never
cease loving you with all my heart. Marry me, and we'll go--"

Gordon uttered an inarticulate sound and came forward with his
hands working hungrily.

"Don't interrupt!" warned Dan, over his shoulder, and his white
teeth gleamed in sudden contrast with his tan. "No man could love
you as I do, dear--" Gordon's clutch fell upon him and tightened.
Dan stiffened, and his words ceased. Then the touch upon his
flesh became unbearable. Whirling, he wrenched himself free. He
was like a wild animal now; body and spirit had leaped into
rebellion at contact with Gordon. His long resentment burst its
bounds; his lean muscles quivered. His frame trembled as if it
restrained some tremendous pressure from within.

"Don't do that!" he cried, hoarsely, and brushed the sleeve where
his enemy's fingers had rested, as if it had been soiled.

Gordon snarled, and stretched out his hand a second time; but the
younger man raised his fist and struck. Once, twice, again and
again he flung his bony knuckles into that purple, distorted
face, which he loathed as a thing unclean. He battered down the
big man's guard: right and left he rained blows, stepping forward
as his victim fell back. Gordon reeled, he pawed wildly, he swung
his arms, but they encountered nothing. Yet he was a heavy man,
and, although half stunned by the sudden onslaught, he managed to
retain his feet until he brought up against the heavy mahogany
reading-table in the center of the room. His retreat ended there;
another blow and his knees buckled, his arms sagged. Then Dan
summoned all his strength and swung. Gordon groaned, lurched
forward, and sprawled upon the warm red velvet carpet, face down,
with his limbs twisted under him.

His vanquisher stood over him for an instant, then turned upon
Natalie a face that was now keen and cruel and predatory.

"Come! We'll be married to-day," he said; and, crossing swiftly,
he took her two hands in his. His voice was harsh and imperative.
"He's down and out, so don't be frightened. Now hurry! I've had
enough of this damned nonsense."

"I--I'm not frightened," she said, dazedly. "But--I--" Her eyes
roved past him as if in quest of something.

"Here! This'll do for a wrap." Dan whipped his fur overcoat from
a chair and flung it about her. "My hat, too!" He crushed his
gray Stetson over her dark hair and, slipping his arm about her
shoulders, urged her toward the hall.

"Mother! She'll never--"

"We'll call on her together. I'll do the talking for both of us."
He jerked the front door open with a force that threatened to
wrench it from its hinges and thrust his companion out into the
bracing cold. Then, as Gordon's Japanese butler came running from
the rear of the house, he turned.

"Hey, you!" he cried, sharply. "The boss has gone on a little
visit. Don't stumble over him. And tell Mrs. Gordon that Mr. and
Mrs. Appleton will call on her in a few days--Mr. and Mrs. Dan
Appleton, of Omar!"

It was but a few steps to the pier; Dan felt that he was treading
on air, for the fierce, unreasoning joy of possession was surging
through his veins. His old indecision and doubt was gone, and the
men he met recoiled before his hostile glance, staring after him
in bewilderment.

But as he lifted Natalie down into the launch he felt her shaking
violently, and of a sudden his selfish exultation gave way to a
tender solicitude.

"There, there!" he said, gently. "Don't cry, honey. It's all
right. It's all right!"

She raised her face to his, and his head swam, for he saw that
she was radiant.

"I'm not crying; I'm laughing. I--I'm mad--insane with
happiness."

He crushed her to him, he buried his face in her neck, mumbling
her name over and over: and neither of them knew that he was
rapturously kissing the coonskin collar of his own greatcoat. The
launchman, motor crank in hand, paused, staring; he was still
open-mouthed when Dan, catching sight of him, shouted:

"What's the matter, idiot? Is your back broken?"

"Yes--No, sir!" The fellow spun the fly-wheel vigorously; the
little craft began to vibrate and quiver and then swung out from
shore.

A moment later and the engineman yelled. He came stumbling
forward and seized the steering-wheel as the boat grazed a buoy.

"That's right, you steer," Dan laughed, relaxing his hold. To
Natalie he said, "There's a sky-pilot in Omar," and pressed her
to him.

"It's a long way to Omar," she answered, then hid her face
against his breast and said, meekly, "There's one in Cortez, too,
and he's much nearer."




XXII

HOW THE HAZARD WAS PLAYED


Eliza's greeting to the runaways was as warm as their hearts
could wish. She divined the truth before they could speak, and
took Natalie in her arms with a glad cry of welcome. The two
girls kissed each other, wept, laughed, wept a little more,
kissed again, and then the story came out.

Dan was plainly swollen with pride.

"I walloped him, Sis!" he told her. "I got even for the whole
family, and I believe his eyes are closed even to the beauties of
nature. He won't be able to read the wedding-notice."

Eliza hugged his arm and looked at him adoringly.

"It must have been perfectly splendid!"

Natalie nodded. "I was asleep," she said, "but Dan shocked me
wide awake. Can you imagine it? I didn't know my own feelings
until he went for--that brute. Then I knew all at once that I had
loved him all the time. Isn't it funny? It came over me--so
suddenly! I--I can't realize that he's mine." She turned her eyes
upon him with an expression that made his chest swell proudly.

"Gee!" he exclaimed. "If I'd known how she felt I'd have pitched
into the first fellow I met. A man's an awful fool till he gets
married."

There followed a recital of the day's incidents, zestful, full of
happy digressions, endless; for the couple, after the manner of
lovers, took it for granted that Eliza was caught up into the
seventh heaven along with them. Dan was drunk with delight, and
his bride seemed dizzied by the change which had overtaken her.
She looked upon it as miraculous, almost unbelievable, and under
the spell of her happiness her real self asserted itself. Those
cares and humiliations which had reacted to make her cold and
self-contained disappeared, giving place to an impetuous
girlishness that distracted her newly made husband and delighted
Eliza. The last lingering doubts that Dan's sister had cherished
were cleared away.

It was not until the bride had been banished to prepare for
dinner that Eliza thought to ask her brother:

"Have you told Mr. O'Neil?"

The triumph faded suddenly out of his face.

"Gee, no! I haven't told anybody."

They stared at each other, reading the thoughts they had no need
to voice. "Well, I've done it! It's too late now," said Dan,
defiantly.

"Maybe he'll fire us again. I would if I were he. You must tell
him this very minute."

"I--suppose so," he agreed, reluctantly, and picked up his hat.
"And yet--I--I wonder if I'd better, after all. Don't you think
it would sound nicer coming from some one else?"

"Why?"

"Wouldn't it seem like crowing for me to--to--For instance, now,
if you--"

"Coward!" exclaimed the girl.

He nodded. "But, Sis, you DO have a nicer way of putting things
than I have."

"Why, I wouldn't tell him for worlds. I couldn't. Poor man! We've
brought him nothing but sorrow and bad luck."

"It's fierce!"

"Well, don't hesitate. That's what Gordon did, and he got
licked."

Dan scowled and set his features in a brave show of moral
courage. "She's mine, and he can't take her away," he vowed, "so
--I don't care what happens. But I'd just as soon slap a baby in
the face." He left the house like a man under sentence.

When he returned, a half-hour later, Eliza was awaiting him on
the porch. She had been standing there with chattering teeth and
limbs shaking from the cold while the minutes dragged.

"What did he say?" she asked, breathlessly.

"It went off finely. Thank Heaven, he was out at the front, so I
could break it to him over the 'phone!"

"Did he--curse you?"

"No; I opened right up by saying I had bad news for him--"

"Oh, Dan!"

"Yes! I dare say I wasn't very tactful, now that I think it over,
but, you see, I was rattled. I spilled out the whole story at
once. 'Bad news?' said he. 'My dear boy, I'm delighted. God bless
you both.' Then he made me tell him how it all happened, and
listened without a word. I thought I'd faint. He pulled some gag
about Daniel and the lion; then his voice got far away and the
blamed wire began to buzz, so I hung up and beat it back here.
I'm glad it's over."

"He'll probably send you a solid-silver dinner-set or raise your
pay. That's the kind of man he is." Eliza's voice broke. "Oh,
Danny," she cried, "he's the dearest, sweetest thing--" She
turned away, and he kissed her sympathetically before going
inside to the waiting Natalie.

Instead of following, Eliza remained on the porch, gazing down at
the lights of the little city. An engine with its row of empty
flats rolled into the yard, panting from its exertions; the notes
of a piano came to her faintly from the street below. The lights
of an incoming steamer showed far down the sound. O'Neil had made
all this, she reflected: the busy town, the hopeful thousands who
came and went daily owed their prosperity to him. He had made the
wilderness fruitful, but what of his own life? She suspected that
it was as bleak and barren as the mountain slopes above Omar. He,
too, looked down upon this thriving intimate little community,
but from a distance. Beneath his unfailing cheerfulness she felt
sure there lurked a hunger which the mere affection of his 'boys'
could never satisfy. And now the thought that Dan had come
between him and his heart's desire filled her with pity. He
seemed suddenly a very lonely figure of a man, despite his
material success. When his enemies were doing, had already done,
so much to defeat him, it seemed unfair that his trusted friend
should step between him and the fulfilment of his dearest
ambition--that ambition common to all men, failure in which
brings a sense of failure to a man's whole life, no matter what
other ends are achieved. Of course, he would smile and swallow
his bitterness--that was his nature--but she would know the
truth.

"Poor Omar Khayyam," she thought, wistfully, "I wish there were
love enough in the world for you. I wish there were two Natalies,
or that--" Then she shook the dream from her mind and went into
the house, for the night was cold and she was shaking wretchedly.

O'Neil behaved more handsomely even than Eliza had anticipated.
He hurried into town on the following morning, and his
congratulations were so sincere, his manner so hearty that Dan
forgot his embarrassment and took a shameless delight in
advertising his happiness. Nor did Murray stop with mere words:
he summoned all his lieutenants, and Omar rang that night with a
celebration such as it had never before known. The company chef
had been busy all day, the commissary had been ransacked, and the
wedding-supper was of a nature to interfere with office duties
for many days thereafter. Tom Slater made a congratulatory
speech--in reality, a mournful adjuration to avoid the pitfalls
of matrimonial inharmony--and openly confessed that his digestion
was now impaired beyond relief. Others followed him; there was
music, laughter, a riotous popping of corks; and over it all
O'Neil presided with grace and mellowness. Then, after the two
young people had been made thoroughly to feel his good will, he
went back to the front, and Omar saw him but seldom in the weeks
that followed.

To romantic Eliza, this self-sought seclusion had but one
meaning--the man was broken-hearted. She did not consider that
there might be other reasons for his constant presence at the
glaciers.

Of course, since the unwelcome publication of the North Pass &
Yukon story O'Neil had been in close touch with Illis, and by
dint of strong argument had convinced the Englishman of his own
innocence in the affair. A vigorous investigation might have
proved disastrous, but, fortunately, Curtis Gordon lacked leisure
in which to follow the matter up. The truth was that after his
public exposure at Eliza's hands he was far too busy mending his
own fences to spare time for attempts upon his rival.
Consequently, the story was allowed to die out, and O'Neil was
finally relieved to learn that its effect had been killed.
Precisely how Illis had effected this he did not know, nor did he
care to inquire. Illis had been forced into an iniquitous
bargain; and, since he had taken the first chance to free himself
from it, the question of abstract right or wrong was not a
subject for squeamish consideration.

It was at about this time that the sanguinary affray at Beaver
Canon began to bear fruit. One day a keen-faced, quiet stranger
presented a card at Murray's office, with the name:

HENRY T. BLAINE.

Beneath was the address of the Heidlemann building in New York,
but otherwise the card told nothing. Something in Mr. Blaine's
bearing, however, led Murray to treat him with more than ordinary
consideration.

"I should like to go over your work," the stranger announced; and
O'Neil himself acted as guide. Together they inspected the huge
concrete abutments, then were lowered into the heart of the giant
caissons which protruded from the frozen stream. The Salmon lay
locked in its winter slumber now, the glaciers stood as silent
and inactive as the snow-mantled mountains that hemmed them in.
Down into the very bowels of the river the men descended, while
O'Neil described the nature of the bottom, the depth and
character of his foundations, and the measure of his progress. He
explained the character of that bar which lay above the bridge
site, and pointed out the heavy layers of railroad iron with
which his cement work was reinforced.

"I spent nearly two seasons studying this spot before I began the
bridge," he continued. "I had men here, night and day, observing
the currents and the action of the ice. Then I laid my piers
accordingly. They are armored and reinforced to withstand any
shock."

"The river is subject to quick rises, I believe?" suggested
Blaine.

"Twenty feet in a few hours."

"The volley of ice must be almost irresistible."

"Almost," Murray smiled. "Not quite. Our ice-breakers were
especially designed by Parker to withstand any weight. There's
nothing like them anywhere. In fact, there will be nothing like
this bridge when it's completed." Blaine offered no comment, but
his questions searched to the depths of the builder's knowledge.
When they were back in camp he said:

"Of course you know why I'm here?"

"Your card told me that, but I don't need the Heidlemanns now."

"We are prepared to reopen negotiations."

"Why?"

"My people are human; they have feelings. You read Gordon's lies
about us and about that fight at Beaver Canon? Well, we're used
to abuse, and opposition of a kind we respect; but that man
stirred public opinion to such a point that there's no further
use of heeding it. We're ready to proceed with our plans now, and
the public can go to the devil till it understands us better. We
have several men in jail at Cortez, charged with murder: it will
cost us a fortune to free the poor fellows. First the Heidlemanns
were thieves and grafters and looters of the public domain; now
they have become assassins! If this route to the interior proves
feasible, well and good; if not, we'll resume work at Cortez next
spring. Kyak, of course, is out of the question."

"This route depends upon the bridge."

"Exactly."

"It's a two years' job."

"You offered to complete it this winter, when you talked with Mr.
Herman Heidlemann."

"And--I can."

"Then we'll consider a reasonable price. But we must know
definitely where we stand by next spring. We have a great deal of
capital tied up in the interior; we can't wait."

"This delay will cost you something."

Mr. Blaine shrugged. "You made that point plain when you were in
New York. We're accustomed to pay for our mistakes."

"Will you cover this in the shape of an option?"

"That's what I'm here for. If you finish your bridge and it
stands the spring break-up, we'll be satisfied. I shall expect to
stay here and watch the work."

O'Neil agreed heartily. "You're very welcome, Mr. Blaine. I like
your brand of conversation. I build railroads; I don't run them.
Now let's get down to figures."

The closing of the option required several weeks, of course, but
the outcome was that even before mid-winter arrived O'Neil found
himself in the position he had longed to occupy. In effect the
sale was made, and on terms which netted him and his backers one
hundred per cent. profit. There was but one proviso--namely, that
the bridge should be built by spring. The Heidlemanns were
impatient, their investment up to date had been heavy, and they
frankly declared that failure to bridge the chasm on time would
convince them that the task was hopeless. In a way this was
unreasonable, but O'Neil was well aware that they could not
permit delay--or a third failure: unless his route was proved
feasible without loss of time they would abandon it for one they
knew to be certain, even though more expensive. He did not argue
that the task was of unprecedented difficulty, for he had made
his promise and was ready to stand or fall by it. It is doubtful,
however, if any other contractor would have undertaken the work
on such time; in fact, had it been a public bridge it would have
required four years in the building. Yet O'Neil cheerfully staked
his fortune on completing it in eight months.

With his option signed and the task squarely confronting him, he
realized with fresh force its bigness and the weight of
responsibility that rested upon his shoulders. He began the most
dramatic struggle of his career, a fight against untried
conditions, a desperate race against the seasons, with ruin as
the penalty of defeat.

The channel of the Salmon at this point is fifteen hundred feet
wide and thirty feet deep. Through it boils a ten-mile current;
in other words, the waters race by with the speed of a running
man. Over this O'Neil expected to suspend a structure capable of
withstanding the mightiest strains to which any bridge had ever
been subjected. Parker's plans called for seventeen thousand
yards of cement work and nine million pounds of steel, every part
of which must be fabricated to a careful pattern. It was a man-
sized job, and O'Neil was thankful that he had prepared so
systematically for the work; that he had gathered his materials
with such extraordinary care. Supplies were arriving now in car-
loads, in train-loads, in ship-loads: from Seattle, from
Vancouver, from far Pittsburg they came in a thin continuous
stream, any interruption of which meant confusion and serious
loss of time. The movement of this vast tonnage required the
ceaseless attention of a corps of skilled men.

He had personally directed affairs up to this point, but he now
obliterated himself, and the leadership devolved upon two others
--Parker, small, smiling, gentle-mannered; Mellen, tall, angular,
saturnine. Upon them, engineer and bridge-builder, O'Neil rested
his confidence, serene in the knowledge that of all men they were
the ablest in their lines. As for himself, he had all he could do
to bring materials to them and to keep the long supply-trail
open. Long it was, indeed; for the shortest haul was from
Seattle, twelve hundred miles away, and the steel bridge members
came from Pennsylvania.

The piers at Omar groaned beneath the cargoes that were belched
from the big freighters--incidentally, "Happy Tom" Slater
likewise groaned beneath his burdens as superintendent of
transportation. At the glaciers a city as large as Omar sprang
up, a city with electric lights, power-houses, machine shops,
freight yards, and long rows of winter quarters. It lay behind
ramparts of coal, of grillage timbers and piling, of shedded
cement barrels, and tons of steel. Over it the winter snows
sifted, the north winds howled, and the arctic cold deepened.

Here, locked in a mountain fastness more than a thousand miles
from his base of supplies, O'Neil began the decisive struggle of
his life. Here, at the focusing point of his enterprise, in the
white heat of the battle, he spent his time, heedless of every
other interest or consideration. The shifts were lengthened,
wages were increased, a system of bonuses was adopted. Only
picked men were given places, but of these there were hundreds:
over them the grim-faced Mellen brooded, with the fevered eye of
a fanatic and a tongue of flame. Wherever possible the men were
sheltered, and steam-pipes were run to guard against the cold;
but most of the labor was, of necessity, performed in the open
and under trying conditions. At times the wind blew a hurricane;
always there was the bitter cold. Men toiled until their flesh
froze and their tools slipped from their fingers, then dragged
themselves stiffly into huts and warmed themselves for further
effort. They worked amid a boiling snow-smother that hid them
from view, while gravel and fine ice cut their faces like knives;
or again, on still, sharp days, when the touch of metal was like
the bite of fangs and echoes filled the valley to the brim with
an empty clanging. But they were no ordinary fellows--no chaff,
to drift with the wind: they were men toughened by exposure to
the breath of the north, men winnowed out from many thousands of
their kind. Nor were they driven: they were led. Mellen was among
them constantly; so was the soft-voiced smiling Parker, not to
mention O'Neil with his cheery laugh and his words of praise. Yet
often it was hard to keep the work moving at all; for steam
condensed in the cylinders, valves froze unless constantly
operated, pipes were kept open only by the use of hot cloths:
then, too, the snow crept upward steadily, stealthily, until it
lay in heavy drifts which nearly hid the little town and changed
the streets to miniature canons.

Out of this snow-smothered, frost-bound valley there was but one
trail. The army lay encamped in a cul de sac; all that connected
it with the outside world were two slender threads of steel. To
keep them clear of snow was in itself a giant's task; for as yet
there were no snow-sheds, and in many places the construction-
trains passed through deep cuts between solid walls of white.
Every wind filled these level and threatened to seal the place
fast; but furiously the "rotaries" attacked the choking mass,
slowly it was whirled aside, and onward flowed that steady stream
of supplies. No army of investment was ever in such constant
peril of being cut off. For every man engaged in the attack there
was another behind him fighting back the allied forces which
swept down from either hand.

Only those who know that far land in her sterner moods can form
any conception of the stupefying effect of continuous, unbroken
cold. There is a point beyond which the power of reaction ceases:
where the human mind and body recoils uncontrollably from
exposure, and where the most robust effort results in a
spiritless inactivity. It is then that efficiency is cut in half,
then cut again. And of all the terrors of the Arctic there is
none so compelling as the wind. It is a monstrous, deathly thing,
a creature that has life and preys upon the agony of men. There
are regions sheltered from it, of course; but in the gutters
which penetrate the mountain ranges it lurks with constant
menace, and of all the coast from Sitka westward the valley of
the Salmon is the most evil.

In the throat of this mighty-mouthed funnel, joining the still,
abysmal cold of the interior with the widely varying temperatures
of the open sea, O'Neil's band was camped, and there the great
hazard was played. Under such conditions it was fortunate indeed
that he had field-marshals like Parker and Mellen, for no single
man could have triumphed. Parker was cautious, brilliant, far-
sighted; he reduced the battle to paper, he blue-printed it; with
sliding-rule he analyzed it into inches and pounds and stresses
and strains: Mellen was like a grim Hannibal, tireless, cunning,
cold, and he wove steel in his fingers as a woman weaves her
thread.

It was a remarkable alliance, a triumvirate of its kind
unsurpassed. As the weeks crept into months it worked an
engineering marvel.




XXIII

A NEW CRISIS


With the completion of the railroad to the glacier crossing there
came to it a certain amount of travel, consisting mainly of
prospectors bound to and from the interior. The Cortez winter
trail was open, and over it passed most of the traffic from the
northward mining-camps, but now and then a frost-rimed stranger
emerged from the canon above O'Neil's terminus with tales of the
gold country, or a venturesome sledge party snow-shoed its way
inland from the end of the track. Murray made a point of hauling
these trailers on his construction-trains and of feeding them in
his camps as freely as he did his own men. In time the wavering
line of sled-tracks became fairly well broken, and scarcely a
week passed without bringing several "mushers."

One day, as O'Neil was picking his way through the outskirts of
the camp, he encountered one of his night foremen, and was
surprised to see that the fellow was leading a trail-dog by a
chain. Now these malamutes are as much a part of the northland as
the winter snows, and they are a common sight in every community;
but the man's patent embarrassment challenged Murray's attention:
he acted as if he had been detected in a theft or a breach of
duty.

"Hello, Walsh. Been buying some live stock?" O'Neil inquired.

"Yes, sir. I picked up this dog cheap."

"Harness too, eh?" Murray noted that Walsh's arms were full of
gear--enough, indeed, for a full team. Knowing that the foreman
owned no dogs, he asked, half banteringly:

"You're not getting ready for a trip, I hope?"

"No, sir. Not exactly, sir. The dog was cheap, so I--I just
bought him."

As a matter of fact, dogs were not cheap, and Walsh should have
been in bed at this hour. Murray walked on wondering what the
fellow could be up to.

Later he came upon a laborer dickering with a Kyak Indian over
the price of a fur robe, and in front of a bunk-house he found
other members of the night crew talking earnestly with two lately
arrived strangers. They fell silent as he approached, and
responded to his greeting with a peculiar nervous eagerness,
staring after him curiously as he passed on.

He expected Dr. Gray out from Omar, but as he neared the track he
met Mellen. The bridge superintendent engaged him briefly upon
some detail, then said:

"I don't know what's the matter with the men this morning.
They're loafing."

"Loafing? Nonsense! You expect too much."

Mellen shook his head. "The minute my back is turned they begin
to gossip. I've had to call them down."

"Perhaps they want a holiday."

"They're not that kind. There's something in the air."

While they were speaking the morning train pulled in, and O'Neil
was surprised to see at least a dozen townspeople descending from
it. They were loafers, saloon-frequenters, for the most part, and
oddly enough, they had with them dogs and sleds and all the
equipment for travel. He was prevented from making inquiry,
however, by a shout from Dr. Gray, who cried:

"Hey, Chief! Look who's here!"

O'Neil hastened forward with a greeting upon his lips, for
Stanley was helping Eliza and Natalie down from the caboose which
served as a passenger-coach.

The young women, becomingly clad in their warm winter furs, made
a picture good to look upon. Natalie had ripened wonderfully
since her marriage, and added to her rich dark beauty there was
now an elusive sweetness, a warmth and womanliness which had been
lacking before. As for Eliza, she had never appeared more
sparkling, more freshly wholesome and saucy than on this morning.

"We came to take pictures," she announced. "We want to see if the
bridge suits us."

"Don't you believe her, Mr. O'Neil," said Natalie. "Dan told us
you were working too hard, so Eliza insisted on taking you in
hand. I'm here merely in the office of chaperon and common scold.
You HAVE been overdoing. You're positively haggard."

Gray nodded. "He won't mind me. I hope you'll abuse him well. Go
at him hammer and tongs."

Ignoring Murray's smiling assertion that he was the only man in
camp who really suffered from idleness, the girls pulled him
about and examined him critically, then fell to discussing him as
if he were not present.

"He's worn to the bone," said Eliza.

"Did you ever see anything like his wrinkles? He looks like a
dried apple," Natalie declared.

"Dan says he doesn't eat."

"Probably he's too busy to chew his food. We'll make him
Fletcherize--"

"And eat soup. Then we'll mend his underclothes. I'll warrant he
doesn't dress properly."

"How much sleep does he get?" Natalie queried of the physician.

"About half as much as he needs."

"Leave him to us," said Eliza, grimly. "Now where does he live?
We'll start in there."

O'Neil protested faintly. "Please don't! I hate soup, and I can't
allow anybody to pry into my wardrobe. It won't stand
inspection."

Miss Appleton pointed to his feet and asked, crisply:

"How many pairs of socks do you wear?"

"One."

"Any holes?"

"Sometimes."

Natalie was shocked. "One pair of socks in this cold! It's time
we took a hand. Now lead us to this rabbit-hole where you live."

Reluctantly, yet with an unaccustomed warmth about his heart,
O'Neil escorted them to his headquarters. It was a sharp, clear
morning; the sky was as empty and bright as an upturned saucepan;
against it the soaring mountain peaks stood out as if carved from
new ivory. The glaciers to right and left were mute and
motionless in the grip of that force which alone had power to
check them; the turbulent river was hidden beneath a case-
hardened armor; the lake, with its weird flotilla of revolving
bergs, was matted with a broad expanse of white, across which
meandered dim sled and snow-shoe trails. Underfoot the paths gave
out a crisp complaint, the sunlight slanting up the valley held
no warmth whatever, and their breath hung about their heads like
vapor, crystallizing upon the fur of their caps and hoods.

O'Neil's living-quarters consisted of a good-sized room adjoining
the office-building. Pausing at the door, he told his visitors:

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but your zeal is utterly misplaced.
I live like a pasha, in the midst of debilitating luxuries, as
you will see for yourselves." He waved them proudly inside.

The room was bare, damp, and chill; it was furnished plentifully,
but it was in characteristically masculine disorder. The bed was
tumbled, the stove was half filled with cold ashes, the water
pitcher on the washstand had frozen. In one corner was a heap of
damp clothing, now stiff with frost.

"Of course, it's a little upset," he apologized. "I wasn't
expecting callers, you know."

"When was it made up last?" Eliza inquired, a little weakly.

"Yesterday, of course."

"Are you sure?"

"Now, see here," he said, firmly; "I haven't time to make beds,
and everybody else is busier than I am. I'm not in here enough to
make it worth while--I go to bed late, and I tumble out before
dawn."

The girls exchanged meaning glances. Eliza began to lay off her
furs.

"Not bad, is it?" he said, hopefully.

Natalie picked up the discarded clothing, which crackled stiffly
under her touch and parted from the bare boards with a tearing
sound.

"Frozen! The idea!" said she.

Eliza poked among the other garments which hung against the wall
and found them also rigid. The nail-heads behind them were coated
with ice. Turning to the table, with its litter of papers and the
various unclassified accumulation of a bachelor's house, she
said:

"I suppose we'll have to leave this as it is."

"Just leave everything. I'll get a man to clean up while you take
pictures of the bridge." As Natalie began preparing for action he
queried, in surprise, "Don't you like my little home?"

"It's awful," the bride answered, feelingly.

"A perfect bear's den," Eliza agreed. "It will take us all day."

"It's just the way I like it," he told them; but they resolutely
banished him and locked the door in his face.

"Hey! I don't want my things all mussed up," he called, pounding
for re-admittance; "I know right where everything is, and--" The
door opened, out came an armful of papers, a shower of burnt
matches, and a litter of trash from his work-table. He groaned.
Eliza showed her countenance for a moment to say:

"Now, run away, little boy. You're going to have your face
washed, no matter how you cry. When we've finished in here we'll
attend to you." The door slammed once more, and he went away
shaking his head.

At lunch-time they grudgingly admitted him, and, although they
protested that they were not half through, he was naively
astonished at the change they had brought to pass. For the first
time in many days the place was thoroughly warm and dry; it
likewise displayed an orderliness and comfort to which it had
been a stranger. From some obscure source the girls had gathered
pictures for the bare walls; they had hung figured curtains at
the windows; there were fresh white covers for bed, bureau, and
washstand. His clothes had been rearranged, and posted in
conspicuous places were written directions telling him of their
whereabouts. One of the cards bore these words: "Your soup! Take
one in cup of hot brandy and water before retiring." Beneath were
a bottle and a box of bouillon tablets. A shining tea-kettle was
humming on the stove.

"This is splendid," he agreed, when they had completed a tour of
inspection. "But where are my blue-prints?"

"In the drafting-room, where they belong. This room is for rest
and sleep. We want to see it in this condition when we come
back."

"Where did you find the fur rug?" He indicated a thick bearskin
beside the bed.

"We stole it from Mr. Parker," they confessed, shamelessly. "He
had two."

Eliza continued complacently: "We nearly came to blows with the
chef when we kidnapped his best boy. We've ordered him to keep
this place warm and look after your clothes and clean up every
morning. He's to be your valet and take care of you."

"But--we're dreadfully short-handed in the mess-house," O'Neil
protested.

"We've given the chef your bill of fare, and your man Ben will
see that you eat it."

"I won't stand for soup. It--"

"Hush! Do you want us to come again?" Natalie demanded.

"Yes! Again and again!" He nodded vigorously. "I dare say I was
getting careless. I pay more attention to the men's quarters than
to my own. Do you know--this is the first hint of home I've had
since I was a boy? And--it's mighty agreeable." He stared
wistfully at the feminine touches on all sides.

The bride settled herself with needle and thread, saying:

"Now take Eliza to the bridge while the light is good; she wants
to snap-shoot it. I'm going to sew on buttons and enjoy myself."

O'Neil read agreement in Eliza's eyes, and obeyed. As they neared
the river-bank the girl exclaimed in surprise; for up out of the
frozen Salmon two giant towers of concrete thrust themselves, on
each bank were massive abutments, and connecting them were the
beginnings of a complicated "false-work" structure by means of
which the steel was to be laid in place. It consisted of rows
upon rows of piling, laced together with an intricate pattern of
squared timbers. Tracks were being laid upon it, and along the
rails ran a towering movable crane, or "traveler," somewhat like
a tremendous cradle. This too was nearing completion. Pile-
drivers were piercing the ice with long slender needles of
spruce; across the whole river was weaving a gigantic fretwork of
wood which appeared to be geometrically regular in design. The
air was noisy with the cries of men, and a rhythmic thudding,
through which came the rattle of winches and the hiss of steam.
Over the whole vast structure swarmed an army of human ants,
feeble pygmy figures that crept slowly here and there, regardless
of their dizzy height.

"Isn't it beautiful?" said the builder, gazing at the scene with
kindling eyes. "We're breaking records every day in spite of the
weather. Those fellows are heroes. I feel guilty and mean when I
see them risking life and limb while I just walk about and look
on."

"Will it--really stand the break-up?" asked the girl. "When that
ice goes out it will be as if the solid earth were sliding down
the channel. It frightens me to think of it."

"We've built solid rock; in fact, those piers are stronger than
rock, for they're laced with veins of steel and anchored beneath
the river-bed."

But Eliza doubted. "I've seen rivers break, and it's frightful;
but of course I've never seen anything to compare with the
Salmon. Suppose--just suppose there should be some weak spot--"

O'Neil settled his shoulders a little under his coat. "It would
nearly kill Mellen--and Parker, too, for that matter."

"And you?"

He hesitated. "It means a great deal to me. Sometimes I think I
could pull myself together and begin again, but--I'm getting old,
and I'm not sure I'd care to try." After a pause he added a
little stiffly, as if not quite sure of the effect of his words:
"That's the penalty of being alone in life, I suppose. We men are
grand-stand players: we need an audience, some one person who
really cares whether we succeed or fail. Your brother, for
instance, has won more in the building of the S. R. & N. than I
can ever hope to win."

Eliza felt a trifle conscious, too, and she did not look at him
when she said: "Poor, lonely old Omar Khayyam! You deserve all
Dan has. I think I understand why you haven't been to see us."

"I've been too busy; this thing has kept me here every hour. It's
my child, and one can't neglect his own child, you know--even if
it isn't a real one." He laughed apologetically. "See! there's
where we took the skiff that day we ran Jackson Glacier. He's
harmless enough now. You annoyed me dreadfully that morning,
Eliza, and--I've never quite understood why you were so
reckless."

"I wanted the sensation. Writers have to live before they can
write. I've worked the experience into my novel."

"Indeed? What is your book about?"

"Well--it's the story of a railroad-builder, of a fellow who
risked everything he had on his own judgment. It's--you!"

"Why, my dear!" cried O'Neil, turning upon her a look of almost
comic surprise. "I'm flattered, of course, but there's nothing
romantic or uncommon about me."

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not. But there ought to be a hero, and love, and--such
things--in a novel. You must have a tremendous imagination."

"Perhaps. I'm not writing a biography, you know. However, you
needn't be alarmed; it will never be accepted."

"It should be, for you write well. Your magazine articles are
bully."

Eliza smiled. "If the novel would only go as well as those
stories I'd be happy. They put Gordon on the defensive."

"I knew they would."

"Yes. I built a nice fire under him, and now he's squirming. I
think I helped you a little bit, too."

"Indeed you did--a great deal! When you came to Omar I never
thought you'd turn out to be my champion. I--" He turned as Dr.
Gray came hurrying toward them, panting in his haste.

The doctor began abruptly:

"I've been looking for you, Murray. The men are all quitting."

O'Neil started. "All quitting? What are you talking about?"

"There's a stampede--a gold stampede!"

Murray stared at the speaker as if doubting his own senses.

"There's no gold around here," he said, at last.

"Two men came in last night. They've been prospecting over in the
White River and report rich quartz. They've got samples with 'em
and say there are placer indications everywhere. They were on
their way to Omar to tell their friends, and telephoned in from
here. Somebody overheard and--it leaked. The whole camp is up in
the air. That's what brought out that gang from town this
morning."

The significance of the incidents which had troubled him earlier
in the day flashed upon O'Neil; it was plain enough now why his
men had been gossiping and buying dogs and fur robes. He
understood only too well what a general stampede would mean to
his plans, for it would take months to replace these skilled
iron-workers.

"Who are these prospectors?" he inquired, curtly.

"Nobody seems to know. Their names are Thorn and Baker. That gang
from Omar has gone on, and our people will follow in the morning.
Those who can't scrape up an outfit here are going into town to
equip. We won't have fifty men on the job by to-morrow night."

"What made Baker and Thorn stop here?"

Gray shrugged. "Tired out, perhaps. We've got to do something
quick, Murray. Thank God, we don't have to sell 'em grub or haul
'em to Omar. That will check things for a day or two. If they
ever start for the interior we're lost, but the cataract isn't
frozen over, and there's only one sled trail past it. We don't
need more than six good men to do the trick."

"We can't stop a stampede that way."

Dr. Gray's face fell into harsh lines. "I'll bend a Winchester
over the first man who tries to pass. Appleton held the place
last summer; I'll guarantee to do it now."

"No. The men have a right to quit, Stanley. We can't force them
to work. We can't build this bridge with a chain-gang."

"Humph! I can beat up these two prospectors and ship 'em in to
the hospital until things cool down."

"That won't do, either. I'll talk with them, and if their story
is right--well, I'll throw open the commissary and outfit every
one."

Eliza gasped; Gray stammered.

"You're crazy!" exclaimed the doctor.

"If it's a real stampede they'll go anyhow, so we may as well
take our medicine with a good grace. The loss of even a hundred
men would cripple us."

"The camp is seething. It's all Mellen can do to keep the day
shift at work. If you talk to 'em maybe they'll listen to you."

"Argument won't sway them. This isn't a strike; it's a gold
rush." He turned toward the town.

Eliza was speechless with dismay as she hurried along beside him;
Gray was scowling darkly and muttering anathemas; O'Neil himself
was lost in thought. The gravity of this final catastrophe left
nothing to be said.

Stanley lost little time in bringing the two miners to the
office, and there, for a half-hour, Murray talked with them. When
they perceived that he was disposed to treat them courteously
they told their story in detail and answered his questions with
apparent honesty. They willingly showed him their quartz samples
and retailed the hardships they had suffered.

Gray listened impatiently and once or twice undertook to
interpolate some question, but at a glance from his chief he
desisted. Nevertheless, his long fingers itched to lay hold of
the strangers and put an end to this tale which threatened ruin.
His anger grew when Murray dismissed them with every evidence of
a full belief in their words.

"Now that the news is out and my men are determined to quit, I
want everybody to have an equal chance," O'Neil announced, as
they rose to go. "There's bound to be a great rush and a lot of
suffering--maybe some deaths--so I'm going to call the boys
together and have you talk to them."

Thorn and Baker agreed and departed. As the door closed behind
them Gray exploded, but Murray checked him quickly, saying with
an abrupt change of manner: "Wait! Those fellows are lying!"

Seizing the telephone, he rang up Dan Appleton and swiftly made
known the situation. Stanley could hear the engineer's startled
exclamation.

"Get the cable to Cortez as quickly as you can," O'Neil was
saying. "You have friends there, haven't you? Good! He's just the
man, for he'll have Gordon's pay-roll. Find out if Joe Thorn and
Henry Baker are known, and, if so, who they are and what they've
been doing lately. Get it quick, understand? Then 'phone me." He
slammed the receiver upon its hook. "That's not Alaskan quartz,"
he said, shortly; "it came from Nevada, or I'm greatly mistaken.
Every hard-rock miner carries specimens like those in his kit."

"You think Gordon--"

"I don't know. But we've got rock-men on this job who'll
recognize ore out of any mine they ever worked in. Go find them,
then come back here and hold the line open for Dan."

"Suppose he can't locate these fellows in Cortez?"

"Then--Let's not think about that."




XXIV

GORDON'S FALL


The news of O'Neil's attitude spread quickly, and excitement grew
among the workmen. Up through the chill darkness of early evening
they came charging. They were noisy and eager, and when the gong
summoned them to supper they rushed the mess-house in boisterous
good humor. No attempt was made to call out the night crew: by
tacit consent its members were allowed to mingle freely with
their fellows and plan for the morrow's departure. Some, envious
of the crowd from Omar which had profited by an early start, were
anxious to be gone at once, but the more sober-minded argued that
the road to White River was so long that a day's advantage would
mean little in the end, and the advance party would merely serve
to break trail for those behind.

These men, be it said, were not those who had struck, earlier in
the season, at the behest of Gordon's emissary, Linn, but fellows
whose loyalty and industry were unquestioned. Their refusal to
stampede at the first news was proof of their devotion, yet any
one who has lived in a mining community knows that no loyalty of
employee to employer is strong enough to withstand for long the
feverish excitement of a gold rush. These bridge-workers were the
aristocracy of the whole force, men inured to hardship and
capable of extreme sacrifice in the course of their work; but
they were also independent Americans who believed themselves
entitled to every reward which fortune laid in their paths. For
this reason they were even harder to handle than the unskilled,
unimaginative men farther down the line.

Long before the hour when O'Neil appeared the low-roofed mess-
house was crowded.

Natalie and Eliza, knowing the importance of this crisis, refused
to go home, and begged Murray to let them attend the meeting. Mr.
Blaine, who also felt the keenest concern in the outcome, offered
to escort them, and at last with some difficulty he managed to
wedge them inside the door, where they apprehensively scanned the
gathering.

It was not an ideal place for a meeting of this size, but tables
and benches had been pushed aside, and into the space thus
cleared the men were packed. Their appearance was hardly
reassuring: it was a brawny, heavy-muscled army with which O'Neil
had to deal--an army of loud-voiced toilers whose ways were
violent and whose passions were quick. Nevertheless, the two
girls were treated with the greatest respect, and when O'Neil
stepped to a bench and raised himself above their heads his
welcome was not unduly boisterous. Outside, the night was clear
and cold; inside the cramped quarters the air was hot and close
and fetid.

Murray had no skill as a public speaker in the ordinary sense; he
attempted no oratorical tricks, and addressed his workmen in a
matter-of-fact tone.

"Boys," he began, "there has been a gold strike at the head of
the White River, and you want to go. I don't blame you; I'd like
to go myself, if there's any chance to make money."

"You're all right, boss!" shouted some one; and a general laugh
attested the crowd's relief at this acceptance of the inevitable.
They had expected argument, despite the contrary assurances they
had received.

"Now we all want an even break. We want to know all there is to
know, so that a few fellows won't have the advantage of the rest.
The strike is three hundred miles away; it's winter, and--you
know what that means. I talked with Baker and Thorn this
afternoon. I want them to tell you just what they told me. That's
why I called this meeting. If you decide to go you won't have to
waste time going to Omar after your outfits, for I'll sell you
what you want from my supplies. And I'll sell at cost."

There was a yell of approval, a cheer for the speaker; then came
calls for Baker and Thorn.

The two miners were thrust forward, and the embarrassed Thorn,
who had acted as spokesman, was boosted to a table. Under
Murray's encouragement he stammered out the story of his good
fortune, the tale running straight enough to fan excitement into
a blaze. There was no disposition to doubt, for news of this sort
is only too sure of credence.

When the speaker had finished, O'Neil inquired:

"Are you an experienced quartz-miner? Do you know ore when you
see it?"

"Sure! I worked in the Jumbo, at Goldfield, Nevada, up to last
year. So did Baker."

"When did you go into the White River country?"

"August."

"How did you go in?"

"We packed in. When our grub ran out, we killed our horses and
cached the meat for dog-feed."

"Is there any other dog-feed there?"

"No, sir."

"Any people?"

"Not a soul. The country is open to the first comers. It's a
fine-looking country, too: we seen quartz indications
everywhere. I reckon this speaks for itself." Thorn significantly
held up his ore samples. "We've made our locations. You fellows
is welcome to the rest. First come, first served."

There was an eager scramble for the specimens on the part of
those nearest the speaker. After a moment Murray asked them:

"Did you fellows ever see any rock like that?"

One of his workmen answered:

"_I_ have."

"Where?"

"In the Jumbo, at Goldfield. I 'high-graded' there in the early
days."

There was a laugh at this. Thorn flushed angrily. "Well," he
rejoined, "we've got the same formation over there in the White
River. It's just like Goldfield. It'll be the same kind of a
camp, too, when the news gets out."

O'Neil broke in smoothly, to say:

"Most of our fellows have no dogs. It will take them three weeks
to cover the trail. They'll have to spend three weeks in there,
then three weeks more coming out--over two months altogether.
They can't haul enough grub to do them." He turned to his
employees and said gravely: "You'd better think it over, boys.
Those who have teams can make it but the rest of you will get
left. Do you think the chance is worth all that work and
suffering?"

The bridge-workers shifted uncomfortably on their feet. Then a
voice exclaimed:

"Don't worry, boss. We'll make it somehow."

"Thorn says there's nobody over there," Murray continued; "but
that seems strange, for I happen to know of half a dozen outfits
at the head of the White River. Jack Dalton has had a gang
working there for four years."

Dalton was a famous character in the north--one of the most
intrepid of the early pioneers--and the mention of his name
brought a hush. A large part of the audience realized the truth
of O'Neil's last statement, yet resented having it thrust upon
them. Thorn and Baker were scowling. Gray had just entered the
room and was signaling to his chief, and O'Neil realized that he
must score a triumph quickly if he wished to hold the attention
of his men. He resumed gravely:

"If this strike was genuine I wouldn't argue, but--it isn't." A
confusion of startled protests rose; the two miners burst out
indignantly; but O'Neil, raising his voice for the first time,
managed to make himself heard. "Those jewelry samples came from
Nevada," he cried. "I recognized them myself this afternoon, and
here's another fellow who can't be fooled. Thorn told you he used
to work in Goldfield. You can draw your own conclusions."

The temper of the crowd changed instantly: jeers, groans, hisses
arose; the men were on their feet now, and growing noisier every
moment; Baker and Thorn were glaring balefully at their accuser.
But Gray succeeded in shouldering his way forward, and whispered
to O'Neil, who turned suddenly and faced the men again. "Just a
minute!" he shouted. "You heard Thorn say he and Baker went
prospecting in August. Well, we've just had Cortez on the cable
and learn that they were working for Gordon until two weeks ago."
A sudden silence fell. Murray smiled down at the two strangers.
"What do you say to that?"

Thorn flew into a purple rage: "It's a damned lie! He's afraid
you'll quit work, fellows." Viciously he flung himself toward the
door, only to feel the grasp of the muscular physician upon his
arm.

"Listen to this message from the cashier of the Cortez Home
Bank!" bellowed Gray, his big voice dominating the uproar.
Undisturbed by his prisoner's struggles, he read loudly:

"Joe Thorn and Henry Baker quit work fifteenth, leaving for
Fairbanks over winter trail, with five dogs--four gray and white
malamutes, black shepherd leader. Thorn medium size, thirty-five,
red hair. Baker dark, scar on cheek. WILSON, Cashier."

The doctor's features spread into a broad grin. "You've all seen
the dog-team, and here's the red hair." His fingers sunk into his
prisoner's fiery locks with a grip that threatened to leave him a
scalp for a trophy. Thorn cursed and twisted.

The crowd's allegiance had been quick to shift, but it veered
back to O'Neil with equal suddenness.

"Bunco!" yelled a hoarse voice, after a brief hush.

"Lynch 'em!" cried another; and the angry clamor burst forth
anew.

"Don't be foolish," shouted Murray; "nobody has been hurt."

"We'd have been on the trail to-morrow. Send 'em down the river
barefoot!"

"Yes! What about that gang from Omar?"

"I'm afraid they'll have to take care of themselves," O'Neil
said. "But these two men aren't altogether to blame; they're
acting under orders. Isn't that right?" he asked Thorn.

The miner hesitated, until the grip in his hair tightened; then,
evidently fearing the menace in the faces on every side, he
decided to seek protection in a complete confession.

"Yes!" he agreed, sullenly. "Gordon cooked it up. It's all a
fake."

O'Neil nodded with satisfaction. "This is the second time he's
tried to get my men away from me. The other time he failed
because Tom Slater happened to come down with smallpox. Thank
God, he recovered!"

A ripple of laughter spread, then grew into a bellow, for the
nature of "Happy Tom's" illness had long since become a source of
general merriment, and O'Neil's timely reference served to divert
the crowd. It also destroyed most of its resentment.

"You fellows don't seem able to protect yourselves; so Doc and I
will have to do it for you. Now listen," he continued, more
gravely. "I meant it when I said I'd open the commissary and help
you out if the strike were genuine, but, nevertheless, I want you
to know just what it would have meant to me. I haven't enough
money to complete the S. R. & N., and I can't raise enough, but I
have signed an option to sell the road if the bridge is built by
next spring. It's really a two year's job, and some engineers
don't believe it can be built at all, but I know it can if you'll
help. If we fail I'm ruined; if we succeed"--he waved his hands
and smiled at them cheerfully--"maybe we'll build another
railroad somewhere. That's what this stampede meant. Now, will
you stick to me?"

The answer roared from a hundred throats: "You bet we'll stick!"

At the rear of the room, whence they had witnessed the rapid
unfolding of this drama, the two girls joined in the shout. They
were hugging each other and laughing hysterically.

"He handled them just right," said Blaine, with shining eyes;
"just right--but I was worried."

Walsh, the night foreman, raised his voice to inquire:

"Does anybody want to buy a dog-team cheap?"

"Who wants dogs now?" jeered some one.

"Give 'em to Baker and Thorn!"

O'Neil was still speaking in all earnestness.

"Boys," he said; "we have a big job on our hands. It means fast
work, long hours, and little sleep. We picked you fellows out
because we knew you were the very best bridge-workers in the
world. Now the life of the S. R. & N. lies with you, and that
bridge MUST BE BUILT on time. About these two men who tried to
stampede us: I think it's enough punishment if we laugh at them.
Don't you?" He smiled down at Thorn, who scowled, then grinned
reluctantly and nodded his head.

When general good feeling was restored Murray attempted to make
his way out; but his men seemed determined to thank him one by
one, and he was delayed through a long process of hand-shaking.
It pleased him to see that they understood from what hardships
and disappointments he had saved them, and he was doubly grateful
when Walsh rounded up his crew and announced that the night shift
would resume work at midnight.

He escaped at last, leaving the men grouped contentedly about
huge pans of smoking doughnuts and pots of coffee, which the
cook-boys had brought in. Liquor was taboo in the camp, but he
gave orders that unlimited cigars be distributed.

When he reached his quarters he was completely fagged, for the
crisis, coming on top of his many responsibilities, had taken all
his vitality.

His once cheerless room was warm and cozy as he entered: he found
Natalie sleeping peacefully on his bed and Eliza curled up in his
big chair waiting. She opened her eyes drowsily and smiled up at
him, saying:

"You were splendid, Omar Khayyam. I'm SO glad."

He laid a finger on his lips and glanced at the sleeping Natalie.

"Sh-h!"

"Where are you going to put us for the night?"

"Right here, of course."

"Those men will do anything for you now. I--I think I'd die, too,
if anything happened to the bridge."

He took her hand in his and smiled down into her earnest eyes a
little wearily. "Nothing will happen. Now go to bed--and thank
you for making a home for me. It really is a home now. I'll
appreciate it to-morrow."

He tiptoed out and tramped over to Parker's quarters for the
night.

The news of the White River fiasco reached Curtis Gordon in
Seattle, whither he had gone in a final attempt to bolster up the
tottering fortunes of the Cortez Home Railway. His disappointment
was keen, yet O'Neil from the beginning had met his attacks with
such uniform success that new failure did not really surprise
him; it had been a forlorn hope at best. Strangely enough, he had
begun to lose something of his assurance of late. Although he
maintained his outward appearance of confidence with all his old
skill, within himself he felt a growing uneasiness, a lurking
doubt of his abilities. Outwardly there was reason enough for
discouragement, for, while his co-operative railroad scheme had
begun brilliantly, its initial success had not been sustained. As
time passed and Eliza Appleton's exposure remained unrefuted he
had found it ever more difficult to enlist support. His own
denials and explanations seemed powerless to affect the public
mind, and as he looked back he dated his decline from the
appearance of her first article. It had done all the mischief he
had feared. Not only were his old stock-holders dissatisfied, but
wherever he went for aid he found a disconcerting lack of
response, a half-veiled skepticism that was maddening.

Yet his immediate business worries were not all, nor the worst of
his troubles: his physical powers were waning. To all appearances
he was as strong as ever, but a strange bodily lassitude hampered
him; he tired easily, and against this handicap he was forced to
struggle continually. He had never rightly valued his amazing
equipment of energy until now, when some subtle ailment had begun
to sap it. The change was less in his muscular strength than in
his nerves and his mental vigor. He found himself growing
peculiarly irritable; his failures excited spasms of blind fury
which left him weak and spent; he began to suffer the depressing
tortures of insomnia. At times the nerves in his face and neck
twitched unaccountably, and this distressing affection spread.

These symptoms had first manifested themselves after his
unmerciful drubbing at the hands of Dan Appleton: but they were
not the result of any injury; they were due to some deeper cause.
When he had recovered his senses, after the departure of Dan and
Natalie, he had fallen into a paroxysm of anger that lasted for
days; he had raged and stormed like a madman, for, to say nothing
of other humiliations, he prided himself extravagantly on his
physical prowess. While the marks of the rough treatment he had
suffered were disappearing he remained indoors, plunged in such
abysmal fury that neither Gloria nor the fawning Denny dared
approach him. The very force of his emotions had permanently
disturbed his poise, or perhaps effected some obscure lesion in
his brain. Even when he showed himself again in public he was
still abnormally choleric. His fits of passion became almost
apoplectic in their violence; they caused his associates to shun
him as a man dangerous, and in his calmer moments he thought of
them with alarm. He had tried to regain his nervous control, but
without success, and his wife's anxiety only chafed him further.
Gradually he lost his mental buoyancy, and for the first time in
his life he really yielded to pessimism. He found he could no
longer attack a problem with his accustomed certainty of
conquering it, but was haunted by a foreboding of inevitable
failure. All in all, when he reached the States on his critical
mission he knew that he was far from being his old self, and he
had deteriorated more than he knew.

A week or two of disappointments should have shown him the
futility of further effort; at any other time it would have set
him to putting his house in order for the final crash, but now it
merely enraged him. He redoubled his activity, launching a new
campaign of publicity so extravagant and ill-timed as to repel
the assistance he needed. He had lost his finesse; his nicely
adjusted financial sense had gone.

The outcome was not long delayed; it came in the form of a
newspaper despatch to the effect that his Cortez bank had
suspended payment because of a run started by the dissatisfied
employees of the railroad. Through Gordon's flamboyant
advertising his enterprises were so well known by this time that
the story was featured despite his efforts to kill it. His
frantic cables to Cortez for a denial only brought assurances
that the report was true and that conditions would not mend
unless a shipment of currency was immediately forthcoming.

Harassed by reporters, driven on by the need for a show of
action, he set out to raise the money, but the support he had
hoped for failed him when it transpired that his bank's assets
consisted mainly of real estate at boom prices and stock in his
various companies which had been inflated to the bursting-point.
Days passed, a week or more; then he was compelled to relinquish
his option on the steamship line he had partly purchased, and to
sacrifice all that had been paid in on the enterprise. This, too,
made a big story for the newspapers, for it punctured one of the
most imposing corporations in the famous "Gordon System." It
likewise threatened to involve the others in the general crash.
Hope Consolidated, indeed, still remained, and Gordon's
declaration that the value of its shares was more than sufficient
to protect his bank met with some credence until, swift upon the
heels of the other disasters, came an application for a receiver
by the stock-holders, coupled with the promise of a rigorous
investigation into his various financial manipulations. Then at
last Gordon acknowledged defeat.

Ruin had come swiftly; the diversity of his interests made his
situation the more hopeless, for so cunningly had he interlocked
one with another that to separate them promised to be an endless
task.

He still kept up a fairly successful pretense of confidence, and
publicly he promised to bring order out of chaos, but in secret
he gave way to the blackest despair. Heretofore, failure had
never affected him deeply, for he had always managed to escape
with advantage to his pocket and without serious damage to his
prestige, but out of the present difficulty he could find no way.
His office force stopped work, frightened at his bearing; the
bellboys of his hotel brought to the desk tales of such maniacal
violence that he was requested to move.

At last the citizens of Cortez, who up to this time had been like
putty in his fingers, realized their betrayal and turned against
him. Creditors attached the railway property, certain violent-
tempered men prayed openly and earnestly to their gods for his
return to Alaska in order that they might exact satisfaction in
frontier fashion. Eastern investors in Hope Consolidated appeared
in Seattle: there was talk of criminal procedure.

Bewildered as he was, half crazed with anxiety, Gordon knew that
the avalanche had not only wrecked his fortunes, but was bearing
him swiftly toward the penitentiary. Its gates yawned to welcome
him, and he felt a chilling terror such as he had never known.

One evening as Captain Johnny Brennan stood on the dock
superintending the final loading of a cargo for the S. R. & N. he
was accosted by a tall, nervous man with shifting eyes and
twitching lips. It was hard to recognize in this pitiable shaken
creature the once resplendent Gordon, who had bent the whole
northland to his ends. Some tantalizing demons inside the man's
frame were jerking at his sinews. Fear was in his roving glance;
he stammered; he plucked at the little captain's sleeve like a
frightened woman. The open-hearted Irishman was touched.

"Yes," said Johnny, after listening for a time. "I'll take you
with me, and they won't catch you, either."

Gordon chattered: "I'll pay you well, handsomely. I'm a rich man.
I have interests that demand attention, so--accept this money.
Please! Keep it all, my good fellow."

Brennan stared at the bundle Gordon had thrust into his hand,
then regarded the speaker curiously.

"Man dear," he said, "this isn't money. These are stock
certificates."

"Eh? Stock? Well, there's money in stocks, big money, if you know
how to handle them." The promoter's wandering eye shifted to the
line of stevedores trundling their trucks into the hold, then up
to the crane with its straining burden of bridge material. Every
package was stenciled with his rival's name, but he exclaimed:

"Bravo, Captain! We'll be up to the summit by Christmas. 'No
graft! No incompetence! The utmost publicity in corporate
affairs!'--that's our platform. We're destined for a glorious
success. Glorious success!"

"Go aboard and lie down," Brennan said, gently. "You need a good
sleep." Then, calling a steward, he ordered, "Show Mr. Gordon to
my cabin and give him what he wants."

He watched the tall figure stumble up the gang-plank, and shook
his head:

"'The utmost publicity,' is it? Well, it's you that's getting it
now. And to think that you're the man with the mines and the
railroads and the widow! I'm afraid you'll be in irons when she
sees you, but--that's as good a finish as you deserve, after
all."




XXV

PREPARATIONS


The building of the Salmon River bridge will not soon be
forgotten by engineers and men of science. But, while the
technical features of the undertaking are familiar to a few, the
general public knows little about how the work was actually done;
and since the building of the bridge was the pivotal point in
Murray O'Neil's career, it may be well to describe in some detail
its various phases--the steps which led up to that day when the
Salmon burst her bonds and put the result of all his planning and
labor to the final test.

Nowhere else in the history of bridge-building had such
conditions been encountered; nowhere on earth had work of this
character been attended with greater hazards; never had
circumstances created a situation of more dramatic interest. By
many the whole venture was regarded as a reckless gamble; for
more than a million dollars had been risked on the chance not
alone that O'Neil could build supports which the ice could not
demolish, but that he could build them under the most serious
difficulties in record-breaking time. Far more than the mere cost
of the structure hinged upon his success: failure would mean that
his whole investment up to that point would be wiped out, to say
nothing of the twenty-million-dollar project of a trunk-line up
the valley of the Salmon.

Had the Government permitted the Kyak coal-fields to be opened
up, the lower reaches of the S. R. & N. would have had a value,
but all activity in that region had been throttled, and the
policy of delay and indecision at headquarters promised no
relief.

Careful as had been the plans, exhaustive and painstaking as had
been the preparations, the bridge-builders met with unpreventable
delays, disappointments, and disasters; for man is but a feeble
creature whose brain tires and whose dreams are brittle. It is
with these hindrances and accidents and with their effect upon
the outcome that we have to deal.

Of course, the greatest handicap, the one ever-present obstacle,
was the cold, and this made itself most troublesome in the
sinking of the caissons and the building of the concrete piers.
It was necessary, for instance, to house in all cement work, and
to raise the temperature not only of the air surrounding it, but
of the materials themselves before they were mixed and laid. Huge
wind-breaks had to be built to protect the outside men from the
gales that scoured the river-bed, and these were forever blowing
down or suffering damage from the hurricanes. All this, however,
had been anticipated: it was but the normal condition of work in
the northland. And it was not until the middle of winter, shortly
after Eliza's and Natalie's visit to the front, that an
unexpected danger threatened, a danger more appalling than any
upon which O'Neil and his assistants had reckoned.

In laying his plans Parker had proceeded upon the assumption
that, once the cold had gripped the glaciers, they would remain
motionless until spring. All available evidence went to prove the
correctness of this supposition, but Alaska is a land of
surprises, of contrasts, of contradictions: study of its
phenomena is too recent to make practicable the laying down of
hard and fast rules. In the midst of a season of cruelly low
temperatures there came a thaw, unprecedented, inexplicable. A
tremendous warm breath from the Pacific rolled northward, bathing
the frozen plains and mountain ranges. Blizzards turned to rains
and weeping fogs, the dry and shifting snow-fields melted, water
ran in the courses. Winter loosed its hold; its mantle slipped.
Nothing like this had ever been known or imagined. It was
impossible! It was as if the unhallowed region were bent upon
living up to its evil reputation. In a short time the loosened
waters that trickled through the sleeping ice-fields greased the
foundations upon which they lay. Jackson Glacier roused itself,
then began to glide forward like a ship upon its ways. First
there came the usual premonitory explosions--the sound of
subterranean blasts as the ice cracked, gave way, and shifted to
the weight above; echoes filled the sodden valley with memories
of the summer months. It was as if the seasons had changed, as if
the zodiacal procession had been thrown into confusion. The
frozen surface of the Salmon was inundated; water four feet deep
in some places ran over it.

The general wonder at this occurrence changed to consternation
when it was seen that the glacier acted like a battering-ram of
stupendous size, buckling the river ice in front of it as if ice
were made of paper. That seven-foot armor was crushed, broken
into a thousand fragments, which threatened to choke the stream.
A half-mile below the bridge site the Salmon was pinched as if
between two jaws; its smooth surface was rapidly turned into an
indescribable jumble of up-ended cakes.

When a fortnight had passed O'Neil began to fear that this
movement would go on until the channel had been closed as by a
huge sliding door. In that case the rising waters would quickly
wipe out all traces of his work. Such a crumpling and shifting of
the ice had never occurred before--at least, not within fifty
years, as the alder and cottonwood growth on the east bank
showed; but nothing seemed impossible, no prank too grimly
grotesque for Nature to play in this solitude. O'Neil felt that
his own ingenuity was quite unequal to the task of combating this
peril. Set against forces so tremendous and arbitrary human
invention seemed dwarfed to a pitiable insignificance.

Day after day he watched the progress of that white palisade; day
after day he scanned the heavens for a sign of change, for out of
the sky alone could come his deliverance. Hourly tests were made
at the bridge site, lest the ice should give way before the
pressure from below and by moving up-stream destroy the intricate
pattern of piling which was being driven to support the
steelwork. But day after day the snows continued to melt and the
rain to fall. Two rivers were now boiling past the camp, one
hidden deep, the other a shallow torrent which ran upon a bed of
ice. The valley was rent by the sounds of the glacier's snail-
like progress.

Then, without apparent cause, the seasons fell into order again,
the mercury dropped, the surface-water disappeared, the country
was sheeted with a glittering crust over which men walked,
leaving no trace of footprints. Jackson became silent: once again
the wind blew cold from out of the funnel-mouth and the bridge-
builders threshed their arms to start their blood. But the
glacier face had advanced four hundred feet from its position in
August; it had narrowed the Salmon by fully one-half its width.

Fortunately, the bridge had suffered no damage as yet, and no one
foresaw the effect which these altered conditions were to have.

The actual erection of steelwork was impossible during the
coldest months; Parker had planned only to rush the piers,
abutments, and false-work to completion so that he could take
advantage of the mild spring weather preceding the break-up. The
execution of this plan was in itself an unparalleled undertaking,
making it necessary to hire double crews of picked men. Yet, as
the weeks wore into months the intricate details were wrought out
one by one, and preparations were completed for the great race.

Late in March Dan Appleton went to the front, taking with him his
wife and his sister, for whom O'Neil had thoughtfully prepared
suitable living-quarters. The girls were as hungry as Dan to have
a part in the deciding struggle, or at least to see it close at
hand, for the spirit of those engaged in the work had entered
them also. Life at Omar of late had been rather uneventful, and
they looked forward with pleasure to a renewal of those
companionable relations which had made the summer months so, full
of interest and delight. But they were disappointed. Life at the
end of the line they found to be a very grim, a very earnest, and
in some respects an extremely disagreeable affair: the feverish,
unceasing activity of their friends left no time for
companionship or recreation of any sort. More and more they, too,
came to feel the sense of haste and strain pervading the whole
army of workers, the weight of responsibility that bore upon the
commander.

Dan became almost a stranger to them, and when they saw him he
was obsessed by vital issues. Mellen was gruff and irritable:
Parker in his preoccupation ignored everything but his duties. Of
all their former comrades O'Neil alone seemed aware of their
presence. But behind his smile they saw the lurking worries; in
his eyes was an abstraction they could not penetrate, in his
bearing the fatigue of a man tried to the breaking-point.

To Eliza there was a certain joy merely in being near the man she
loved, even though she could not help being hurt by his apparent
indifference. The long weeks without sight of him had deepened
her feeling, and she had turned for relief to the writing of her
book--the natural outlet for her repressed emotions. Into its
pages she had poured all her passion, all her yearning, and she
had written with an intimate understanding of O'Neil's ambitions
and aims which later gave the story its unique success as an epic
of financial romance.

Hers was a nature which could not be content with idleness. She
took up the work that she and Natalie had begun, devoting herself
unobtrusively yet effectively to making O'Neil comfortable. It
was a labor of love, done with no expectation of reward; it
thrilled her, filling her with mingled sadness and satisfaction.
But if Murray noticed the improvement in his surroundings, which
she sometimes doubted, he evidently attributed it to a sudden
access of zeal on the part of Ben, for he made no comment.
Whether or not she wished him to see and understand she could
hardly tell. Somehow his unobservant, masculine acceptance of
things better and worse appealed to the woman in her. She slipped
into O'Neil's quarters during his absence, and slipped out again
quietly; she learned to know his ways, his peculiarities; she
found herself caressing and talking to his personal belongings as
if they could hear and understand. She conducted long
conversations with the objects on his bureau. One morning Ben
entered unexpectedly to surprise her in the act of kissing
Murray's shaving-mirror as if it still preserved the image of its
owner's face, after which she banished the cook-boy utterly and
performed his duties with her own hands.

Of course, discovery was inevitable. At last O'Neil stumbled in
upon her in the midst of her task, and, questioning her, read the
truth from her blushes and her incoherent attempts at
explanation.

"So! You're the one who has been doing this!" he exclaimed, in
frank astonishment. "And I've been tipping Benny for his
thoughtfulness all this time! The rascal has made enough to
retire rich."

"He seemed not to understand his duties very well, so I took
charge. But you had no business to catch me!" The flush died from
Eliza's cheeks, and she faced him with thoroughly feminine
indignation.

"I can't let you go on with this," said Murray. "_I_ ought to be
doing something for YOU."

But the girl flared up defiantly. "I love it. I'll do it, no
matter if you lock me out. I'm not on the pay-roll, you know, so
you have no authority over me--none at all!"

His eyes roved around the room, and for the first time he fully
took in the changes her hands had wrought.

"My dear child, it's very nice to be spoiled this way and have
everything neat and clean, but--it embarrasses me dreadfully to
have you saddled with the sordid work--"

"It isn't sordid, and--what brought you home at this hour,
anyhow?" she demanded.

O'Neil's smile gave place to an anxious frown.

"The ice is rising, and--"

"Rising?"

"Yes. Our old enemy Jackson Glacier is causing us trouble again.
That jam of broken ice in front of it is backing up the water--
there's more running now, and the ice is lifting. It's lifting
the false-work with it, pulling the piles out of the river-bottom
like splinters out of a sore hand."

"That's pretty bad, isn't it?"

"It certainly is. It threatens to throw everything out of
alignment and prevent us from laying the steel if we don't check
it."

"Check it!" cried Eliza. "How can you check a thing like that?"

"Easily enough, if we can spare the hands--by cutting away the
ice where it is frozen to the piles, so that it won't lift them
with it. The trouble is to get men enough--you see, the ice is
nine feet thick now. I've set every man to work with axes and
chisels and steam-points, and I came up to telephone Slater for
more help. We'll have to work fast, night and day."

"There's nobody left in Omar," Eliza said, quickly.

"I know. Tom's going to gather all he can at Cortez and Hope and
rush them out here. Our task is to keep the ice cut away until
help arrives."

"I suppose it's too late in the season to repair any serious
damage?"

"Exactly. If you care to go back with me you can see what we're
doing." As they set off for the bridge site Murray looked down at
Eliza, striding man-like beside him, with something of
affectionate appreciation in his eyes, and said humbly: "It was
careless of me not to see what you have been doing for me all
this time. My only excuse is that I've been driven half mad with
other things. I--haven't time to think of myself."

"All housekeepers have a thankless task," laughed Eliza.

When they reached the river-bank she saw everything apparently
just as when she had last seen it. "Why, it's not as bad as I
imagined!" she exclaimed. "I thought I'd find everything going to
smash."

"Oh, there's nothing spectacular about it. There seldom is about
serious mishaps in this business. The ice has risen only an inch
or more so far, but the very slowness and sureness of it is
what's alarming. It shows that the water is backing up, and as
the flow increases the rise of the ice will quicken. If it starts
to move up or down stream, we're lost."

There was ample evidence that the menace was thoroughly
understood, for the whole day shift was toiling at the ice,
chopping it, thawing it, shoveling it away, although its
tremendous thickness made their efforts seem puerile. Everywhere
there was manifested a frantic haste, a grim, strained eagerness
that was full of ominous meaning.

All that day Eliza watched the unequal struggle, and in the
evening Dan brought her reports that were far from reassuring.
The relentless movement showed no sign of ceasing. When she
retired that night she sought ease from her anxiety in a prayer
that was half a petition for O'Neil's success and half an
exceedingly full and frank confession of her love for him.
Outside, beneath the glare of torches and hastily strung
incandescents, a weary army toiled stubbornly, digging, gouging,
chopping at the foot of the towering wall of timbers which
stretched across the Salmon. In the north the aurora borealis
played brilliantly as if to light a council of the gods.

On the following day "Happy Tom" arrived with fifty men.

"I got the last mother's son I could find," he explained, as he
warmed himself at O'Neil's stove.

"Did you go to Hope?"

"I did, and I saw the splavvus, himself."

"Gordon?"

"He's worse than we thought." Tom tapped his shining forehead
significantly. "Loft to let!"

"What--insane?"

"Nothing but echoes in his dome. The town's as empty as his
bonnet too, and the streets are full of snow. It's a sight!"

"Tell me about Mrs. Gordon." "She's quite a person," said Slater,
slowly. "She surprised me. She's there, alone with him and a
watchman. She does all the work, even to LUGGING in the wood and
coal--he's too busy to help--but she won't leave him. She told me
that Dan and Natalie wanted her to come over here, but she
couldn't bring herself to do it or to let them assist in any way.
Gordon spends all his time at his desk, promoting, writing ads
and prospectuses. He's got a grand scheme. He's found that 'Hope
Consolidated' is full of rich ore, but the trouble is in getting
it out; so he's working on a new process of extraction. It's a
wonderful process--you'd never guess what it is. He SMOKES it
out! He says all he needs is plenty of smoke. That bothered him
until he hit on the idea of burning feathers. Now he's planning
to raise ducks, because they've got so much down. Isn't that the
limit? She'll have to fit him into a padded cell sooner or
later."

"Poor devil!" said O'Neil. "I'm sorry. He had an unusual mind."

Slater sniffed. "I think it's pretty soft for him, myself. He's
made better than a stand-off--he lost his memory, but he saved
his skin. It's funny how some men can't fall: if they slip on a
banana-peel somebody shoves a cushion under 'em before they
'light. _I_ never got the best of anything. If I dropped asleep
in church my wife would divorce me and I'd go to the electric
chair. Gordon robs widows and orphans, right and left, then ends
up with a loving woman to take care of him in his old age. Why,
if I even robbed a blind puppy of a biscuit I'd leave a thumb-
print on his ear, or the dog's mother would turn out to be a
bloodhound. Anyhow, I'd spend MY declining years nestled up to a
rock-pile, with a mallet in my mit, and a low-browed gentleman
scowling at me from the top of a wall. He'd lean on his shotgun
and say, 'Hurry up, Fatty; it's getting late and there's a ton of
oakum to pick.' It just goes to show that some of us is born
behind the game and never get even, while others, like Gordon,
quit winner no matter how much they lose." Having relieved
himself of this fervid homily, "Happy Tom" unrolled a package of
gum and thrust three sticks into his mouth. "Speaking of bad
luck," he continued, "when are you going to get married, Murray?"

O'Neil started. "Why--never. It isn't the same kind of
proposition as building a bridge, you know. There's a little
matter of youth and good looks that counts considerably in the
marriage business. No woman would have an old chap like me."

Slater took a mournful inventory of his chief's person, then said
doubtfully: "You MIGHT put it over, Murray. I ain't strictly
handsome, myself, but I did."

As O'Neil slipped into his fur coat, after the fat man had
slouched out, he caught sight of himself in the glass of his
bureau and paused. He leaned forward and studied the care-worn
countenance that peered forth at him, then shook his head. He saw
that the hair was growing grayer; that the face was very plain,
and--yes, unquestionably, it was no longer youthful. Of course,
he didn't feel old, but the evidence that he was so admitted of
no disproof, and it was evidence of a sort which no woman could
disregard. He turned from the glass with a qualm of disgust at
his weakness in allowing himself to be influenced in the
slightest by Tom's suggestion.

For a week the ice rose slowly, a foot a day, and in spite of the
greatest watchfulness it took the false-work with it here and
there. But concentrated effort at the critical points saved the
structure from serious injury. Then the jam in front of Jackson
Glacier went out, at least in part, and the ice began to fall.
Down it settled, smoothly, swiftly, until it rested once more
upon the shores. It was still as firm as in midwinter, and showed
no sign of breaking; nor had it moved down-stream a hair's
breadth. O'Neil gathered his forces for the final onslaught.




XXVI

THE RACE


On April 5th the last of the steel for Span Number One reached
the front, and erection was begun. The men fell to with a vim and
an enthusiasm impossible to describe. With incredible rapidity
the heavy sections were laid in place; the riveters began their
metallic song; the towering three bent traveler ran smoothly on
its track, and under it grew a web work of metal, braced and
reinforced to withstand, in addition to ordinary strains, the
pressure of a hundred-mile-an-hour wind. To those who looked on,
the structure appeared to build itself, like some dream edifice;
it seemed a miracle that human hands could work that stubborn
metal so swiftly and with so little effort. But every piece had
been cut and fitted carefully, then checked and placed where it
was accessible.

Now that winter had broken, spring came with a rush. The snows
began to shrink and the drifts to settle. The air grew balmier
with every day; the drip from eaves was answered by the gurgling
laughter of hidden waters. Here and there the boldest
mountainsides began to show, and the tops of alder thickets
thrust themselves into sight. Where wood or metal caught the sun-
rays the snow retreated; pools of ice-water began to form at
noon.

The days were long, too, and no frozen winds charged out of the
north. As the daylight lengthened, so did the working-hours of
the toilers.

On April 18th the span was completed. In thirteen days Mellen's
crew had laid four hundred feet of the heaviest steel ever used
in a bridge of this type. But there was no halt; the material for
the second section had been assembled, meanwhile, and the
traveler began to swing it into place.

The din was unceasing; the clash of riveters, the creak and
rattle of hoists, the shouts of men mingled in a persistent, ear-
splitting clamor; and foot by foot the girders reached out toward
the second monolith which rose from the river-bed. The well-
adjusted human machine was running smoothly; every man knew his
place and the duties that went with it; the hands of each worker
were capable and skilled. But now the hillsides were growing
bare, rills gashed the sloping snow-fields, the upper gullies
began to rumble to avalanches--forerunners of the process that
would strip the earth of snow and ice and free the river in all
its fury. In six days three hundred feet more of steel had been
bolted fast to the complete section, and Span Two was in place.
But the surface of the Salmon was no longer white and pure; it
was dirty and discolored now, for the debris which had collected
during the past winter was exposing itself. The icy covering was
partially inundated also; shallow ponds formed upon it and were
rippled by the south breeze. Running waters on every side sang a
menace to the workers.

Then progress ceased abruptly. It became known that a part of the
material for the third span had gone astray in its long journey
across the continent. There had been a delay at the Pittsburg
mills, then a blockade in the Sierras; O'Neil was in Omar at the
end of the cable straining every nerve to have the shipment
rushed through. Mellen brooded over his uncompleted work: Parker
studied the dripping hills and measured the melting snows. He
still smiled; but he showed his anxiety in a constant nervous
unrest, and he could not sleep.

At length news came that Johnny Brennan had the steel aboard his
ship and had sailed. A record run was predicted, but meanwhile
the south wind brought havoc on its breath. The sun shone hotly
into the valley of the Salmon, and instead of warmth it brought a
chill to the hearts of those who watched and waited.

Twelve endless, idle days crawled by. Winter no longer gave
battle; she was routed, and in her mad retreat she threatened to
overwhelm O'Neil's fortunes.

On May 6th the needed bridge members were assembled, and the
erection of Span Three began. The original plan had been to build
this section on the cantilever principle, so as to gain
independence of the river ice, but to do so would have meant slow
work and much delay--an expenditure of time which the terms of
the option made impossible. Arrangements had been made,
therefore, to lay it on false-work as the other spans had been
laid, risking everything upon the weather.

As a matter of precaution the southern half of the span was
connected to the completed portion; but before the connection
could be fully made the remainder of the jam in front of Jackson
Glacier, which had caused so much trouble heretofore, went out
suddenly, and the river ice moved down-stream about a foot,
carrying with it the whole intricate system of supporting timbers
beneath the uncompleted span. Hasty measurements showed that the
north end of the steel then on the false-work was thirteen inches
out of line.

It was Mr. Blaine who brought the tidings of this last calamity
to Eliza Appleton. From his evident anxiety she gathered that the
matter was of graver consequence than she could well understand.

"Thirteen inches in fifteen hundred feet can't amount to much,"
she said, vaguely.

Blaine smiled in spite of himself. "You don't understand. It's as
bad as thirteen feet, for the work can't go on until everything
is in perfect alignment. That whole forest of piles must be
straightened."

"Impossible!" she gasped. "Why, there are thousands of them."

He shook his head, still smiling doubtfully. "Nothing is
impossible to Mellen and Parker. They've begun clearing away the
ice on the up-stream side and driving new anchor-piles above.
They're going to fit tackle to them and yank the whole thing up-
stream. I never heard of such a thing, but there's no time to do
anything else." He cast a worried look at the smiling sky. "I
wonder what will happen next. This is getting on my nerves."

Out on the river swift work was going on. Steam from every
available boiler was carried across the ice in feed-pipes, the
night shift had been roused from sleep, and every available man
was busied in relieving the pressure. Pile-drivers hammered long
timbers into the river-bed above the threatened point, hydraulic
jacks were put in place, and steel cables were run to drum and
pulley. The men worked sometimes knee-deep in ice-water; but they
did not walk, they ran. In an incredibly short time the
preparations were completed, a strain was put upon the tackle,
and when night came the massive false-work had been pulled back
into line and the traveler was once more swinging steel into
place. It was a magnificent feat, yet not one of those concerned
in it could feel confident that the work had not been done in
vain; for the time was growing terribly short, and, although the
ice seemed solid, it was rotting fast.

After the southern half of the span had been completed the warmth
increased rapidly, therefore the steel crew lengthened its hours.
The men worked from seven o'clock in the morning until eleven
o'clock at night.

On the 13th, without warning of any sort, Garfield Glacier began
moving forward. It had lain inactive even during the midwinter
thaw which had started its smaller brother, but that warm spell
had evidently had its effect upon the giant, for now he shook off
his lethargy and awoke. He stirred, gradually at first and
without sound, as if bent upon surprising the interlopers; then
his speed increased. As the glacier advanced it thrust the nine-
foot blanket of lake ice ahead of it, and this in turn crowded
the river ice down upon the bridge. The movement at the camp site
on the first day was only two inches, but that was sufficiently
serious.

The onset of Garfield at this time was, of course, unexpected;
for no forward motion had ever been reported prior to the spring
break-up. The action of the ice heretofore had been alarming; but
now consternation spread, a panic swept the ranks of the
builders, for this was no short-lived phenomenon, this was the
annual march of the glacier itself which promised to continue
indefinitely. A tremendous cutting-edge, nine feet in thickness,
like the blade of a carpenter's plane, was being driven against
the bridge by an irresistible force.

Once again the endless thawing and chopping and gouging of ice
began, but the more rapidly the encroaching edge was cut away the
more swiftly did it bear down. The huge mass began to rumble; it
"calved," it split, it detonated, and, having finally loosened
itself from its bed, it acquired increased momentum. As the men
with chisels and steam-points became exhausted others took their
places, but the structural gang clung to its perch above,
augmenting the din of riveters and the groaning of blocks and
tackle. Among the able-bodied men sleep now was out of the
question, for the ice gained in spite of every effort. It was too
late to remove the steel in the uncompleted span to a place of
safety, for that would have required more time than to bridge the
remaining gap.

Piling began to buckle and bend before that irresistible push;
the whole nicely balanced mass of metal was in danger of being
unseated. Mellen cursed the heavens in a black fury; Parker
smiled through white lips; O'Neil ground his teeth and spurred
his men on.

This feverish haste brought its penalty. On the evening of the
14th, when the span was more than three-quarters finished, a
lower chord section fouled as it was lifted, and two loading-
beams at the top of the traveler snapped.

On that day victory had been in sight; the driving of the last
bolt had been but a question of hours, a race with the sliding
ice. But with the hoisting apparatus out of use work halted.
Swiftly, desperately, without loss of a moment's time, repairs
began. No regrets were voiced, no effort was made to place the
blame, for that would have caused delay, and every minute
counted. Eleven hours later the broken beams were replaced, and
erection had recommenced.

But now for those above there was danger to life and limb. During
the pause the ice had gained, and no effort could relieve the
false-work of its strain. All knew that if it gave way the
workmen would be caught in a chaos of collapsing wood and steel.

From the morning of May 14th until midnight of the 16th the iron-
workers clung to their tasks. They dropped their tools and ran to
their meals; they gulped their food and fled back to their posts.
The weaker ones gave out and staggered away, cursed and taunted
by their companions. They were rough fellows, and in their deep-
throated profanity was a prayer.

The strong ones struggled on, blind with weariness, but upheld by
that desperate, unthinking courage that animates a bayonet
charge. It seemed that every moment must see the beginning of
that slow work of demolition which would send them all scurrying
to safety; but hour after hour the piling continued to hold and
the fingers of steel to reach out, foot by foot, for the concrete
pier which was their goal.

At midnight of the 16th the last rivet was driven; but the ice
had gained to such an extent that the lower chord was buckled
down-stream about eight inches, and the distance was growing
steadily. Quickly the traveler was shifted to the false-work
beyond the pier, and the men under Mellen's direction fell to
splitting out the blocking.

As the supports were chopped away the mass began to crush the
last few wedges; there was a great snapping and rending of wood;
and some one, strained to the breaking-point, shouted:

"Look out! There she goes!"

A cry of terror arose, the men fled, trampling one another in
their panic. But Mellen charged them like a wild man, firing
curses and orders at them until they rallied. The remaining
supports were removed; the fifteen hundred tons of metal settled
into place and rested securely on its foundations.

O'Neil was the last man ashore. As he walked the completed span
from Pier Three the barricade of piling beneath him was bending
and tearing; but he issued no orders to remove it, for the river
was doing that. In the general haste pile-drivers, hoists,
boilers, and various odds and ends of machinery and material had
been left where they stood. They were being inundated now; many
of them were all but submerged. There was no possibility of
saving them at present, for the men were half dead from
exhaustion.

As he lurched up the muddy, uneven street to his quarters Murray
felt his fatigue like a heavy burden, for he had been sixty hours
without sleep. He saw Slater and Appleton and the rest of his
"boys"; he saw Natalie and Eliza, but he was too tired to speak
to them, or to grasp what they said. He heard the workmen
cheering Mellen and Parker and himself. It was very foolish, he
thought, to cheer, since the river had so nearly triumphed and
the final test was yet to come.

He fell upon his bed, clothed as he was; an hour later the false-
work beneath Span Three collapsed.

Although the bridge was not yet finished, the most critical point
of its construction had been passed, for the fourth and final
portion would be built over shallow water, and no great
difficulties were to be expected even though the ice went out
before the work was finished. But Murray had made his promise and
his boast to complete the structure within a stated time, and he
was determined to live up to the very letter of his agreement
with the Trust. As to the result of the break-up, he had no fear
whatever.

For once Nature aided him: she seemed to smile as if in approval
of his steadfastness. The movement of the channel ice became
irregular, spasmodic, but it remained firm until the last span
had been put in place.

Of this dramatic struggle Eliza Appleton had watched every phase
with intensest interest; but when at last she knew that the
battle was won she experienced a peculiar revulsion of feeling.
So long as O'Neil had been working against odds, with the
prospect of ruin and failure forever imminent, she had felt an
almost painful sympathy, but now that he had conquered she felt
timid about congratulating him. He was no longer to be pitied and
helped; he had attained his goal and the fame he longed for. His
success would inevitably take him out of her life. She was very
sorry that he needed her no longer.

She did not watch the last bridge-member swung, but went to her
room, and tried to face the future. Spring was here, her book was
finished, there was the need to take up her life again.

She was surprised when Murray came to find her.

"I missed you, Eliza," he said. "The others are all down at the
river-bank. I want you to congratulate me."

She saw, with a jealous twinge, that exultation over his victory
had overcome his weariness, that his face was alight with a fire
she had never before seen. He seemed young, vigorous, and
masterful once more.

"Of course," he went on, "the credit belongs to Parker, who
worked the bridge out in each detail--he's marvelous--and to
Mellen, who actually built it, but I helped a little. Praise to
me means praise to them."

"It is all over now, isn't it?"

"Practically. Blaine has cabled New York that we've won. Strictly
speaking, we haven't as yet, for there's still the break-up to
face; but the bridge will come through it without a scratch. The
ice may go out any minute now, and after that I can rest." He
smiled at her gladly. "It will feel good to get rid of all this
responsibility, won't it? I think you've suffered under it as
much as I have."

A little wistfully she answered: "You're going to realize that
dream you told me about the day of the storm at Kyak. You have
conquered this great country--just as you dreamed."

He acquiesced eagerly, boyishly. "Yes. Whirring wheels, a current
of traffic, a broad highway of steel--that's the sort of monument
I want to leave."

"Sometime I'll come back and see it all completed and tell myself
that I had a little part in making it."

"Come back?" he queried. "Why, you're going to stay till we're
through, aren't you?"

"Oh no! I'm going south with the spring flight--on the next boat,
perhaps."

His face fell; the exultant light gradually faded from his eyes.

"Why--I had no idea! Aren't you happy here?"

She nodded. "But I must try to make good in my work as you have
in yours."

He was looking at her sorrowfully, almost as if she had deserted
him. "That's too bad, but--I suppose you must go. Yes; this is no
place for you. I dare say other people need you to bring sunshine
and joy to them just as we old fellows do, but--I've never
thought about your leaving. It wouldn't be right to ask you to
stay here among such people as we are when you have so much ahead
of you. Still, it will leave a gap. Yes--it certainly will--leave
a gap."

She longed desperately to tell him how willingly she would stay
if he only asked her, but the very thought shocked her into a
deeper reserve.

"I'm going East to sell my book," she said, stiffly. "You've
given me the climax of the story in this race with the seasons."

"Is it a--love story?" he asked.

Eliza flushed. "Yes. It's mostly love."

"You're not at all the girl I thought you when we first met.
You're very--different. I'm sure I won't recognize myself as the
hero. Who--or what is the girl in the story?"

"Well, she's just the kind of girl that would appeal to a person
like you. She's tall and dark and dashing, and--of course, she's
remarkably beautiful. She's very feminine, too."

"What's her name?"

Miss Appleton stammered: "Why--I--called her Violet--until I
could think of a better--"

"What's wrong with Violet? You couldn't think of a better name
than that. I'm fond of it."

"Oh, it's a good book-name, but for real life it's too--
delicate." Eliza felt with vexation that her face was burning.
She was sure he was laughing at her.

"Can't I read the manuscript?" he pleaded.

"Heavens! No! I--" She changed the subject abruptly. "I've left
word to be called the minute the ice starts to go out. I want to
see the last act of the drama."

When O'Neil left her he was vaguely perplexed, for something in
her bearing did not seem quite natural. He was forlorn, too, at
the prospect of losing her. He wondered if fathers suffered thus,
or if a lover could be more deeply pained at a parting than he.
Somehow he seemed to share the feelings of both.




XXVII

HOW A DREAM CAME TRUE


Early on the following morning Eliza was awakened by a sound of
shouting outside her window. She lay half dazed for a moment or
two, until the significance of the uproar made itself apparent;
then she leaped from her bed.

Men were crying:

"There she goes!"

"She's going out!"

Doors were slamming, there was the rustle and scuff of flying
feet, and in the next room Dan was evidently throwing himself
into his clothes like a fireman. Eliza called to him, but he did
not answer; and the next moment he had fled, upsetting some
article of furniture in his haste. Drawing her curtains aside,
the girl saw in the brightening dawn men pouring down the street,
dressing as they went. They seemed half demented; they were
yelling at one another, but she could not gather from their words
whether it was the ice which was moving or--the bridge. The
bridge! That possibility set her to dressing with tremulous
fingers, her heart sick with fear. She called to Natalie, but
scarcely recognized her own voice.

"I--don't know," came the muffled reply to her question. "It
sounds like something--terrible. I'm afraid Dan will fall in or--
get hurt." The confusion in the street was growing. "ELIZA!"
Natalie's voice was tragic.

"What is it, dear?"

"H--help me, quick!"

"How?"

"I can't find my other shoe."

But Eliza was sitting on the floor, lacing up her own stout
boots, and an instant later she followed her brother, pursued by
a wail of dismay from the adjoining chamber. Through the chill
morning light she hurried, asking many questions, but receiving
no coherent reply from the racing men; then after endless moments
of suspense she saw with relief that the massive superstructure
of the bridge was still standing. Above the shouting she heard
another sound, indistinct but insistent. It filled the air with a
whispering movement; it was punctuated at intervals by a dull
rumbling and grinding. She found the river-bank black with forms,
but like a cat she wormed her way through the crowd until the
whole panorama lay before her.

The bridge stood as she had seen it on the yesterday--slender,
strong, superb in the simplicity of its splendid outline; but
beneath it and as far as her eyes could follow the river she saw,
not the solid spread of white to which she had become accustomed,
but a moving expanse of floes. At first the winter burden slipped
past in huge masses, acres in extent, but soon these began to be
rent apart; irregular black seams ran through them, opened,
closed, and threw up ridges of ice-shavings as they ground
together. The floes were rubbing against the banks, they came
sliding out over the dry shore like tremendous sheets of
cardboard manipulated by unseen hands, and not until their nine-
foot edges were exposed to view did the mind grasp the appalling
significance of their movement. They swept down in phalanxes upon
the wedge-like ice-breakers which stood guard above the bridge-
piers, then they halted, separated, and the armored cutting-edges
sheared through them like blades.

A half-mile below, where the Salmon flung itself headlong against
the upper wing of Jackson Glacier, the floating ice was checked
by the narrowed passageway. There a jam was forming, and as the
river heaved and tore at its growing burden a spectacular
struggle went on. The sound of it came faintly but impressively
to the watchers--a grinding and crushing of bergs, a roar of
escaping waters. Fragments were up-ended, masses were rearing
themselves edgewise into the air, were overturning and
collapsing. They were wedging themselves into every conceivable
angle, and the crowding procession from above was adding to the
barrier momentarily. As the passageway became blocked the waters
rose; the river piled itself up so swiftly that the eye could
note its rise along the banks.

But the attention of the crowd was divided between the jam and
something far out on the bridge itself. At first glance Eliza did
not comprehend; then she heard a man explaining:

"He was going out when we got here, and now he won't come back."

The girl gasped, for she recognized the distant figure of a man,
dwarfed to puny proportions by the bulk of the structure in the
mazes of which he stood. The man was O'Neil; he was perched upon
one of the girders near the center of the longest span, where he
could watch the attack upon the pyramidal ice-breakers beneath
him.

"He's a fool," said some one at Eliza's back. "That jam is
getting bigger."

"He'd better let the damned bridge take care of itself."

She turned and began to force her way through the press of people
between her and the south abutment. She arrived there, disheveled
and panting, to find Slater, Mellen, and Parker standing in the
approach. In front of them extended the long skeleton tunnel into
which Murray had gone.

"Mr. O'Neil is out there!" she cried to Tom.

Slater turned and, reading the tragic appeal in her face, said
reassuringly:

"Sure! But he's all right."

"They say--there's danger."

"Happy Tom's" round visage puckered into a doubtful smile. "Oh,
he'll take care of himself."

Mellen turned to the girl and said briefly:

"There's no danger whatever."

But Eliza's fear was not to be so easily quieted.

"Then why did he go out alone? What are you men doing here?"

"It's his orders," Tom told her.

Mellen was staring at the jam below, over which the Salmon was
hurling a flood of ice and foaming waters. The stream was
swelling and rising steadily; already it had nearly reached the
level of the timberline on the left bank; the blockade was
extending up-stream almost to the bridge itself. Mellen said
something to Parker, who shook his head silently.

Dan Appleton shouldered his way out of the crowd, with Natalie at
his heels. She had dressed herself in haste: her hair was loose,
her jacket was buttoned awry; on one foot was a shoe, on the
other a bedroom slipper muddy and sodden. Her dark eyes were big
with excitement.

"Why don't you make Murray come in?" Dan demanded sharply.

"He won't do it," muttered Slater.

"The jam is growing. Nobody knows what'll happen if it holds much
longer. If the bridge should go--"

Mellen whirled, crying savagely: "It won't go! All hell couldn't
take it out."

From the ranks of the workmen came a bellow of triumph, as an
unusually heavy ice-floe was swept against the breakers and rent
asunder. The tumult of the imprisoned waters below was growing
louder every moment: across the lake came a stentorian rumble as
a huge mass was loosened from the front of Garfield. The channel
of the Salmon where the onlookers stood was a heaving, churning
caldron over which the slim bridge flung itself defiantly.

Eliza plucked at her brother's sleeve imploringly, and he saw her
for the first time.

"Hello, Sis," he cried. "How did you get here?"

"Is he in--danger, Danny?"

"Yes--no! Mellen says it's all right, so it must be, but--that
dam--"

At that moment Natalie began to sob hysterically, and Dan turned
his attention to her.

But his sister was not of the hysterical kind. Seizing Tom Slater
by the arm, she tried to shake him, demanding fiercely:

"Suppose the jam doesn't give way! What will happen?" "Happy Tom"
stared at her uncomprehendingly. Her voice was shrill and
insistent. "Suppose the water rises higher. Won't the ice sweep
down on the bridge itself? Won't it wreck everything if it goes
out suddenly? Tell me--"

"It can't hold. Mellen says so." Slater, like the others, found
it impossible to keep his eyes from the river where those
immeasurable forces were at play; then in his peculiar irascible
manner he complained: "I told 'em we was crazy to try this. It
ain't a white man's country; it ain't a safe place for a bridge.
There's just one God-awful thing after another--" He broke into a
shout, for Eliza had slipped past him and was speeding like a
shadow out across the irregularly spaced ties upon which the
bridge track was laid.

Mellen whirled at the cry and made after her, but he might as
well have tried to catch the wind. As she ran she heard her
brother shout in sudden alarm and Natalie's voice raised in
entreaty, but she sped on under an impulse as irresistible as
panic fear. Down through the openings beneath her feet she saw,
as in a nightmare, the sweeping flood, burdened with plunging ice
chunks and flecked with foam. She seemed to be suspended above
it; yet she was running at reckless speed, dimly aware of the
consequences of a misjudged footstep, but fearful only of being
overtaken. Suddenly she hated her companions; her mind was in a
furious revolt at their cowardice, their indecision, or whatever
it was that held them like a group of wooden figures safe on
shore while the man whose life was worth all theirs put together
exposed himself to needless peril. That he was really in danger
she felt sure. She knew that Murray was apt to lose himself in
his dreams; perhaps some visionary mood had blinded him to the
menace of that mounting ice-ridge it front of the glacier, or had
he madly chosen to stand or fall with this structure that meant
so much to him? She would make him yield to her own terror, drag
him ashore, if necessary, with her own hands.

She stumbled, but saved herself from a fall, then gathered her
skirts more closely and rushed on, measuring with instinctive
nicety the length of every stride. It was not an easy path over
which she dashed, for the ties were unevenly spaced; gaping
apertures gave terrible glimpses of the river below, and across
these ghastly abysses she had to leap.

The hoarse bursts of shouting from the shore ceased as the
workmen beheld her flitting out along the steel causeway. They
watched her in dumb amazement.

All at once O'Neil saw her and hurried to meet her.

"Eliza!" he cried. "Be careful! What possessed you to do this?"

"Come away," she gasped. "It's dangerous. The jam--Look!" She
pointed down the channel.

He shook his head impatiently.

"Yes!" she pleaded. "Yes! Please! They wouldn't come to warn you
--they tried to stop me. You must go ashore." The frightened
entreaty in her clear, wide-open eyes, the disorder that her
haste had made affected O'Neil strangely. He stared at her,
bewildered, doubtful, then steadied her and groped with his free
hand for support. He could feel her trembling wretchedly.

"There's no danger, none whatever," he said, soothingly. "Nothing
can happen."

"You don't know. The bridge has never been tried. The ice is
battering at it, and that jam--if it doesn't burst--"

"But it will. It can't last much longer."

"It's rising--"

"To be sure, but the river will overflow the bank."

"Please!" she urged. "You can do no good here. I'm afraid."

He stared at her in the same incredulous bewilderment; some
impulse deep within him was struggling for expression, but he
could not find words to frame it. His eyes were oddly bright as
he smiled at her.

"Won't you go ashore?" she begged.

"I'll take you back, of course, but I want to stay and see--"

"Then--I'll stay."

"Eliza!" Her name burst from his lips in a tone that thrilled
her, but with it came a sudden uproar from the distant crowd, and
the next instant they saw that the ice-barrier was giving way.
The pressure had become irresistible. As the Salmon had risen the
ice had risen also, and now the narrow throat was belching its
contents forth. The chaos of up-ended bergs was being torn apart;
over it and through it burst a deluge which filled the valley
with the roar of a mighty cataract. Clouds of spray were in the
air; broken masses were leaping and somersaulting; high up on the
shore were stranded floes and fragments, left in the wake of the
moving body. Onward it coursed, clashing and grinding along the
brittle face of the glacier; over the alder tops beyond the bend
they could see it moving faster and faster, like the crest of a
tidal wave. The surface of the river lowered swiftly beneath the
bridge; the huge white pans ground and milled, shouldered aside
by the iron-sheathed pillars of concrete.

"See! It's gone already. Once it clears a passageway we'll have
no more gorges, for the freshets are coming. The bridge didn't
even tremble--there wasn't a tremor, not a scratch!" Eliza looked
up to find O'Neil regarding her with an expression that set her
heart throbbing and her thoughts scattering. She clasped a huge,
cold bolt-head and clung to it desperately, for the upheaval in
her soul rivaled that which had just passed before her eyes. The
bridge, the river, the valley itself were gyrating slowly,
dizzily.

"Eliza!" She did not answer. "Child!" O'Neil's voice was shaking.
"Why did you come to me? Why did you do this mad thing? I saw
something in your face that I can't believe--that I--can't think
possible. It--it gives me courage. If I don't speak quickly I'll
never dare. Is it--true? Dear girl, can it be? I'm so old--such a
poor thing--you couldn't possibly care, and yet, WHY DID YOU
COME?" The words were torn from him; he was gripped and shaken by
a powerful emotion.

She tried to answer, but her lips were soundless. She closed her
eyes, and Murray saw that she was whiter than the foam far
beneath. He stared into the colorless face upturned to his until
her eyelids fluttered open and she managed to voice the words
that clung in her throat.

"I've always--loved you like this."

He gave a cry, like that of a starving man; she felt herself
drawn against him. But now he, too, was speechless; he could only
press her close while his mind went groping for words to express
that joy which was as yet unbelievable and stunning.

"Couldn't you see?" she asked, breathlessly.

He shook his head. "I'm such a dreamer. I'm afraid it--can't be
true. I'm afraid you'll go away and--leave me. You won't ever--
will you, Eliza? I couldn't stand that." Then fresh realization
of the truth swept over him; they clung to each other, drunk with
ecstasy, senseless of their surroundings.

"I thought you cared for Natalie," she said, softly, after a
while.

"It was always you."

"Always?"

"Always!"

She turned her lips to his, and lifted her entwining arms.

 The breakfast-gong had called the men away before the two
figures far out upon the bridge picked their way slowly to the
shore. The Salmon was still flooded with hurrying masses of ice,
as it would continue to be for several days, but it was running
free; the channel in front of the glacier was open.

Blaine was the first to shake O'Neil's hand, for the members of
Murray's crew held aloof in some embarrassment.

"It's a perfect piece of work," said he. "I congratulate you."

The others echoed his sentiments faintly, hesitatingly, for they
were abashed at what they saw in their chief's face and realized
that words were weak and meaningless.

Dan dared not trust himself to speak. He had many things to say
to his sister, but his throat ached miserably. Natalie restrained
herself only by the greatest effort.

It was Tom Slater who ended the awkward pause by grumbling,
sarcastically:

"If all the young lovers are safely ashore, maybe us old men who
built the bridge can go and get something to eat."

Murray smiled at the girl beside him.

"I'm afraid they've guessed our secret, dear."

"Secret!" Slater rolled his eyes. "There ain't over a couple
thousand people beside us that saw you pop the question. I s'pose
she was out of breath and couldn't say no."

Eliza gasped and fled to her brother's arms.

"Sis! Poor--little Sis!" Dan cried, and two tears stole down his
brown cheeks. "Isn't this--just great?" Then the others burst
into a noisy expression of their gladness.

"Happy Tom" regarded them all pessimistically. "I feel bound to
warn you," he said at length, "that marriage is an awful gamble.
It ain't what it seems."

"It is!" Natalie declared. "It's better, and you know it."

"It turned out all right for me," Tom acknowledged, "because I
got the best woman in the world. But"--he eyed his chief
accusingly--"I went about it in a modest way; I didn't humiliate
her in public."

He turned impatiently upon his companions, still pouring out
their babble of congratulations.

"Come along, can't you," he cried, "and leave 'em alone. I'm a
dyspeptic old married man, but I used to be young and
affectionate, like Murray. After breakfast I'm going to cable
Mrs. Slater to come and bring the kids with her and watch her
bed-ridden, invalid husband build the rest of this railroad. I'm
getting chuck full of romance."

 "It has been a miraculous morning for me," said Murray, after a
time, "and the greatest miracle is--you, dear."

"This is just the way the story ended in my book," Eliza told him
happily--"our book."

He pressed her closer. "Yes! Our book--our bridge--our
everything, Eliza."

She hid her blushing face against his shoulder, then with thumb
and finger drew his ear down to her lips. Summoning her courage,
she whispered:

"Murray dear, won't you call me--Violet?"

THE END






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